CutBank
Volume 1
Issue 11 CutBank 11
Article 9
Fall 1978
Discharge Day
James Lee Burke
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Burke, James Lee (1978) "Discharge Day," CutBank: Vol. 1: Iss. 11, Article 9.
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Jam es Lee B urke
DISCHARGE DAY
a chapter fr om a novel The L ost Get Back Boogie
Th e captai n was silhouetted on hors eback like a piece of bu rn t iron
against the sun. The brim of his straw hat was pulled to shade his sundar k en ed face, and he held the sawed-off doubl e-barrel s h ot gun with
the stock p r op pe d against his thigh t o avoid t ouchi ng the metal. We
s wung o ur axes into the roots of tree st umps, o ur backs glistening and
b rown an d arched with vertebrae, while the chainsaws whined into
the felled trees and lopped them off into segments. O u r Cl orox -fa ded
green and white pinstripe trousers were stained at the knees with
sweat and the s andy dirt fr om the river b o t to m, and the insects that
boiled out of the grass stuck to our skin an d b urr owed into the wet
creases of o ur necks. No one spoke, not even to c au ti on a m a n to step
back fr om the swing of an axe or the r oa ri ng band of a Mu Cu ll o ch
saw ripping in a white spray of splinters t h r o u g h a st ump. T h e wo rk
was u n de r st ood and accomplished with the smo ot hn es s and certitude
an d r hy t hm t hat comes fr om years o f learning that it will never have a
variation. Each time we h o ok ed the trace chains on a st ump, slapped
the reins across the m u l es ’ flanks, and pulled it free in one s nappi ng
burst of roots an d loam, we moved closer to the wide bend of the
Mississippi and the line of willow trees a nd dap pl ed shade al ong the
bank.
“Oka y, wa te r and piss it,” the ca pta in said.
We d ro p p e d the axes, prizing bars an d shovels, an d followed
behind the switching tail of the c a p t a i n ’s horse d o wn to the willows
and the water can that sat in the tall grass with the d ipper hung on the
side by its ladle. The wide b ro wn expanse of the river s hi mmered
flatly in the sun, an d on the far bank, where the world of the free
people began, white egrets were nesting in the sand. The Mississippi
was almost a half mile across at t hat point, and there was a story
a m o n g the Negro convicts t hat du ri n g the forties a one-legged trusty
n a me d W o o d e n Dick had whi pped a mule into the river before the
bell c oun t on C a m p H, and had held o n t o his tail across the current to
the other side. But the free people said W o o d e n Dick was a nigger’s
myth; he was just a syphilitic old m a n wh o had his leg a m p u t a t e d at
the charity hospital at New Orleans an d wh o later went blind on julip
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James Lee Burke
(a m i x t u r e of mo lasses, shelled c o r n, w a te r , yeast, a n d lighter fluid
t h a t the Ne groes w o u l d boil in a c a n o n t he r a d i a t o r o ver ni gh t) a n d
fell i nt o t he river a n d d r o w n e d u n d e r the weight o f the artificial leg
given hi m by t he state. A n d 1 believed t he free people, b ec aus e 1 never
k new o r h ea r d o f a n y o n e w h o beat A n go l a.
We rolled cigarettes f r o m o u r st at e issue o f Bugler a n d Virginia
E x t r a t o b a c c o a n d w h e a t - s t r a w pap ers , a n d t h o se w h o h ad sent off
for t he dol lar-fifty rolling m a ch i ne s sold by a mail o r d e r h o u s e in
M e m p h i s t o o k o ut t hei r P ri nce Al ber t c a n s o f neatl y glued a n d
cl ipped cigarettes t h a t were as g o o d as t a i l o r- m ad e s. T h e r e wa s still a
m i ne ra l s tr ea k ed piece o f ice f l oat i ng in the w a t e r ca n, a n d we spilled
the d i p p e r o ver o u r m o u t h s a n d chests a n d let t he c ol dn es s o f the
w a t e r r u n d o w n inside o u r t rouser s. T h e c a p t a i n gave his hors e t o o n e
o f the Ne g ro es t o t a k e i nt o t he s hal lows , a n d sat ag a in s t a tree t r u n k
with t he bowl of his pipe c u p p e d in his h a n d , wh i ch rested o n t he huge
bulge o f his a b d o m e n below his c a r t ri d ge belt. He w o r e n o socks
u n d e r his h a l f- to p pe d boo ts , a n d the a r e a a b o v e his a nk le s was
hairless a n d c ha fed a d e a d, s hal ing color.
