Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink
PRESENTS :
The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail©
Is Life Existential? You Decide.
by ' Colorado ' Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...
Chapter 14
Cool Hand Gin
or
A Fox's Tail©
Is Life Existential? You Decide.
by ' Colorado ' Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...
Chapter 14
Cool Hand Gin
Ginger Mullins had been drunk before. In fact, Ginny had been stumbling drunk before. Even completely-tripping-and-falling-down drunk before. And most certainly chattering-away-in-the-back-of-a- taxi drunk before.
Wasted; Plastered; Blotto -- Yes, yes, yes; she had been that drunk ...and more... before.
But till now Ginny had never been so incredibly, monumentally, mind-bogglingly drunk before that she found herself in Arkansas in withering heat and humidity in totally unbecoming boots in a line of convicts in a prison work camp and being told she would be there for some several months by a gruff character called "Cap'n" who was in charge and didn't seem the type to appreciate failure to communicate in any form.
It must've been some 6-pack of Sam Adams she'd chugged because the funny thing was... she couldn't remember anything leading up to this. She had only her usual "Uptown Gin" memories; meaning she remembered NOT being in Arkansas and NOT getting drunk, arrested, tried nor convicted and NOT arriving at a highway prison work camp. She also distinctly remembered being a woman, but no one seemed to notice that, even during the shower before she got her camp clothes. When she looked in the mirror she still saw the familiar soft curves and gentle valleys but judging by their reactions, the other men obviously saw something less alluring. It was all very strange indeed. And she didn't have to pinch herself on the bum to make sure it was real either because one guy in the shower had already done that. Fortunately she hadn't had to hurt him too bad.
Now there is a tendency to over-analyze great works like this chapter. Some people ...mainly mousey men and shrewish women... are compelled to look for and find more than is there; ethereal permutations of thought, shades of meaning, wheels within wheels, and conundrum wrapped puzzles inside enigmas. But sometimes the words "I am the Walrus" are just the words "I", "am", "the" and "Walrus" jammed together with no deeper meaning (Although that particular Beatle's song is noted for, when played backwards, declaring "Ringo is an Alien" over and over -- But then Ringo wasn't quite like the others).
Sometimes there is no more basis and explanation for something than the fact that it just plain is. So most likely if you stand outside in a thunderstorm conversing with God, you're just talking to yourself (like in that famous movie). That's the way of the Universe and of this chapter, so shake it off; get over it. The fact that Ginny found herself in an Arkansas chain gang just is and we have to go from there. Actually, it all can be explained by Quantum Theory but regular people could never understand it anyways.
As she stood there in line, Gin felt the Cap'n possessed a remarkable rough-hewn eloquence and was downright poetic concerning the subject of convicts getting "rabbit" in 'em. He had several helpers, just like Santa Claus. These helpers, called "Bosses" rather than Elves, were like counselors at summer camp, only with more attitude and lots of guns. They made life exciting for everyone.
As Gin was ushered to the barracks with the other "New Meat", the trucks returning to camp disgorged sweaty work gangs for the evening. A rabble reminiscent of her ancestral Celtic hordes streamed toward the buildings as Gin stood inside her new home looking down the long double row of bunks and listening to the Trustee-in-charge recite the house rules. There really was only one rule; doing anything earns a night in "the Box." When she raised her hand and asked where the nearest Starbuck's was, the Trustee glowered, then growled that he hoped Gin wasn't a hard case -- It all would have been very impressive if he hadn't been a dead ringer for Fred Flintstone. Anywho, Gin found an upper bunk that suited her very well and then it was time for dinner. She could hardly wait to take her new spoon and "git at them beans." She hoped the condiments included "Newman's Own" salad dressings.
The food was just like at Cornell. Considering that victuals in Arkansas prisons are bought with what little remains after the politicians, officials and contractors -- and all their Mamas' nephews and cousins -- take a cut, she wondered if Cornell used the same system.
Actually Gin wished just once she could be in one of these "situations" where the food and accommodations were 5-star. -- I mean really; she had yet to find herself inexplicably having to choose between a diamond-encrusted bracelet or a new Rolls-Royce as an esteemed houseguest of the Sultan of Brunei. On the contrary, she was always having to sidestep Mastodon pooh or thwart being kissed by a weirdo (although coincidentally, these particular precautions also are necessary at the Sultan's).
