Life Page #12

RAY:

I wouldn't do that if I was you.

CLAUDE:

Shut up. It's too damn hot. What do

you know, anyway?

A SHOT rings out. Claude hits the ground as a bullet kicks

up some dust nearby.

RAY:

Told ya.

Claude looks up to see Dillard cracking pistachio nuts as

Hoppin' Bob puts another round in the chamber of his rifle.

DILLARD:

Why ain't his pick swinging?

HOPPIN' BOB

(echoing)

Why ain't that pick swinging?

CLAUDE:

It's too hot, boss. I'm tired.

HOPPIN' BOB

He says it's too hot, boss.

DILLARD:

Too hot, huh? Well, you tell that

lazy jiggaboo the state of Mississippi

ain't interested in his meteorological

assessments.

HOPPIN' BOB

Listen up, jiggaboo! State of

Mississippi ain't interested in

your... in your...

(off Dillard's look)

metropolitan assets!

DILLARD:

Tell him the state of Mississippi is

only interested in getting this ditch

cleared by sundown.

HOPPIN' BOB

State of Mississippi wants this ditch

cleared by sundown. You got that?!

CLAUDE:

I got it... boss.

DILLARD:

He don't sound like he's from 'round

here.

HOPPIN' BOB

He's from New York City. That one,

too.

DILLARD:

New York. That's up north, ain't it?

They'll find we do things different

down here.

RAY:

We noticed.

Annoyed, Dillard jabs the butt of his rifle into Ray's solar

plexus. Ray sinks to his knees in the dirt.

DILLARD:

Looks like we got a couple of live

ones. How long these boys in for?

HOPPIN' BOB

Judge gave 'em the long ride.

DILLARD:

Life, huh? They step outta line again,

we'll shorten up that sentence real

fast.

Dillard swaggers off, dogged at the heels by the ever faithful

Hoppin' Bob. Resigned, Ray and Claude return to their labor.

EXT. DITCH -- DAY

The men rest in the ditch as BISCUIT, a slight inmate with a

red bandanna tied around his head, dispenses water, one ladle

per man.

BISCUIT:

Drink it up!

Willie exchanges two cigarettes for a second ladle. POKER

FACE pulls a crumpled envelope from his shirt. His expression

never changes, hence the name.

POKER FACE:

Either of you new fellas know how to

read? I've had this letter four months

now.

CLAUDE:

You can't read? None of these guys

can read?

WILLIE:

Last fella who could read made parole

'round Christmas.

POKER FACE:

I don't even know who this is from.

RAY:

Here, gimme that.

Ray unfolds the letter and scans it.

RAY:

It's from your mama's neighbor, Mrs.

Tidwell. She thought you oughta know

that your second cousin Bo died.

The prisoners express their condolences. "Sorry, man." "That's

some bad news." "I know you loved Bo like a brother..."

RAY:

And your other cousin, Sally, on

your daddy's side, she died.

More sympathy from the men. "Ooh. Twice in one letter." "Rough

break, Poker Face..."

RAY:

Apparently, your sister died.

POKER FACE:

Jenny?

RAY:

No, it says Marleen here.

Relief all around. "Thank goodness."

RAY:

Oh, wait, looks like Jenny died,

too.

"Bad luck, man." "That's harsh..."

RAY:

Then it goes on for a while about

how the crop didn't come in on

accounta the frost.

(flips over the page)

She finishes up with something about

a tornado and how your mama and your

daddy died in that. But don't worry

none. She'll take care of the dog.

That is, if it gets over the worms.

The prisoners share dark looks. Ray folds up the letter and

hands it back to Poker Face.

POKER FACE:

Appreciate it.

RAY:

Anybody else need anything read?

"No, man, we're good." The men shake their heads and return

letters and cards to their pockets. Jangle Leg nods and

switches places with one of the convicts, parking next to

Claude.

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