He lived in a small f r a m e c o t t a g e by t he f r o n t gat e wi t h t he o t h e r
free people, a n d e a ch twilight he r e t u r n e d h o m e t o a c a n c e r - r i d d e n
har ds hel l Baptist wife f r o m Mississippi w h o t a u g h t Bible lessons t o
the Al co hol ics A n o n y m o u s g r o u p in t he Block o n S u n d a y m o rn i n g s .
In t he t i me 1 was o n his g a n g 1 saw him kill on e convi ct , a half-wit
N e g r o kid w h o had been sent up f r o m t he m e n t a l h os pi tal at
Mandevil le. We were b r e a k i n g a field d o w n by t he R ed H a t Ho us e,
a n d the b o y d r o p p e d the pl ow l oop s off his wrists a n d b e g a n to wa lk
a cros s the rows t o w a r d s t he river. T h e c a p t a i n s h o u t e d at hi m twice
f r o m t he saddl e, t h en raised f o r w a r d on t he p o m m e l , a i me d , a n d let
off t he first barrel. T h e b o y ’s shirt j u m p e d at t he s h o u l d e r , as t h o u g h
the breeze had c a u g h t it, b ut he kept wa l k i n g ac r os s the rows with his
unl ace d b o ot s f l o pp i n g on his feet like gal oshes. T h e c a p t a i n held the
s tock tight i nt o his s h o u l d e r a n d fired again, a n d the bo y t r i p pe d
f o r w a r d across the rows wi th a single jet of scarlet b u rs t i n g o u t j u s t
below his kinky, u n cu t hairline.
A p i c ku p t r u c k dri ven by o n e o f the y o u n g hac ks rolled in a cl ou d
o f dust d o w n the m e a n d e r i n g r oa d t h r o u g h t he fields t o w a r d s me.
I he roc ks b a n ge d u n d e r t he fenders, a n d t he d u s t c o a t e d the s t u n te d
cattails in t he i rri gat ion ditches. I put out m y Virginia E x t r a ci gar et te
aga in st the sole o f m y b oo t a n d s t r i pp ed t he p a p e r d o w n t he glued
s e a m a n d let the t o b a c c o blow a p a r t in the wind.
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James Lee Burke
“ I reckon t h a t ’s yo u r w alking ticket, Iry,” the captain said.
The hack slowed the truck to a stop next to the Red Hat House and
blew his horn. I to o k my shirt off the willow branch where 1 had left it
at eight o ’clock field cou n t th at m orning.
“ How m uch m oney you got com ing on discharge?” the ca ptain
said.
“A b o u t forty-three d o llars.”
“ You tak e this five an d send it to me, an d you keep y our ass out of
h ere.”
“T h a t ’s all right, boss.”
“Shit, it is. Y o u ll be sleeping in the Sally after you run yo ur m oney
out you r pecker on beer and w o m e n .”
1 w atched him play his old self-deluding game, with the green tip of
a five dollar bill showing above the laced edge of his convict-m ade
wallet. He splayed over the bill section of the wallet with his thick
th u m b and held it out m om entarily, then folded it again in his palm.
It was his favorite ritual of generosity w hen a convict earned good
time on his gang and went back on the street.
“ Well, just d o n ’t d o no thing to get violated back to the farm , Iry,”
he said.
I sho ok hands with him and walked across the field to the pickup
truck. T he hack tu rn ed the truck a ro u n d and we rolled dow n the
baked and corrug ated road th ro u g h the bo tto m section of the farm
tow ards the Block. I looked th ro u g h the back w indow and watched
the ugly, squat white building called the Red H at H ouse grow smaller
against the line of willows on the river. It was nam ed d uring the
thirties when the big stripes (the violent and the insane) were kept
there. In those days, before the Block with its lockdow n section was
built, the dang ero us ones wore black and white striped ju m p ers and
straw hats th at were painted red. W hen they went in at night from the
fields they had to strip naked for a body search and their clothes were
throw n into the building after them. Later, the building cam e to
house the electric chair, and som eone had painted in b roken letters on
one wall: This is where they kn o ck the fir e out o f yo u r ass.
We drove th ro u g h the acres of new corn, sugar cane, and sweet
potatoes, the squared sections and weedless rows m athem atically
perfect, each thing in its ordered and pre-designed place, past C a m p
H and its roofless and crum bling stone buildings left over from the
Civil War, past the one-story rows of barracks on C a m p I, then the
shattered and w eed-grow n block of concrete slab in an em p ty field by
16
James Lee Burke
C a m p A whe re the t wo iron sweat boxes were bulldozed o u t in the
early fifties. I closed off the hot s t r e a m of air t h r o u g h the wi nd vane
a nd rolled a cigarette.