At dinner Gin made a new friend. Well, actually a series of circumstances obliged her to beat the hell out of the guy next to her and from then on he was her buddy ...people are like that. Irregardless, his name was Dragline and he was a tough, hulking dimwit who looked lots like George Kennedy. Dennis Hopper, Joe Don Baker, Wayne Rogers and John-boy's daddy all were doing time there with her, too.
Ginny found she liked working on the chain gang. There were heaps of fresh air and sun. Plus swinging a sling blade at the weeds along roads really toned the muscles, especially those difficult places in her upper arms that stayed so wiggly. She figured she was saving loads of dough being there rather than a spa in Palm Beach. And calling it a chain gang was a slight misnomer. Everybody wasn't all chained together, that would be kinky... just the guys that got rabbit and ran for it wore leg irons. The fellas also called the convict work crew a "bull gang", and that's no bull.
Gin had lots of swell adventures. The time the gang was shoveling mud from a drainage ditch was a real hoot. There was a house a little ways up ahead with a '48 Chevy in front. Well, as the gang was working along the road toward the home this curvy chick, who looked poured into her skimpy cotton dress, came out with a bucket and started washing the car. She was spewing soap and water all over herself, leaning into the streamline curves of the car, pressing against the windows and putting on a show that would cost a dollar cover at a titty bar. It wasn't precisely Gin's cup-of-tea, but the actual guys there sure enjoyed it.
And one evening she was playing poker in the barracks before bedtime. In the last hand she and another guy were betting like maniacs, raising each other over and over; the pot got really huge, maybe 75 cents. When he finally showed his hand no one thought she could beat those two 7's. Smiling, Gin fanned out her winning cards, six Aces. Everyone thought it was a pretty cool hand and that's how she got her bull gang name... "Cool Hand Gin."
Then there was the time everyone in the barracks was talking about what a great heap of anything Gin could eat. Gin reflected for a moment, then announced she could handle 50 hardboiled eggs in an hour. No one believed anybody could eat 50 eggs so they arranged a contest; the betting against Gin was fast and furious. On the day of the contest the 50 eggs were cooked up and delivered to a table before her. For a while she picked each up and put it back down, apparently inspecting them all. At the end of the hour, someone remarked that she didn't eat any eggs. Gin agreed, but noted that she HAD handled each and every one. After pulling out a dictionary, the fellas conceded the point and paid up their losing bets. After this Gin was the idol of the camp.
Of course from the beginning Gin resolved to escape... five months was a long time (two fashion seasons) and no prison could hold her. She decided a tunnel was the ticket out. A wood stove covered the hole in the barracks floor, they could move it aside to access the ground below. She organized teams who worked in shifts digging a tunnel intended to extent beyond the camp fence. They put the excavated dirt in their pockets, then when no one was looking, dropped it in the vegetable gardens they started for that purpose. Other prisoners where put to work tailoring stylish suits of clothes and forging documents, passports and such, for everybody. Even the quiet loner guy who spent his time in the cooler throwing and catching a baseball helped out. Several times she snuck outside the camp so she could align the tunnel with its destination beyond the fence and ensure their work was on course. While outside she also would stop in at the nearest Starbuck's for a refreshing Frappuccino before returning to camp. Usually she brought plenty back for Drag and the boys, too.
The day before the great escape, and a week before her sentence was up, the Cap'n approached Gin kinda sheepish and told her there was a terrible mistake of identity. The guy she was mistaken for was some actor fella in California that they'd just rounded up. Cap'n said she would be released immediately and if she wouldn't sue, she could keep her spoon, no charge, even though it was property of the State. Gin had enjoyed her time in the work camp, aside for the nights in "the Box" and the time she had to dig out that grave-like hole over n' over, so she readily agreed. It was no time before she was saying bye to her chain gang buddies; Dragline, Gambler, Society, the Birdman, Papillon, Dreyfus and those three dumb yokels who always palled around together. Finally, Gin said a lingering goodbye to the huge, kindly fellow who brought the dead mouse back to life and cured her bad bladder infection with a touch. As the camp gate slowly swung shut, Gin started down the road clutching her treasured bean spoon tight in her hand. On her journey home Ginny unwittingly managed to backtrack the Space-Time Continuum and return to life just where she'd left it in the third year of Cornell law school.
