stilled and the butts put out as another form entered the glowing rectangle of the door, the silhouette of each man suddenly illuminated to those of us still out in the yard.
Inside there was waiting a cup of hot, black water, thin grits, a slab of fat back, catheads and one greasy, cold egg. But the faces of the Newcocks reflected their surprise. In Raiford you are served a tiny portion of powdered eggs once a week. And there is a sign on the messhall wall that has been there for as long as anyone can remember,
âNo Eggs Today.â
We ate in a hurry, going outside to wash our spoons under the faucet in the yard and putting them away in our pockets. Quickly we lighted up smokes again, inhaling deeply. We stood in groups and huddles. In a few minutes we began to form a double line that was arranged according to the four squads. Again the Newcocks were advised, hissed, gestured and recruited into one or the other of the two Bull Gangs. Eagle was drafted into the big Bull Gang by Stupid Blondie who had fallen madly in love with the tattoo on his chest. The other Newcock went with the
little Bull Gang, the one which has Boss Palmer for a Walking Boss and is more or less composed of fuck-ups and hoosiers. But Jackson lingered on the porch, smoking and waiting with the other men. At the last minute he strolled over and got at the end of the big Bull Gang, calmly, as though confident he had made the right choice.
The Yard Man came through the gate, closing it behind him and standing there for a minute with his shoulders hunched under his old leather jacket, his false teeth working back and forth, clicking audibly within the deathâs head of his face. Then he walked up to the back of the line and snarled out,
Aw right, gawd damn it. Straighten out them lines.
There was silence. The lines straightened. Hats were bared but cigarettes remained in place. Then the Yard Man walked forward, counting silently. At the gate he spoke through the fence.
Forty-three Capân. One in the Box.
Forty-three. All right, Boss. Let âem out.
The Captain stood motionless with his hands in his pockets. His windbreaker sports jacket was zippered up to his throat, the collar up around the back of his neck. The brim of his Panama hat was pulled over his eyes. He stood there and spat three or four times.
The Yard Man opened the gate and stepped to one side. The left hand column began to file through, each man turning his head to count over his shoulder as clearly as he could so the man behind him wouldnât misunderstand.
âseventeen Eighteenl NINETEEN (twenty)â
But the Newcock in Boss Palmerâs squad began to stutter.
âtwentyâuhâtwentyâTWENTYâ
Swiftly the Yard Man kicked him square in the butt, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him back to the gate.
Git back here, damn yore sorry ass! You ainât allowed to be no lazy, raggety ass tramp no more. You hear? You gotta straighten up. But quick. Now git back here and give the right count.
âuhâuhâ
Twenty- one!
TWENTY-ONEI
The interrupted column resumed its counting. Then the right hand column started through the gate, drawing abreast of the left which was standing in place. Everyone stood still a few minutes, heads bared, cigarettes glowing. Yet everybody had exactly the same thought. Tramp. The new manâs name would have to be Tramp.
The spotlights fixed on the poles surrounding the asphalt apron were glaring down at the parked squad trucks and glaring into our sleepy eyes. The guards were spaced all around us, trying to look alert for the Captainâs benefit. From the kennels way behind the Building and behind the woodpile we could hear the bloodhounds barking for their breakfast. The yapping of Rudolph the puppy was unmistakable. And so was the deep baritone of Big Blue.
The Walking Bosses stood together about one step behind the Captain. Boss Peters held the nub of his missing arm with his hand. Boss
Inside there was waiting a cup of hot, black water, thin grits, a slab of fat back, catheads and one greasy, cold egg. But the faces of the Newcocks reflected their surprise. In Raiford you are served a tiny portion of powdered eggs once a week. And there is a sign on the messhall wall that has been there for as long as anyone can remember,
âNo Eggs Today.â
We ate in a hurry, going outside to wash our spoons under the faucet in the yard and putting them away in our pockets. Quickly we lighted up smokes again, inhaling deeply. We stood in groups and huddles. In a few minutes we began to form a double line that was arranged according to the four squads. Again the Newcocks were advised, hissed, gestured and recruited into one or the other of the two Bull Gangs. Eagle was drafted into the big Bull Gang by Stupid Blondie who had fallen madly in love with the tattoo on his chest. The other Newcock went with the
little Bull Gang, the one which has Boss Palmer for a Walking Boss and is more or less composed of fuck-ups and hoosiers. But Jackson lingered on the porch, smoking and waiting with the other men. At the last minute he strolled over and got at the end of the big Bull Gang, calmly, as though confident he had made the right choice.
The Yard Man came through the gate, closing it behind him and standing there for a minute with his shoulders hunched under his old leather jacket, his false teeth working back and forth, clicking audibly within the deathâs head of his face. Then he walked up to the back of the line and snarled out,
Aw right, gawd damn it. Straighten out them lines.
There was silence. The lines straightened. Hats were bared but cigarettes remained in place. Then the Yard Man walked forward, counting silently. At the gate he spoke through the fence.
Forty-three Capân. One in the Box.
Forty-three. All right, Boss. Let âem out.
The Captain stood motionless with his hands in his pockets. His windbreaker sports jacket was zippered up to his throat, the collar up around the back of his neck. The brim of his Panama hat was pulled over his eyes. He stood there and spat three or four times.
The Yard Man opened the gate and stepped to one side. The left hand column began to file through, each man turning his head to count over his shoulder as clearly as he could so the man behind him wouldnât misunderstand.
âseventeen Eighteenl NINETEEN (twenty)â
But the Newcock in Boss Palmerâs squad began to stutter.
âtwentyâuhâtwentyâTWENTYâ
Swiftly the Yard Man kicked him square in the butt, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him back to the gate.
Git back here, damn yore sorry ass! You ainât allowed to be no lazy, raggety ass tramp no more. You hear? You gotta straighten up. But quick. Now git back here and give the right count.
âuhâuhâ
Twenty- one!
TWENTY-ONEI
The interrupted column resumed its counting. Then the right hand column started through the gate, drawing abreast of the left which was standing in place. Everyone stood still a few minutes, heads bared, cigarettes glowing. Yet everybody had exactly the same thought. Tramp. The new manâs name would have to be Tramp.
The spotlights fixed on the poles surrounding the asphalt apron were glaring down at the parked squad trucks and glaring into our sleepy eyes. The guards were spaced all around us, trying to look alert for the Captainâs benefit. From the kennels way behind the Building and behind the woodpile we could hear the bloodhounds barking for their breakfast. The yapping of Rudolph the puppy was unmistakable. And so was the deep baritone of Big Blue.
The Walking Bosses stood together about one step behind the Captain. Boss Peters held the nub of his missing arm with his hand. Boss
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