“ W h a t are you goi ng t o d o out si de?” the hack said. He chewed
g u m, a n d his lean s u n - t a n n e d face a n d w a sh e d - o u t blue eyes looked
at me flatly with his question. His s tarched khaki s h or t sleeves were
folded in a neat cuff a b o ve his biceps. As a new g uar d he had the s ame
status a m o n g us as a fish, a convict j ust begi nni ng his first fall.
“ 1 h a v e n ’t t h o u g h t a b o u t it yet ,” 1 said.
“T h e r e ’s plenty of w o r k if a m a n wa nt s t o do it.” His eyes were
y o u n g a nd mean, a nd there was j us t e n o u g h of t h at n o rt h Loui si an a
Baptist righteousness in his voice t o m a k e yo u pause before you
s poke again.
“ I ’ve heard t h a t . ”
“ It d o n ’t t ake long t o get y o u r ass put back in here if yo u a i n ’t
w o r k i n g , ” he said.
I licked the glued seam of the cigarette paper, folded it d o w n u nd e r
my t h u m b , a n d cr imp ed the ends.
“ You got a mat ch , boss?”
His eyes looked over my face, t rying t o peel t h r o u g h the skin a nd
reach inside the insult of being called a title t ha t was given only to the
old hacks w h o had been on the f a r m for years. He t o o k a kitchen
m at ch fr om his shirt pocket an d h a n de d it t o me.
I p op p ed the m a t c h on my fingernail a nd drew in on the suck of
flame a n d glue a n d the s t ro ng black taste o f the Virginia Ext ra. We
passed the prison cemet ery with its faded w o o d e n m ar k e r s a nd tin
cans of withered flowers a nd the grave of Al t on Bienvenu. He did
thirty-three years in A ngo la an d had the record for time spent in the
sweat bo x on C a m p A ( twenty- two days in J ul y with space only large
e n o u g h for the knees a nd bu t to ck s t o collapse against the sides and
still hold a m a n in an upri ght position, a slop bucket set bet ween the
ankles a nd one air hole the d i am et er of a cigar drilled in the iron
door). He died in 1957, t hree years before I went in, but even w he n I
was in the fish t an k (the thirty days of processing and classification in
l o ck do wn you go t h r o u g h before you enter the m ai n p o p u la ti o n) I
heard a b o u t the m a n w h o brok e out twice wh en he was a y o u n g stiff,
t o ok the black Betty everyday on the levee g an g wh en the hacks used
to s hoot and bury a half do ze n convicts a week in the e m b a n k m e n t ,
a nd later as a n old m a n w or ke d paroles t h r o u g h a n uncle in the state
legislature for ot her convicts whe n he had none c om i n g himself.
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Jam es Lee Burke
taug ht reading to illiterates, had m o rp h in e tablets smuggled back
from the prison section of the charity hospital in New O rleans for a
ju nkie w ho was going to fry, and testified before a g o v e r n o r’s board in
Baton R ouge a b o u t the reasons for convicts on A ngola farm slashing
the ten don s in their ankles. After his d ea th he was canonized in the
p ris o n ’s g ro u p legend with a s a in t’s a u ra rivaled only by a Peter,
crucified upside do w n in the R o m a n arena with his shackles still
stretched between his legs.
T he m o un d of A lton Bienvenu’s grave was covered with a cross of
flowers, a thick purple, white, and gold-tinted show er of violets,
petunias, cowslips, and buttercups from the fields. A trusty was
cutting aw ay the St. A ugustine grass from the edge of the m o u n d with
a g a rd e n e r’s trowel.
“ W hat do you think a b o u t th a t? ” the hack said.
“ I guess it’s hard to keep a grave clea n ,” I said, and 1 pinched the
hot ash of my cigarette against the paint on the outside of the car
door.
“T h a t ’s som e shit, aint it? P u tting flowers on a m a n ’s grave t h a t ’s
already gone to hell.” He spit his chewing gum into the wind, and
drove the truck with one hand over the ruts as th o ug h he were aim ing
between his tightened knuckles at the distant green square of
enclosure by the front gate called the Block.
The wind was cool th ro u g h the concrete, shaded breezeway as we
walked tow ards my dorm itory. The trustees were w atering the
recreation yard, and the grass and weight lifting sets glistened in the
sun. We reached the first lock and waited for the hack to pull the
c o m b in atio n of levers that would slide the gate. The S a tu rd a y
m orning cleaning crews were washing do w n the walls and floor in my
d o rm ito ry with buckets of soap and w ater and an astringent
antiseptic that b urned the inside of y our head when you breathed it.
