My 23rd Birthday

 

I remember my 23^rd birthday, mainly for contrast. When I turned 22 on December 28, 1969, I lived at home. I worked two jobs, as a junior salesman for a local dairy and as an usher in a threatre. I also stocked groceries and worked part time at my Dad’s shoe store. I played trombone in the Royal Orleaneans and the Chevelles. I stopped attending UNO by the spring of the year as my grades had plummeted and I had to sit out a semester. After I sat out one, I decided I’d sit out some more. I had registered for the draft at 18 and by 1969/70 my college deferment had lapsed and my draft number was in the 60s out of 365. I knew I’d be drafted by May, 1970.
Because my parents loved me they saw to it that I got an education. Because I got a decent education, I could pass a test. To join the Air Force, you took a series of mental tests. To join the Marines, you took a physical test. Anyway, I did well enough that the Air Force took me the month I was to be drafted. Instead of going to Fort Polk and Vietnam, I went to Lackland AFB for basic training. After basic, I played in the drum and bugle corps there on tdy and then went to Sheppard AFB and was trained as a computer operator. At Sheppard, I learned I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was. I got set back a week. At basic training, I learned I wasn’t in too great a physical condition. That changed. I learned how to make my bed and fold my clothes and hang them in order. I learned how to listen. I learned self discipline and humility. I graduated tech school in thirteen weeks.

From Sheppard I was assigned to Offutt AFB, SAC HQ. I worked the day shift at Data Processing Central which was three floors underground at Bldg C. I carried a TSESI classification and was vetted by the FBI. DPC 1 and 2 were the war machines for the Strategic Air Command. We ran SAC OPS, SYS OPS, and BMEWS. We were directly tied in to Cheyenne Mountain and fed the information for the screens viewed by general staff one floor below us. I worked with other guys from all over the United States who were in a similar situation to mine. They became lifelong friends.

I met Ruth Jones at Al’s Bar in Bellevue the first week of December, 1970. By June, the next year, we would be married.

My birthday, December, 28, 1970, I turned 23. I was no longer the boy who turned 22 the year before.

My Favorite toys, as a kid

Bagged, plastic, toy WWII soldiers

My first ten years, beginning in late, 1947 was spent in New Orleans at 1427 General Pershing Street, which was on the corner of General Pershing and unpaved Pitt Street. It was a dusty shotgun double. The other barrel of the shotgun was occupied by my father’s Mom, Dad and sister, my Aunt Ruthie. My Dad got paid on Friday and he, my Mom and I unfolded a wire grocery cart and wheeled it six blocks up General Pershing to Magazine Street to “make groceries” at the Hills Supermarket. Lots of beans, rice, bread and butter, milk for me. There was a rotating wire rack displaying odds and ends of toys that was placed strategically near the front door to appeal to big eyed, bored children. At the end of grocery shopping, if there was a couple of quarters left over, I would get a bag of plastic toy soldiers. I had to be patient and not get my hopes up but the walk back home, often after dark, was made all the more compelling for me if the big brown paper bags contained a plastic bag of military green, plastic soldiers, ready to defend our home hardwood floor. I can’t even begin to try to explain the myriad of possible scenarios a cohort of tiny, militarily trained and equipped, inch high toy soldiers might engage the mind of a blood thirsty child, but there it is. Floor war. Engage. Battle. Rinse. Repeat. Endless joy for a growing boy. For two leftover quarters.