The boys in her bull gang fondly reminisced about Gin, especially remembering her ready, beaming smile. In his trademark deep gravelly voice Dragline called it "that ol' Gin smile."
Wasted; Plastered; Blotto -- Yes, yes, yes; she had been that drunk ...and more... before.
But till now Ginny had never been so incredibly, monumentally, mind-bogglingly drunk before that she found herself in Arkansas in withering heat and humidity in totally unbecoming boots in a line of convicts in a prison work camp and being told she would be there for some several months by a gruff character called "Cap'n" who was in charge and didn't seem the type to appreciate failure to communicate in any form.
It must've been some 6-pack of Sam Adams she'd chugged because the funny thing was... she couldn't remember anything leading up to this. She had only her usual "Uptown Gin" memories; meaning she remembered NOT being in Arkansas and NOT getting drunk, arrested, tried nor convicted and NOT arriving at a highway prison work camp. She also distinctly remembered being a woman, but no one seemed to notice that, even during the shower before she got her camp clothes. When she looked in the mirror she still saw the familiar soft curves and gentle valleys but judging by their reactions, the other men obviously saw something less alluring. It was all very strange indeed. And she didn't have to pinch herself on the bum to make sure it was real either because one guy in the shower had already done that. Fortunately she hadn't had to hurt him too bad.
Now there is a tendency to over-analyze great works like this chapter. Some people ...mainly mousey men and shrewish women... are compelled to look for and find more than is there; ethereal permutations of thought, shades of meaning, wheels within wheels, and conundrum wrapped puzzles inside enigmas. But sometimes the words "I am the Walrus" are just the words "I", "am", "the" and "Walrus" jammed together with no deeper meaning (Although that particular Beatle's song is noted for, when played backwards, declaring "Ringo is an Alien" over and over -- But then Ringo wasn't quite like the others).
Sometimes there is no more basis and explanation for something than the fact that it just plain is. So most likely if you stand outside in a thunderstorm conversing with God, you're just talking to yourself (like in that famous movie). That's the way of the Universe and of this chapter, so shake it off; get over it. The fact that Ginny found herself in an Arkansas chain gang just is and we have to go from there. Actually, it all can be explained by Quantum Theory but regular people could never understand it anyways.
As she stood there in line, Gin felt the Cap'n possessed a remarkable rough-hewn eloquence and was downright poetic concerning the subject of convicts getting "rabbit" in 'em. He had several helpers, just like Santa Claus. These helpers, called "Bosses" rather than Elves, were like counselors at summer camp, only with more attitude and lots of guns. They made life exciting for everyone.
As Gin was ushered to the barracks with the other "New Meat", the trucks returning to camp disgorged sweaty work gangs for the evening. A rabble reminiscent of her ancestral Celtic hordes streamed toward the buildings as Gin stood inside her new home looking down the long double row of bunks and listening to the Trustee-in-charge recite the house rules. There really was only one rule; doing anything earns a night in "the Box." When she raised her hand and asked where the nearest Starbuck's was, the Trustee glowered, then growled that he hoped Gin wasn't a hard case -- It all would have been very impressive if he hadn't been a dead ringer for Fred Flintstone. Anywho, Gin found an upper bunk that suited her very well and then it was time for dinner. She could hardly wait to take her new spoon and "git at them beans." She hoped the condiments included "Newman's Own" salad dressings.
The food was just like at Cornell. Considering that victuals in Arkansas prisons are bought with what little remains after the politicians, officials and contractors -- and all their Mamas' nephews and cousins -- take a cut, she wondered if Cornell used the same system.
Actually Gin wished just once she could be in one of these "situations" where the food and accommodations were 5-star. -- I mean really; she had yet to find herself inexplicably having to choose between a diamond-encrusted bracelet or a new Rolls-Royce as an esteemed houseguest of the Sultan of Brunei. On the contrary, she was always having to sidestep Mastodon pooh or thwart being kissed by a weirdo (although coincidentally, these particular precautions also are necessary at the Sultan's).
At dinner Gin made a new friend. Well, actually a series of circumstances obliged her to beat the hell out of the guy next to her and from then on he was her buddy ...people are like that. Irregardless, his name was Dragline and he was a tough, hulking dimwit who looked lots like George Kennedy. Dennis Hopper, Joe Don Baker, Wayne Rogers and John-boy's daddy all were doing time there with her, too.