The dirt shaled off my boots on the wet floor, but no sign of protest or
irritation showed on a m a n ’s face, because the hack was there with
me, there was some vague reason for them to re-do part of their work,
and they squeezed out their m ops in the buckets, the ashes d ro p p in g
from their cigarettes, and went a b o u t m o pping my m u dd y tracks with
their eyes as flat as glass.
“ You can keep your u n derw ear and your sho es,” the hack said.
“T h ro w you r other clothes and sheets in a pile outside. Roll your
m attress and d o n ’t leave nothin g behind. I’ll pick you up in the rec
ro om when you get finished and take you over to possessions.”
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James Lee Burke
I pulled off my w o rk u n ifo rm , pu t o n m y clack sandals, an d w alked
d o w n the c o r rid o r to the show ers. I let the cold w a te r boil over my
head a n d face until m y b re a th cam e sh o rt in m y chest. O n e m a n on the
cleaning detail had s to p p ed m o p p in g a n d was w a tc h in g me t h ro u g h
the doorless op en in g in the sh o w er p a rtitio n . He was a qu ee n in
M ag n o lia section w h o was finishing his second jo lt fo r child
m olesting. His b u tto c k s swelled o u t like a pear, an d he alw ays kept
his shirt b u tto n e d at the t h r o a t an d never bathed .
“T a k e off, M o rto n . N o show to d a y , b a b e ,” I said.
“ I d o n ’t w a n t n o th in g off y o u , ” he said, a n d rinsed his m o p in the
bucket, his soft s to m a c h han g in g over his belt.
“Y ou guys w atch the g o d d a m n flo o r ,” I h ea rd s o m e b o d y yell d o w n
the co rrid o r, then the noise of the first crews w h o had been kn o ck e d
off fro m the fields. “ W e d o n e cleaned it twice already. Y ou ta k e y o u r
g o d d a m n shoes off.”
W h e n I got back to m y cell the c o r rid o r was striped w ith the dry
im p rints of bare feet, an d my cell p a rtn e r, W. J. Posey, was sitting
shirtless on his bu n k , with his knees d ra w n up before him, sm o k in g
the wet end o f a h an d -ro lle d cigarette betw een his lips w ith o u t
rem o vin g it. His b aldin g pate was s u n b u rn e d an d flecked with pieces
of d ea d skin, an d the k n o b s o f his elbow s an d sho u ld ers an d the areas
of b on e in his chest were the c o lo r of a dea d carp. He was w o rk in g on
five to fifteen, a three-tim e loser for han g in g p ap e r, an d in the year we
had celled to g e th e r w a rra n ts h ad been filed for him in three o th e r
states. His w ithered a rm s were covered with faded ta tto o e s d o n e in
Lew isburg an d P a rc h m a n , and his thick, nicotine-stained fingernails
looked like claws.
“ Y ou w ant to try th a t sweet scene in B aton R ou ge to n ig h t? ” he
said.
“ I m ight miss m y train , W. J . ”
“ Seventy-five dollars, babe, an d you w o n ’t w ake up w ith a h a rd on
for a m o n th . I tell you it’s b etter t h a n pissing aw ay y o u r m o n ey o n the
next five d o lla r cunt you meet in a beer j o i n t . ”
“ I ’ll catch it the n ext tim e a r o u n d . T o n ig h t I ’m ju st going to shake
it,” I said, an d smiled at him, because I d i d n ’t w ant to h u rt his feelings
a b o u t his favorite story, one th at h ad been retold in every section o f
the Block at one tim e or a n o th e r, an d w hich p ro b a b ly caused m o re
solitary love affairs in d a r k e n e d cells th r o u g h o u t the farm th a n all the
o th e r sexual legends th a t w ork e d into o u r m ind s a b o u t three o ’clock
w hen the sun started to bore a small hole in the back of o u r bent
19
James Lee Burke
heads.
“ You get the m oney, Iry. Let them girls pull all th at bad juice out
y o u r pecker, and y o u ’ll hit the street S u n d ay m o rn in g like them two
years w a sn ’t th ere .’’
“O kay, write it dow n. M aybe I can get a train to m o rro w , but I ’m
going to kick y o u r ass if I get nailed in a w horeho use ra id .”
He was already living in my evening’s experience while he w rote the
address do w n on the to rn edge o f a piece of prison stationery. But W.