Mardi Gras Throws

Mardi Gras parade throws provided another source of odd plastic trinkets and toys. My Mom and Dad would haul a ladder out to St. Charles Avenue, which was only a block away and I would wave my arms and scream “trow me sumpin mista” over and over trying to catch the eye of a masked float rider. One Mardi Gras, the truck floats with Tulane and Newcomb students pelted me with all sorts of beads and trinkets and I got hit in the face so much I burst into tears. That year the students felt sorry and we went home with a boat load of plastic treasure to assuage my tears. So much so that my Dad, in anticipation of more fallow times on the parade route, squirrelled away a shoe box full of Mardi Gras throws that might appeal to a arm waving, ladder riding runt. He put the box high up on a shelf, far away from midget eyes. His mistake was reaching up after Mardi Gras was over one year and adding a couple of items from his pockets that he hadn’t needed. I saw. I saw. Later he confessed to acting as though he had caught trinkets from passing floats and handing them down to me. Salting the battlefield, as it were. There it was to my prying eyes, a shoe box filled with antique Mardi Gras treasure, just sitting there waiting to be gone through and treasured. It was not meant to be enjoyed on the short term, only to serve as reserve when we went to parades like Comus, where the float riders went by so fast that nobody got anything. The box was high above everything else, hidden on the top shelf. Formerly hidden. Explain contingency to a kid. There is only the now. As soon as I realized that shoe box was full of treats, I began every histrionic I could manage to beg for access to the fabulous treasure, now building up bigger and bigger in my mind. What could the box contain? How many odd items? Stuff came off floats that were often inexplicable. My brain swelled from an overactive imagination. It took me a couple days of begging. I remember, “I’ll never ask for anything, ever again.” By the third day my Dad realized I wasn’t going to let it go and he wasn’t up to doing what it took to shut me up so he gave in and I got the box. It was perhaps my greatest accomplishment to date. The odd assortment of Mardi Gras treasure lasted me a couple days of amusement and fully worth it.

Captain Midnight Plastic Mug

I got up early on Saturdays to watch Roy and Dale and yeah, I watched The Mickey Mouse Club, Sky King, The Lone Ranger and whatever show that had the Peanut Gallery and absorbed like essential dna, all the commercials aimed at reprogramming my brain. One of the favorite moments in my life, to that time, was getting a red plastic cup that had Captain Midnight on it. Not sure how I sent off for it. Likely Mom did it for me by mailing in a box top or something. It took weeks, if not months to arrive and by the time it arrived, I’d forgotten I ordered it and bang! there it was. A cardboard box. Inside the magic conveyor with my name on it was a red plastic cup with an official Captain Midnight decal on the side. My imagination went wild. I used it as a gun (primal freudian motivation), a transponder to speak to the Captain long distance, an echo chamber and yes, even as a cup. Each meal I used it for its magical properties. I slept with it. It was my real time link with TV people. You saw them on the tube, yes but they were ephemeral. This cup was physical evidence of the existence of “tv people.” National TV people. My link to them. That cup was magic. It must have been summer break.

The Year of Prince Valiant

It was 1954. It was a culmination of years of identifying with heroes of the cathode ray tube and the silver screen. Those who existed as gods of olympus to tiny brained children, like myself. It was:

The Year of Prince Valiant

1. I saw the movie. It was fabulous. Filled with colorful daring-do. Robert Wagner in a black Buster Brown wig, sword and armour. Sword fights, duels, archery, jousting. What more can I say? Glamorous, uncontained violence. Tasty.

More

2. I got the Classic Comic book that was released to coincide with the movie. It was like owning the movie, on paper. Seeing it again, over and over, only in my room, when it pleased me. Awesome.

Finally

3. I got the plastic Prince Valiant sword from Woolworth’s. The trifecta. The movie. The book. The sword. Prince Valiant. Any time. Any place they allowed plastic swords. I dueled James Mason endlessly. And… Always… With Honor.

There were other toys and other times but those were the memorable ones.

Michael Seither, June 23, 2022

 

Pigs survive but seldom ride in topless roadsters with pretty girls.

 

All generalizations are false.

All men are pigs.

Pigs survive but seldom ride in topless roadsters with pretty girls.

When I was twenty, I certainly wasn’t a man yet, so my piggishness, while innate, was underdeveloped. Not to say I wasn’t trying. My pursuit of the opposite sex was driven by hormones, yes but I drove feeble cars. I began with a 1961 Renault Dauphine. I painted it up and tried to spiffy it up. It was a stick on the floor, which was good but it was a push pull stick. You had to push it out of first to neutral, then push it down to get 2^nd. Lame. Four doors. Lame. The radiator fill neck dripped onto the 2^nd cylinder spark plug and caused it to miss. Lame.

