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Losteye
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Prologue How Badeye Got His Name This is how Bad Eye got his name . . . at least in these stories. I know it's not
politically correct but I have tried to be sensitive to all who might read it. Blacks were
definitely not fools and most of the stories I know, show that But . . . translating the
words into modern English is tough. I am working on a story about the Happy Kingdom, which
was an amazing place and it depicts blacks as I knew them. Tough, smart, and generally
good folks to have on your side or bad enemies. It is not easy because the language has
changed so much. Anyway this works if the victim is white or black. You might wish to take out all
reference to race, please do what you think is best, but it does show a little about life
in a segregated Southern jail, a place where there was no misunderstanding. You were there
to be punished and messed up or not, you by God worked. Steve Webmaster's note: I elected to leave the story as it was written. History is history. Events cannot be changed to suit the politically correct world of today. How Bad Eye Got His Name by Steve Batson Morning breaks hard in the Greenville County Jail and the days are a long time going.
Cornbread and cold butterbeans begin a long hard day on the roads and a sling blade is a
tool of action . . . not a horror movie; or maybe it was the original horror movie. The
man was young and strong, in the way men are strong when they spend a life time yoked to
the land pursuing their fate, in the method first noted in Genesis 3:17. He woke early
this morning to the sound of tap . . . tap . . . tap, on the floor. He was sober he
thought . . . sober to the point where he didn't shake anymore. He staggered out on the floor of the bullpen cell, a place reserved for those on the
work gang, and looked at the occupants of the other bunks. Six or seven of them in a room
with a dozen or so bunks. These were men not unlike himself . . . minor offenders, working
off thirty to ninety days at the discretion of the High Sheriff. Half awake and half
asleep he listened as the tap . . . tap . . . tap continued to disturb him. Finally, he remembered the night before. All those boys down below raising hell. What
in the name of God was going on now. He figured that the water from the slop bucket down
through that knot hole had cooled them off or at least straightened them out so everyone
could get some sleep. Tap . . . tap . . . tap came the sound . . . regular and low and
right by the head of his cot . . . it would surely drive him crazy. What in the world was
it? He was drawn to the knot hole. The same one through which he had watched the mad free
for all, which had passed as story telling when the jailor came to the main door, the
night before. Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . ! He simply could not stand it. He got down on
all fours and quietly crawled across the cell floor from the slop bucket that he had
finished using. Careful not to make a sound, he pressed his eye close to the floor and
darkness enveloped him suddenly and painfully. When he came to, the high sheriff and the doctor were in the room. His head hurt like
no hangover he had ever had. He was in a bed in a Doctor's office. He knew that much . . .
but his vision was twisted. He tried to lift his hand to his face but found they were tied
down to the bed. The doctor said that the sheriff could take him back to jail as soon as
he came around. He heard that. The High Sheriff looked at him and said, "give him
some salts and bring him around. I already wasted half a day and God knows how much of the
county's money on that fool." The "salts" had their desired effect. He was even more clearly in pain after
breathing that stuff. He rode in the wagon back to the jail, a victim of the worst
hangover he would ever have, in a long life of hangovers. He got down and went into the
jailer's office. The sheriff followed him, "Boy I am going to kick your a--, if you
don't up what is going on and I mean right now." "I don't know nuttin', I just looked down the knot hole." was the only reply
he got. "Well h--- boy, you ain't told me nothing I don't know already, 'cept you ain't
never going to be looking down no more knot holes with that eye. Now I done talked to that
bunch on the first floor and they don't know nothing . . . 'cept you and that crowd
upstairs poured water or God only knows what else on them last night when they was a'
telling stories. Now if I was you, I would be leaving folks alone from now on and not
looking down no knot holes . . . you understand. I'm going to let you lay off the gang for
the rest of the day but you are gonna mop up all that mess you made in both cells. Mop and
broom is in the corner of the cell by the slop bucket. The jailer's wife wandered into the
office, "She'll bring you some beans and cornbread in the afternoon." About an hour after sundown they came in. Most of them said, they thought he was dead
for sure that morning when the sheriff took him away. They allowed that they was glad that
all that happened was that he lost an eye. They peeked under the bandage trying to see
around the packing. "Taint that bad, one authority allowed, "You still got an
eyeball in the socket . . . Socket is messed up though. You gonna look like the devil, but
you weren't no thoroughbred to start with. Reckon we can call you Bad Eye from now
on." Bad Eye drifted off to a painful sleep. Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . . came the sound, under his head again . . . he woke up and
the room was quiet in the late night darkness. He stepped out on the floor headed to the
slop bucket in the corner. Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap again . . . then quietly the words
drifted up . . . "Hey, white folks . . . come on over and look at the other end of my
broom handle . . . be a long time for you throw p--- in another black man's face." Bad Eye cussed under his breath as he relieved himself in the slop bucket but he took the High Sheriff's advice to heart and he never did look down a knot hole again. |
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