J . ’s story a b o u t the R o o m in a three-story ante-bellum house n o rth of
the Huey L ong Bridge was the best erotic ac coun t I had ever heard in
either prison or the army. The first night I celled with him the
w a rd e n ’s wife sent a po rtab le television set dow n to the Block so we
could watch S and y K ou fax pitch against C incinnati, and after the set
had shorted out in a dim inishing white spot of light against the
darkness o f the d o rm ito ry and the co m m u n a l g ro a n of the eighty men
sitting on the floor, W. J. began his story a b o u t the R oom . His wasted
face looked awful in the glow of cobalt light from the breezeway, but
his story en ch anted each of us in the sam e way that a fable read by an
elem entary school teacher confirm s the fantasies of children. 1 was
never sure if the story was m yth or an accurate ac coun t of a
w horeho use in Baton R ouge du ring the forties, but nevertheless it
was very real to us at th at m om ent.
The R o o m was on the third floor of the house, furnished with a
tester bed, a short ice box filled with pink wine, b o u rb o n , and cracked
ice, and an electric buzzer on a cord th at was placed u nd er a solitary
pillow. There were three d o ors th at faced the R o o m , and after the
Negro m aid let you in and showed you how to snap the bolt from the
inside, you undressed, fixed a drink, and pressed one o f the three
bu tto n s on the buzzer. They cam e out in pairs an d w orked on you
with their lips and av oc ad o m ulatto breasts, traded positions all over
yo u r body, then suddenly w ithdrew th ro u g h the wall when you
pushed the b u tto n a second time. Y our head spun with the liquor and
the pure pagan exhilaration of doing things an d having things happen
to you which you d i d n ’t think possible before, and when you pressed
the b u tto n a third time you were bursting inside with that fine point of
fire th at waited to exhaust itself in the to rn m aid enh ead of a sixteenyear-old virgin.
I put on the shiny suit and the off-color brow n shoes th at had been
b ro u g h t to my cell last night by the co unt man. I threw my sheets,
blanket, and the rest of my prison uniform s and denim s into the
20
James Lee Burke
c o rrid o r, an d put m y u n d erw ear, w o rk b oots, an d three new shirts
a nd pairs o f socks into the b o x the suit had co m e in.
“ Y ou w a n t the purses a n d wallets, W. J .? ”
“Yeah, give th em to me. 1 can trad e them to th a t p u n k in A sh f o r a
couple of d e c k s .”
“T ak e care, babe. D o n ’t h ang out an y m o re on the w ash line.”
“J u s t tell th a t big red-h ea d ed bitch to slide it up an d d o w n the
banister a few times to keep my lunch w a r m .” He d ro p p e d his
cigarette stu b into the b u tt can by his b u n k and picked at his toe nails.
I w alked d o w n the c o r rid o r past the row of op en cells a n d the m en
with b a th towels a r o u n d th eir waists clacking in their w o o d sandals
to w ard s the ro a r o f w a te r a n d s h o u tin g in the sho w er stalls. T h e wind
th ro u g h the breezeway was cool against m y face an d d a m p neck. I
waited at the second lock for the hack to o pen up.
“ Y ou kn o w the rec d o n ’t op en till twelve-thirty, P a r e t, ” he said.
“ M r. Benson said he w a nted me to wait fo r him there, b o s s .”
“ Well, you a i n ’t sup posed to be th e re .”
“ Let him th ro u g h , F r a n k , ” the o th e r hack on the lock said.
T h e gate slide back w ith its quiet rush of hydraulically-released
pressure. I waited in the dead space betw een the first an d second gates
for the hack to pull the c o m b in a tio n of levers again.
O u r recreation ro o m had several folding card tables, a canteen
where you could buy k o olade and so d a pop, a n d a small library filled
with w orthless b o o k s d o n a te d by the S alv atio n A rm y. A n y th in g th a t
was either vaguely p o rn o g ra p h ic or violent, an d in p a rtic u la r racial,
was so m eh o w eaten up in a censoring process th a t m ust have begun at
the time of d o n a tio n and ended at the fro n t gate. But an yw ay it was
th o ro u g h , because there w a s n ’t a plot in one of those bo o k s th a t
w o u l d n ’t bore the m ost m o ro n ic a m o n g us. I sat at a card table th a t
was covered with b urn s like m elted plastic insects, an d rolled a
cagarette from the last to b acc o in my package of Virginia E xtra.
1 heard the lock hiss, th en the noise o f the first m en w alking
th ro u g h the dead space, their voices echo ing briefly off the stone
walls, into the re creation ro o m , where they w ould wait until the
dining hall o pened at 12:45. They all w ore clean d enim s and
pinstripes, their hair wet an d slicked back over the ears, co m b s
clipped in their shirt pockets, p o m a d e an d aftershave lotion
glistening in their p o m p a d o u rs an d sideburns, with nam es like
P o p c o rn , S n o w b ird , an d G it-It-A n d -G o cloro xed into their trousers.