 The girls I dated at that point in my life centered around their looks and their cars. KayLynn, Sunbean Alpine roadster. Gwen, MGB roadster. Kay, Karmann Ghia. Roxy, wins a Camaro in a raffle. Piggish? Pretty much. Standard stuff, right? Going forward, things will take a turn for the weird.

I dated Kay for a few weeks. She was tall, thin, blond and attractive. Nice car. No roadster but hey. My best friend’s GF thought she should have been a model. Her one flaw was a small space between her two front teeth. So what’s weird? She liked me. She suggested we find someplace quiet to explore each other. She was quiet and unassuming. She had a nice car. My son explains why he stops going out with young women by saying, “no chemistry.” And there it was. It was gradual but I slowly quit calling her. Had she been harder to get or drove a Ferrari? Who knows what smelly, fetid darkness lurks in the male mind? She was beautiful and easy? Not for me.

Then

I see her at the same places we frequented as a group (LaCasa’s, Friar Tuck’s) and she’s getting out of a spectacular maroon Mercury Cougar sports coupe, showing a lot of really long leg. It was the 60s. Word on the street is she’s dating Tommy Dutton. Tommy’s father is part owner of Clay-Dutton Mercury, a New Orleans automobile dealership. The details are lurid. The Cougar, while sexy and fast wasn’t fast enough. He got the engine “blue printed.” This is serious. He is using science to squeeze every horsepower he can from this already powerful V-8 engine. He also apparently doesn’t hold being beautiful and free against Kay.

It gets worse.

He convinces his Dad that the Cougar, while keeping it in the family business, is too slow. He gets a Corvette. Now he’s driving a car I lust after and still dating the girl I should have lusted after, given a sane mind.

It finally takes a turn for the macabre.

He tops 110MPH on the Ponchartrain Expressway, inbound to the city, in Metairie, fails to negotiate a turn, hits a concrete support and is decapitated. When I heard the news, which spread quickly through my group of friends, I had to ask the telling question. Was he alone?

Within a few months I had joined the Air Force. I came back to town on leave after tech school. Kay was working at a place near the French quarter and I tried to talk to her about what was going on but she didn’t want to talk to me. Neither did Roxy who won the Camaro. KayLynn had gotten married. My best friend’s GF fixed me up with a gal from Newcomb. She was pretty nice but her Dad didn’t get her the Olds 442 convertible until after her graduation.

 Life is hard in the barnyard. Pigs survive but seldom ride in topless roadsters with pretty girls.

The Captain Midnight Cup / Roy and Dale

 I got up early on Saturdays to watch Roy and Dale and yeah, I watched The Mickey Mouse Club, Sky King, The Lone Ranger and whatever show that had the Peanut Gallery and absorbed like essential dna, all the commercials aimed at reprogramming my brain. One of the favorite moments in my life, to that time, was getting a red plastic cup that had Captain Midnight on it. Not sure how I sent off for it. Likely Mom did it for me by mailing in a box top or something. It took weeks, if not months to arrive and by the time it arrived, I'd forgotten I ordered it and bang! there it was. A cardboard box. Inside the magic conveyor with my name on it was a red plastic cup with an official Captain Midnight decal on the side. My imagination went wild. I used it as a gun (primal freudian motivation), a transponder to speak to the Captain long distance, an echo chamber and yes, even as a cup. Each meal I used it for its magical properties. I slept with it. It was my real time link with TV people. You saw them on the tube, yes but they were ephemeral. This cup was physical evidence of the existence of "tv people." National TV people. My link to them. That cup was magic. It must have been summer break.