Ginny found she liked working on the chain gang. There were heaps of fresh air and sun. Plus swinging a sling blade at the weeds along roads really toned the muscles, especially those difficult places in her upper arms that stayed so wiggly. She figured she was saving loads of dough being there rather than a spa in Palm Beach. And calling it a chain gang was a slight misnomer. Everybody wasn't all chained together, that would be kinky... just the guys that got rabbit and ran for it wore leg irons. The fellas also called the convict work crew a "bull gang", and that's no bull.
Gin had lots of swell adventures. The time the gang was shoveling mud from a drainage ditch was a real hoot. There was a house a little ways up ahead with a '48 Chevy in front. Well, as the gang was working along the road toward the home this curvy chick, who looked poured into her skimpy cotton dress, came out with a bucket and started washing the car. She was spewing soap and water all over herself, leaning into the streamline curves of the car, pressing against the windows and putting on a show that would cost a dollar cover at a titty bar. It wasn't precisely Gin's cup-of-tea, but the actual guys there sure enjoyed it.
And one evening she was playing poker in the barracks before bedtime. In the last hand she and another guy were betting like maniacs, raising each other over and over; the pot got really huge, maybe 75 cents. When he finally showed his hand no one thought she could beat those two 7's. Smiling, Gin fanned out her winning cards, six Aces. Everyone thought it was a pretty cool hand and that's how she got her bull gang name... "Cool Hand Gin."
Then there was the time everyone in the barracks was talking about what a great heap of anything Gin could eat. Gin reflected for a moment, then announced she could handle 50 hardboiled eggs in an hour. No one believed anybody could eat 50 eggs so they arranged a contest; the betting against Gin was fast and furious. On the day of the contest the 50 eggs were cooked up and delivered to a table before her. For a while she picked each up and put it back down, apparently inspecting them all. At the end of the hour, someone remarked that she didn't eat any eggs. Gin agreed, but noted that she HAD handled each and every one. After pulling out a dictionary, the fellas conceded the point and paid up their losing bets. After this Gin was the idol of the camp.
Of course from the beginning Gin resolved to escape... five months was a long time (two fashion seasons) and no prison could hold her. She decided a tunnel was the ticket out. A wood stove covered the hole in the barracks floor, they could move it aside to access the ground below. She organized teams who worked in shifts digging a tunnel intended to extent beyond the camp fence. They put the excavated dirt in their pockets, then when no one was looking, dropped it in the vegetable gardens they started for that purpose. Other prisoners where put to work tailoring stylish suits of clothes and forging documents, passports and such, for everybody. Even the quiet loner guy who spent his time in the cooler throwing and catching a baseball helped out. Several times she snuck outside the camp so she could align the tunnel with its destination beyond the fence and ensure their work was on course. While outside she also would stop in at the nearest Starbuck's for a refreshing Frappuccino before returning to camp. Usually she brought plenty back for Drag and the boys, too.
The day before the great escape, and a week before her sentence was up, the Cap'n approached Gin kinda sheepish and told her there was a terrible mistake of identity. The guy she was mistaken for was some actor fella in California that they'd just rounded up. Cap'n said she would be released immediately and if she wouldn't sue, she could keep her spoon, no charge, even though it was property of the State. Gin had enjoyed her time in the work camp, aside for the nights in "the Box" and the time she had to dig out that grave-like hole over n' over, so she readily agreed. It was no time before she was saying bye to her chain gang buddies; Dragline, Gambler, Society, the Birdman, Papillon, Dreyfus and those three dumb yokels who always palled around together. Finally, Gin said a lingering goodbye to the huge, kindly fellow who brought the dead mouse back to life and cured her bad bladder infection with a touch. As the camp gate slowly swung shut, Gin started down the road clutching her treasured bean spoon tight in her hand. On her journey home Ginny unwittingly managed to backtrack the Space-Time Continuum and return to life just where she'd left it in the third year of Cornell law school.
The boys in her bull gang fondly reminisced about Gin, especially remembering her ready, beaming smile. In his trademark deep gravelly voice Dragline called it "that ol' Gin smile."
To Be Continued