“ Hey, W illard, get o ut them g o d d a m n g u ita rs ,” one m a n said.
21
James Lee Burke
Each Saturday afternoon our country band played on the green
stretch of lawn between the first two buildings in the Block. We had
one steel guitar and pickups and amplifiers for the two flat tops, and
our fiddle and mandolin players held their instruments right into the
microphone, so we could reach out with “The Orange Blossom
Special” and “Please Release Me, Darling” all the way across the cane
field to Camp I.
Willard, the trusty, opened the closet where the instruments were
kept and handed out the two Kay flat tops. The one I used had a kapo
fashioned from a pencil and piece of innertube on the second fret of
the neck. West Finley, whose brother named East was also in Angola,
handed the guitar to me in his clumsy fashion, with his hugh hand
squeezed tight on the strings and his bad teeth grinning around his
cigar. He was from Mississippi, and he chewed on cigars all day and
left any area he was working in covered with tobacco spittle. He was
doing life with his brother, which is ten and a half in Louisiana, for
burning down a paper mill in Bogalusa while the watchman was
asleep next to an oil drum.
“ I mean you look slick, cotton. Them free people clothes ought to
turn you a piece of ass right on the back seat of the G reyhound,” he
said.
“West, your goddamn ass,” I said.
“No, shit, man. Threads like that is going to have pussy snapping
all over Baton Rouge.” His lean, hillbilly face was full of good hum or
and the wide opening of tobacco juice in his mouth. “ Break down my
song for me, babe, because I ain’t going to be able to hear it played
right for a long time.”
The others formed around us, grinning, their arms folded in front
of them, with cigarettes held up casually to their mouths, waiting for
West to enter the best part of his performance.
“No pick,” I said.
“Shit,” and he said it with that singular two syllable pronunciation
of the Mississippi delta, shee-it. He took an empty match cover from
the ash tray, folded it in half, and handed it to me between his callused
fingers. “Now let’s get it on, Iry. The boss man is going to be ladling
them peas in a minute.”
Our ba n d ’s rhythm guitar man sat across from me with the other
big Kay propped on his folded thigh. I clicked the match cover once
across the open strings, sharped the B and A, and turned the face of
the guitar towards him so he could see my E cord configuration on the
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James Lee Burke
neck. T he song was an old J im m ie R ogers piece th a t began “ If you
d o n ’t like my peaches, d o n ’t shake m y tre e ,” an d th en the lyrics
becam e worse. But W est was beautiful. He b o p p ed o n the w axed
floor, the shined points o f the alligator shoes his girl h ad sent him
flashing ab ov e his ow n scuff m arks, b u m p in g an d g rin din g as he w ent
into the dirty boogie, his oiled du cktailed h air collapsed in a black
web over his face. O ne m a n to o k a small h a rm o n ic a from his shirt
pocket and blew a deep, tra in -m o a n in g bass behind us, an d W est
ca u g h t it and p u m p e d the air with his loins, his a rm s stretched out
beside him, while the o th e r m en whistled a n d clapped an d g ra b b ed
themselves. T h ro u g h a crack of sho uld ers I saw the y o u n g hack com e
th ro u g h the lock into the re creatio n ro o m , an d I slid back d o w n the
neck to E again an d bled it off quietly on the treble strings.
W e st’s face was perspiring an d his eyes bright. He to o k his cigar
from the ta b le ’s edge, an d his b re ath cam e sh o rt w hen he spoke.
“ W h e n you get up to Nashville a n d start busting all th at m illionaire
cunt, you tell th em West Finley give you y o u r start. A nd if they need
an y th in g ex tra , tell them to ship it in a b o x C .O .D . an d I ’ll sta m p it
with the hardest prick in A n g o la .”
E veryone laughed, their m o u th s full of em pty spaces a n d gold and
lead fillings. T h en the outside bell ra n g and the third lock, which
con trolled the next section of the breezeway, hissed back in a suck of
air.
“G o t to scarf it d o w n an d put som e pro tein in the pecker, cotton.
D o so m ethin g sweet for me t o n i g h t,” W est said, an d po p p ed two
fingers off his th u m b n a il into my a r m as he walked past me to w a rd s
the lock with the o th e r men.
“J u s t leave the g u itar on the ta b le ,” the hack said. “T h e state c a r is
leaving o u t at o n e .”