I recently saw a Roy Rogers episode on cable. I also managed to come by a movie he made in the late 50s, early 60s. I guess I knew back then that Roy didn't kill people. He talked with them. Motivated them. Brought them home to meet Dale and get a meal. Convinced them to live a better life. It almost sounds like I'm kidding but no, Roy was not a typical tv cowboy. Don't get me wrong, he fist-fought with all kinds of villains. They jumped around and rolled around and struggled to stop them from doing bad but, in the end, he made friends with them. They were better off for it and while they may have had to stay in jail for a couple days, in the long run, they were ready to walk the straight and narrow. Sometimes he'd sing a song or two. Happy Trails to you. 'Til we see you again. I'm sorry but Roy was frickin' outstanding. He should have been King of the Cowboys.

My Dad and I used to try to keep count of how many people Marshall Dillon killed each week on Gunsmoke. It would have been nice to have one of those chrome clickers golfers use. Never fewer than one. Some weeks, two, some three or four. It was Chester's use of 9x recycled coffee grounds and Miss Kitty's lousy attitude that did it. That beauty spot might have been syphilitic. Doc was a sourpuss. The undertaker, constantly dragging more bodies down the street.

Dale sang along with Roy. Pat Brady, while something of a stuttering moron, could always bust a smile while he drove Clarabelle. The dark and the light. The world needs more Roy Rogers. I probably had one of his plastic cups. He deserved it.

My first “big trip” was in the summer of 1967

Summer, 1967

I was a college sophomore on break from UNO, LSUNO at the time, and working at my Dad’s shoe store, ShoeTown, in Metairie, Louisiana. I worked the floor most days and when Presley Flakes, the brother who was our utility-man was on vacation, I did his job. He received all incoming shoe shipments, unboxed, tagged and tied together all the new shoes. ShoeTown displayed all shoes on a rack, out in the open. We were a hybrid though as we had salesmen help people measure feet and fit shoes. Some rack shoe stores didn’t have any customer help. ShoeTown did. Presley also swept up, cleaned windows and kept the store up. When we sold women’s formal shoes, he’d dye the shoes to match swatches of color from the formal gown. Real art, eh? I kinda’ liked the utility-man’s job but I also liked helping customers get a proper fit and once in a while I’d get a referral or a returning “call” customer who would ask for you personally to help them get a pair of shoes. I knew to make sure kid’s shoes had plenty of growth room and I would use a stretcher, in the back, to make leather shoes more comfortable on day one.

We lived in Metairie, not far from the Barlon Plaza ShoeTown’s location which was on the corner of David Drive and Veterans Memorial Blvd. The store was part of a chain owned by Abe Wiener. My Uncle Jules had helped my father get the management position when we moved from Ruston back to Greater New Orleans. Metairie is a suburb of New Orleans. My Uncle had worked with and for Mr. Wiener from the time he had one shoe store, Imperial Shoes, on Magazine Street, maybe Dryades St.? My Dad worked as an Assistant Manager at a couple of other ShoeTowns before getting his own store. It was a mixed blessing. Retail was clean, with decent pay and benefits but 60 hours a week on hard terrazzo floors took its toll.

It was toward the end of summer break and I had saved up a few extra bucks and was wondering how to leverage it for some fun when the pay phone in the back of the store rang. When I answered, I heard my old friend, Tommy Rinehart’s voice. “Whatcha doin’ loser, working?” He was calling from Ruston. He had gotten the store’s phone number from my Mom after calling our house on Green Acres Road. He told me he had just taken delivery of a brand new, 1967 Pontiac GTO and was itching to try it out. He had gotten out a map and highlighted a route to Pikes Peak and Royal Gorge in Colorado and Carlsbad Caverns in Arizona. Once his parents, Trudy and JT realized what he was doing, they claimed back seat but wanted to rotate with shotgun. He was offering me shotgun. It was Tommy’s new car and he would drive. Tommy and I were best friends our first two years in Ruston High School. We were in band together, did sleep-overs and went to summer camp. I dated his first cousin, Mary Lane. When my family relocated from Ruston to Metairie in late 1963, we talked on the phone and Tommy drove down to visit during the summer when he could. The timing was impeccable. I had a spare couple of weeks before going back to school in the fall, I had a few extra bucks to spend and Presley had used up all his summer vacation time. I told Tommy I’d try hard to fit in into my busy schedule and would be there by the next weekend. My Mom and Dad liked Tommy and his parents and were on board with the trip. Each slipped me an extra twenty.

