Life Page #13

JANGLE LEG:

How you doin'?

CLAUDE:

I'm all right.

JANGLE LEG:

You ever done time before?

CLAUDE:

You kidding? I've been in and out of

prison my entire life. Mostly in.

I'm hard-core.

JANGLE LEG:

Then you won't have no problem making

the adjustment. You need anything,

help of any kind, gimme a holler.

Name's Jangle Leg.

CLAUDE:

'Preciate it. Claude.

As they shake, Jangle Leg inspects Claude's hand thoroughly.

JANGLE LEG:

Soft and supple. Like a lady's.

CLAUDE:

(eyes narrowing)

I try to moisturize regularly.

HOPPIN' BOB

(over his shoulder)

Hey, Jangle Leg, what'd I tell you

about pitching woo on the job?

JANGLE LEG:

Sorry, Cap'n.

Claude snatches back his hand and gives Jangle Leg a hard

look.

HOPPIN' BOB

Break's over! Back to work!

As the men grab their tools and return to work, Claude leans

over to Ray.

CLAUDE:

Why do you think they call him Jangle

Leg?

RAY:

Somebody just told me he wins the

three-legged race every year.

CLAUDE:

So?

RAY:

He does it all by himself.

INT. MESS HALL -- DUSK

Wincing with each movement and covered in grime from the

day's labors, the new men bring up the back of the chow line.

COOKIE, the grub-slinger, slaps a large dollop of an

unidentifiable substance onto Ray's tray.

RAY:

What is that?

COOKIE:

Creamed chip beef on toast. Except

we're outta beef, so I had to

improvise.

RAY:

Can't I get one of those steaks you

got grilling back there?

COOKIE:

Those are for trusties, unless you

got thirty cents or two packs of

cigs.

Another prisoner lays down some tobacco and gets a juicy

steak. Ray grabs a hunk of corn bread and makes his way to

the back of the room. Claude steps up, holds out his tray

for Cookie.

CLAUDE:

Excuse me, I don't like it when the

food touches each other, so if you

could just --

(SPLAT!)

-- keep everything separate.

Disappointed, Claude turns to discover that the only seat

left is next to Ray. Scowling, he limps toward it.

Jangle Leg's eyes follow Claude as he approaches the table.

Biscuit smacks him.

BISCUIT:

Eyes front, mister!

Claude sits down and promptly goes to work scraping his burnt

toast with his knife. The irritating sound slowly brings the

entire room to dead silence. All eyes fall on Claude. Scratch,

scratch, scratch...

COOKIE:

(stepping up)

Problem with the toast?

CLAUDE:

It's fine now.

Cookie glowers and takes a seat.

RAY:

Stop aggravating people. Just eat

your food.

As the room returns to normal, Claude starts polishing his

fork with his shirttail. Irritated, Ray shoots him a look.

CLAUDE:

This fork is filthy.

RAY:

The fork is the least of your worries,

Claude.

Undeterred, Claude breathes on his fork and polishes it some

more. Disgusted, Ray pushes aside his plate.

RAY:

What's your name?

WILLIE:

Me? Willie Long.

RAY:

What are you in for, Willie?

WILLIE:

That's a long story...

RADIO:

When he was 13 years old he killed a

son-of-a-b*tch with a claw hammer.

WILLIE:

They never proved that.

CLAUDE:

What a second, you've been in here

since you were thirteen?

RAY:

What about you, Radio?

RADIO:

Armed robbery.

JANGLE LEG:

Damn liar. B*tch killed his sister

with an axe.

RADIO:

She was my half-sister. Sh*t, I ain't

the son-of-a-b*tch who poisoned my

own parents.

BISCUIT:

(protective)

They deserved it. Very strict.

POKER FACE:

What about you, Biscuit? You nearly

skinned your poor old landlady alive.

COOKIE:

At least he didn't kill Santa Claus

with his bare hands.

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