I picked up m y b o x an d followed him back th ro u g h the lock. He
held up my discharge slip to the hack by the levers, which was
unnecessary, since the lock was already opened an d all the old bosses
alo ng the breezeway knew th at I was going o ut th a t day, anyw ay. But
as I w atched him walk in front of me, with his starched khak i shirt
shapin g and resh aping across his back like iron, I realized th a t he
would be holding up papers o f denial or perm ission with a w hitened
click of knuckles fo r the rest of his life.
“ You better m ove unless you w a n t to walk d o w n to the h ig h w ay ,”
he said, halfw ay over his shoulder.
We went to possessions, and he waited while the trusty looked
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James Lee Burke
th ro u g h the rows of alphabetized, m anila envelopes th at were stuffed
into the tiers of shelves and hung with stringed, circular tags. The
trusty flipped his stiffened fingers d o w n a row in a rattling of glue and
paper, and sh ook out one flattened envelope and brushed the dust off
the top with his palm. The hack bit on a m atch stick and looked at his
watch.
“ C heck it and sign for it,” the trusty said. “You got forty-three
dollars com ing in discharge m oney and fifty-eight in your
com m issary fund. I c a n ’t give you n o th in g but fives and ones and
some silver. They done cleaned me o ut this m o rn in g .”
“T h a t ’s all rig h t,” I said.
I opened the m anila envelope and to o k o ut the things th a t I had
entered the Calcasieu Parish jail with two years and three m o n th s ago
after I had killed a m an: a blunted Minie ball perforated with a hole
that I had used as a weight w hen I fished as a boy on Bayou Teche and
S panish Lake; the gold vest w atch my fa th er gave me when I
g ra d u ated from high school; a Swiss arm y knife with a can opener,
screwdriver, and a saw that could build a cabin; one die from a pair of
dice, the only thing I b ro ug ht back from thirteen m o n th s in K orea
because they had separated me from sixteen others w ho went up
H eart Break Ridge and stayed there in that pile of wasted ash; and a
billfold with all the celluloid-enclosed pieces of identification th at are
so im p o rta n t to us, now o u td ated and worthless in their cracked
description of who the bearer was.
We walked out of the Block into the brilliant sunlight, and the hack
drove us d o w n the front road past the small clap b o a rd cottages where
the free people lived. The wash on the lines straightened an d d rop p e d
in the wind, the tiny gardens were planted with chry san th em u m s and
rose bushes, and housewives in print dresses appeared quickly in an
open screen d o o r to shout at the children in the yard. It could have
been a scene surgically removed from a w orking class n eigh borhoo d,
except for the presence of the Negro trusties w atering the grass or
weeding a vegetable patch.
T hen there was the front gate, with three strands of barbed wire
leaned inward on top, and the w oo den gun tow er to one side. The
oiled road on the o th er side bounced and shim m ered with heat waves
and stretched off th ro u g h the green border of trees and second
gro w th on the edge of the ditches. I got out of the car with my
c a rd b o a rd box u nd er my arm.
“ Paret com ing o u t,” the hack said.
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Jam es Lee Burke
I knew he was go ing to try t o s h a k e h a n d s while the gate was being
sw u n g b ac k over the c a ttle g u a rd , a n d I kept m y a tte n tio n fixed o n the
ro a d a n d used m y free h a n d to lo o k fo r a cigarette in m y shirt pocket.
T h e h ac k s h o o k a C am el loose fro m his pack a n d held it u p to me.
“ Well, th a n k s , M r. B e n s o n ,” I said.
“ Keep th e rest of th em . I g ot so m e m o re in the c a g e .” S o I h a d to
s h ak e h a n d s w ith him , afterall. He got bac k in the tru c k , w ith a pinch
o f light in his iron face, his role a little m o re secure.
I w alked across th e c a ttle g u a rd a n d h ea rd the gate rattle a n d lock
beh in d me. F o u r o th e r m en w ith c a r d b o a r d b o x es a n d suits sim ilar to
m ine (we h ad a choice o f th ree styles u p o n disch arg e) sat o n the
w o o d e n w aitin g bench by the fence. T h e s h ad e o f the g un to w e r b ro k e
in a n o b lo n g s q u a re across th e ir bodies.
“T h e state c a r o u g h t to be u p in a m in u te , P a r e t , ” the gate m a n said.
He was o n e o f the old ones, left over fro m the thirties, a n d he h ad
p ro b a b ly killed a n d buried m o re m en in the levee th a n an y o th e r hack
on the farm . N o w , he was alm o s t seventy, covered w ith the kind of
obscene white fat th a t co m es fro m years o f d r in k in g c o rn whiskey,
a n d there w a s n ’t a to w n in L o u is ia n a o r M ississippi w h e re he cou ld
retire in safety fro m the convicts w h o m he h ad p u t on a n t hills o r ru n
d o u b le -tim e w ith w h e e lb a rro w s up a n d d o w n the levee until they
collapsed on their h a n d s a n d knees.