By Friday, the end of the week, I threw some clothes in a travel bag and boarded a Trailways bus across the street from Lakeside Shopping Center on Causeway Blvd. and “cushioned” the 300 or so miles due north through Baton Rouge and Alexandria. Note, later in life I worked briefly as lead transportation supervisor at American Bus Lines in Omaha, a Trailways franchise. “Cushioning” refers to riding on the bus, rather than driving it. I don’t remember much of the bus ride but I do remember getting to the Trailways terminal in Ruston and using the pay phone to call Tommy to come pick me up. In ten minutes, I saw the car approaching like it was appearing in a tv commercial. It was a vision, a two door hardtop in a shiny, metallic tan. It burbled with power from a 389 c.i. V8 with a four barrel Holley carburetor and sounded like it would be really, really fast. In the middle sixties, Detroit was a war zone where manufacturers competed to produce the fastest and meanest mid-sized sedans with over-sized truck engines under the hood tuned for acceleration. They were called “muscle cars.” The Pontiac GTO was one of the first in 1964. By 1967 the GTO catalogue allowed the prospective owner to choose from a myriad of performance options. Three two barrel carburetors and a variety of aggressive camshafts, like building a race car were some of the choices. When Tommy would start the beast up in the morning, it would shake like a wet dog while it idled, the aggressive cams loping unevenly. When you stabbed the gas pedal it evened out really quickly and snapped your neck with instant acceleration. I was 19 years old and had driven a Renault Dauphine back and forth to UNO my freshman year. The contrast between our rides was that of a rocket ship to a mule cart and I was ready to rocket. Tommy let me cruise around town in the driver’s seat and give it a bit of juice. My smile was ear to ear. He drove it hard and I buckled up. Drifting through corners at speed puckered me up but couldn’t erase that smile. This… was… fun. I’d say it was so much fun it should have been illegal but really, the speed he was driving, it was illegal.

We left Sunday and headed west through Dallas, turned Northwest through Dalhart and Dumas and up to Amarillo, yellow, right? and stayed a night or two on our journey to Colorado. I remember driving up the dusty, unpaved road to the top of Pikes Peak. Tommy’s Mother, Trudy couldn’t deal with the narrow, dirt roads and increasing altitude and had to lay flat on the floor in the back seat and cry softly. It was a spectacular view and we felt the altitude in our lungs. Another day we drove to Royal Gorge and walked across the historically high suspension bridge and gazed down. Trudy demurred. There was also a tram ride down to the Colorado River deep in the canyon which gave you the reverse view up from the river to the bridge. We stayed a couple more nights in Colorado and Tommy and I drove around the small towns checking out the locals and going to the movies. We even managed to find a dance at a local place and met a girl or two.

Finally we drove down to Carlsbad for dusk and sat in the amphitheater and watched the million bats fly out, into the dark as the sun descended. The next day, we took the lengthy tour of the caverns which was truly spectacular.

I do remember stopping at a gas station in rural Texas and fueling up and hearing the car knock while trying to accelerate and having to slow down to let the lower octane fuel get used up. The car needed high octane premium. Anything less and it wouldn’t run right. A real problem in some areas of rural Texas, it seems. Premium fuel wasn’t.

That was my first “big” trip. It only wetted my appetite for more, thanks to Tommy, Trudy, JT and that crazy GTO. I can hear and smell the car loping at idle, early in the morning and I will forever hear the sound of a ringing back wall payphone. “Hey Loser, whatcha doin’?”

I’m ready, Tommy. I’m all the time ready and I always will be.

It was like flying with the geese or swimming with the dolphins.

 So, as is my want, I ride a bike. We live on a defunct golf course, a victim of golf’s waning popularity and a global pandemic. The bad news is the course is ill-maintained and nobody plays golf. The good news is the cart path remains and nobody plays golf, i.e. the old cart path = my new bike path. We live near the 4th green. The course is on 46 acres. There is an open field of another 30 or so to the east. A rudimentary cattle fence separates the two.

I ride mainly on the front nine. Most days I do between 6 and 8 miles of streets and cart paths. The course has a few ponds. I see lots of wildlife, mostly common birds and now and again migratory birds, rabbits, and ground hogs. Hawks circle the course looking for mice. We have a few canada geese and one day I even got to see some fledglings on one of the practice greens near the old clubhouse accompanied by their parents.

Even though the course is no longer mowed by the owners, the city sends a crew out once or twice a year to knock down the weeds. Home owners also tend to migrate out onto the course to keep the grass down around their area. This summer, right before the city dispatched a crew, the grass had begun to get out of hand. Wildlife started appearing along the cart path as they were hidden by the three to four foot grass and the path made a nice highway to use from location to location. As I would make a turn onto a curve on the path, I’d see rabbits hopping in front of me and then plunging into the high grass. The ground hog sat up as I approached, looked at me and began to scurry out in front and jumped off when he realized I was moving along pretty good.

One nice day I approached the 4th tee area which is contiguous to the open field to the east. It narrows there between the road and the field with the cart path the only way through to the tee area. I had my head down and I was cranking out 13 mph on the gps speed-o. The grass to my left between the cart path and the roadway was 3-4 feet high. I heard rustling to my left and turned my head to see a deer’s eye looking back at me at the same level. She was running, having gotten flushed by my approach, neck and neck with my bike. She didn’t need to look my way, her eyes look to the side but it was clear she was attempting to clear the area. The street was to her left and I was to her right and the only way clear was straight ahead. She was motoring alongside me at my speed. I looked at her running alongside me, not four feet away. Our heads were side to side and I was looking straight into her eye. It was like flying with the geese or swimming with the dolphins. I was bicycling with a running deer, one of the herd. We ran neck and neck for what seemed like a long time but at 20 feet per second, it couldn’t have been more than 2-3 seconds and she popped it into overdrive, jumped ahead, leaped the cart path directly in front of me and then leaped the fence to go back to the adjacent open field. Bang, bang... bang. Instantly moving alongside me and just as quickly, up, up and away. A silent departure . I had not altered my speed one iota. As I rode, I shook my head and tried to look to the right but the experience was over, forever. Off I went on my way and off she went on hers.

Like most of us in the 2020s, I wanted something electronic to share on social media to prove it happened. Stop the deer and ask for a selfie. But I learned two things:

1. I do not have nor will I ever have the juice to match up with a deer. 

2. What makes this encounter amazing is that it shouldn't have happened, see #1. 

All I have is the memory of looking into that deer's eye and realizing we were moving in a serendipitous synchronicity. That'll have to be enough.

"Cool Hand Luke" is an allegory

 Cool Hand Luke is an allegory.

Luke is the cog that wasn’t machined accurately. The chain-gang prison and the society it represents, is the machine he doesn’t fit.

Luke is an everyman who values his individualism over “striving for success.” What he’s learned so far in his thirty-something years is he has low value cards in his poker hand. No way to win, at least conventionally. He tires of that convention. He begins to question everything he hears. It sounds like he has been set up to lose. He tends to sneer at things that make him a loser. He lives in a society that only understands and values winning by the rules. Choosing to believe that he has free will, he decides not to play by other’s rules. He’s sick of losing. He self medicates with alcohol and for amusement decapitates parking meters. It’s not that he can’t understand what is being asked of him, he just can’t and won’t answer yes any more. For him, so much of what he sees and is asked to comply with, is arbitrary anyway. Who says so? So he rebels.