“ I th in k I need to h o o f this o n e ,” I said.
“ I t ’s tw en ty miles o u t t o th a t highw ay, b o y .” A n d he d i d n ’t say it
un k in d ly . T he w o rd c a m e to him as a u to m a tic a lly as a n y th in g else
th a t he raised up o u t o f thirty-five years of d o in g alm o s t the s am e type
of tim e t h a t the rest o f us pulled.
“ I k n o w th a t, boss. But I got to stretch it o u t . ” I d i d n ’t tu rn to look
at him , b u t I knew th a t his slate-green eyes were s tarin g into m y back
with a m ix tu re o f re sen tm e n t an d im p o te n c e at seeing a piece of
p erson al p r o p e rty m o ved across a line into a w o rld w h ere he him self
cou ld not fu nctio n.
T h e d ea d w a te r in the ditches a lo n g the ro a d was covered w ith lily
pads, a n d drag onflies flicked with th eir p u rp le wings ab o v e the newly
o p en ed flowers. T h e leaves on the trees were co a te d w ith dust, a n d the
red-black soil at the ro o ts was lined w ith the tracings of night
crawlers. I was p erspiring u n d e r m y coat, a n d I pulled it off w ith o ne
h an d a n d stuck it t h ro u g h the twine w ra p p e d a r o u n d the c a r d b o a r d
box. A mile up the ro a d I heard the tires o f the state c a r w h in in g hotly
d o w n the oiled surface. T hey slowed in second gear a lo n g side of me,
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James Lee Burke
the hack bent forward into the steering wheel so he could speak past
his passenger.
“T h a t’s a hot sonofabitch to walk, and you probably a in’t going to
hitch no ride on the highway.”
I smiled and shook the palm of my hand at them, and after the car
had accelerated away in a bright yellow cloud of gravel and dust and
oil someone shot the finger out the back window.
I threw the cardboard box into the ditch and walked three more
miles to a beer tavern and cafe set off by the side of the road in a circle
of gravel. The faded wooden sides of the building were covered with
rotted election posters (D o n ’t get caught short, Vote Long— Speedy
O. Long, a slave to no m an and a servant to all), flaking and rusted tin
signs advertising Hadacol and Carry-On, and stickers for Brown
Mule, Calumet baking powder, and Doctor Tichner’s Painless
Laxative. A huge live oak tree, covered with Spanish moss, grew by
one side of the building, and its roots had swelled under the wall with
enough strength to bend the window jamb.
It was dark and cool inside, with a wooden ceiling fan turning
overhead, and the bar shined with the dull light of the neon beer signs
and the emptiness of the room. It felt strange to pull out the chair
from the bar and scrape it into position and sit down. The bartender
was in the kitchen talking with a Negro girl. His arms were covered
with tattooes and a heavy growth of white hair. He wore a folded
butcher’s apron tied around his great girth of stomach.
“ Hey, podner, how about a Jax down here,” I said.
He leaned into the service window, his heavy arms folded in front
of him and his head extended under the enclosure.
“Just get it out of the cooler, mister, and I ’ll be with you in a
minute.”
I went behind the bar and stuck my hand into the deep ice-filled
cooler and pulled out a bottle of Jax and snapped off the cap in the
opener box. My wrist and arm ached with the cold and shale of ice
against my skin. The foam boiled over the lip and ran down on my
hand in a way that was as strange, at that moment, as the bar chair,
the dull neon beer signs, and the Negro girl scraping a spatula
vacantly across the flat surface of the stove. I drank another Jax
before the man came out of the kitchen, then I ate a poor boy
sandwich with shrimp, oysters, lettuce and sauce hanging out the
sides of the French bread.
“You just getting out?” the man said. He said it in the flat, casual
26
James Lee Burke
tone th a t m ost free people use to w ard s convicts, th a t sam e quality of
voice behind the X ero xed letters from B oston asking for the d o n a tio n
of o u r eyes.
I put three d o llar bills on the b ar an d w alked to w a rd s the sq u are of
sunlight ag ain st the fro n t d o or.
“ Say, bu ddy, it d o n ’t m a tte r to me w h a t y o u ’re getting out of. I was
ju s t saying my cousin will give you a ride up to the highw ay in a few
m in u te s .”
I walked d o w n the oiled ro ad a q u a r te r of a mile, a n d his cousin
picked me up in a stake tru ck and dro v e me all the way to the train
d ep o t in B aton Rouge.
27