His token act of rebellion, the destruction of public property, earns him society’s recognition. It’s a society that can’t tolerate Luke’s non-conformity any more than he can tolerate the daily arbitrariness of life. He will need to stop thinking so much. Luke now qualifies for “re-education.” The prison represents modern society’s “school.” To the machine, Luke non-conforms in an arbitrary manner. If the rules say he loses, well he loses. The only place for him is behind a fence, in a box, until he learns to quit questioning the fiat of society. Cogs do not question why. They work at fitting in a slot. The Captain becomes Luke’s anti-teacher. His stick-carrying anti-mentor. Society, represented by The Captain must unteach Luke’s endless jobbing of the rules. Learn to stop questioning everything and looking for solutions. He is a “problem.” For that, Captain has his “rules.” No grab-ass and keep track of your spoon.     [see: Errata, below]

Society has no place for anybody who can’t manage to hold on to their spoon. Luke’s a fork person, it seems. That won’t do. Non-conformists need to be isolated and when necessary, beaten senseless. “Lessons” are unnecessary. Rules override them. Otherwise, others will begin to believe society’s rules are arbitrary, capricious and sometimes meaningless. Start thinking for themselves? Nonsense. Besides, non-conformists can’t be reintegrated, thinking society is a self-perpetuating, meaningless exercise in conformity. Luke’s spirit must be broken, his fork replaced with a spoon. Then he won’t need to be locked up any more. That can get expensive. He will be “rehabilitated.” He will get his mind “right.” Cleansed of useless, non-productive thought. The irony of the message, which is also the point, is those minority of humans who reject the conforms of society will be punished until their spirit is broken and their mind cleansed. “Rules Learned.” “Mission Accomplished.” 

Society neither requires nor desires independent thought. Just the opposite. It requires obedience. Ultimately Luke is broken. His body, while robust, ultimately can’t stand up to the relentlessness of society’s machine. Slowly, Luke capitulates and becomes No Eyes fetch-dog. He is the one man Luke respects. No Eyes is Death. There is no winning or losing, only a bolt of lightning that brings peace. But Luke is Luke and in time, his rebel core regenerates and, once again, he decides to escape, knowing it's his last time. The ultimate irony of “failure to communicate.” He is a thinking man. The man/cog who refuses to fit into the place society requires of him. He is what the machine must avoid: ignis spiritus chao. The only way to excommunicate a hard case like Luke is to cancel his ability to reason. Ultimately Luke welcomes it. He’d rather be sacrificed than lobotomised. He raises his arms, the anode to No Eyes cathode and in a flash, Luke is transformed. He has made his final escape.

Errata:

Cool Hand Luke (1967) movie script

by Donn Pearce and Frank Pierson.
Based on the novel by Donn Pearce.

[excerpt]

Floorwalker Carr’s speech, for all newcomers

“Them clothes has got laundry numbers 
    on 'em.You remember your number and 
    always wear the ones that has your number.

 Any man forgets his number 
    spends a night in the box.

(passes out spoons)

    

This yere spoon you keep with you 
    and any man loses his spoon spends a 
    night in the box.

There is no playing 
    grabass or fighting in the building. 
    You got a grudge against another man 
    you can fight him Saturday afternoon. 
    Any man playing grabass or fighting 
    in the building spends a night in 
    the box.

First bell is at five minutes 
    of eight when you will get in your 
    bunk and last bell is at eight...
    Any man not in his bunk at eight 
    will spend a night in the box.

There 
    is no smoking in prone position in 
    bed. To smoke you must have both 
    legs over the side of your bunk. 
    Anyone caught smoking in prone 
    position will spend a night in the 
    box.

You get two sheets. Every 
    Saturday you put the clean sheet on 
    the top, the top sheet on the bottom 
    and the bottom sheet you turn in to 
    the Laundry Boy. Any man who turns 
    in the wrong sheet spends a night in 
    the box.

No one will sit on the bunks 
    with dirty pants on. Any man sitting 
    on a bunk with dirty pants will spend 
    a night in the box.

Any man who don't 
    bring back his empty pop bottles 
    spends a night in the box.

Any man loudtalking spends a night 
    in the box.

You got questions you 
    come to me.
    I'm Carr, the floorwalker. I'm 
    responsible for order in here and 
    any man that don't keep order...
    ...spends a night in the box.
       

(to Cool Hand Luke, sincerely)

    I hope you ain't gonna be a hardcase.”