Morgan Freeman Monologues

Did I evre tell you about the first time I ever been outside the state of Georgia?

Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I sure do. And, don't you worry about a thing, Mr. Werthan! I'm gonna hold on no matter how she run me. You see, I used to rassle hogs down yonder in Macon, and, let me tell you, ain't no hog got away from me yet!

I had the air-conditioning checked. I don't know what for. You never allow me to turn it on.

Mornin', Miss Daisy. I think it's gettin' ready to clear up out there! Oh, 'scuse me, Mr. Werthan!

All right, sir. Just let me get outta my coat.

Oh, Miss Daisy, yesterday, while you was out visitin', I went and ate a can of your salmon. Now, I know you said eat the left-over pork chops, but they was kinda stiff. So, I stopped at the Piggly Wiggly and got you another can. You want me just to go on and put it in the cupboard?

Hello, Mr. Werthan? Yeah, it's me. Guess where I'm at? I jus' finished drivin' yo mama to da store.

Oh, yeah, she flap around some, but she's all right, she in da store. Oh, Lord, she jus' looked out da window an' seen me on da phone… prob'ly gonna throw a fit right there at da checkout!

You sho' right about that! Only took me six days. Same time it took the Lord to make the world! All right, 'bye now!

Now, Miss Daisy, the tickets for this here dinner came in the mail a month ago. Bein' that you wanted me to go wit' you, how come you wait till we in the car and on the way there before you ask me?

Oscar said you needin' somebody to drive for yo' family… now, what I'm 'on be doin'? Takin' your children to school, drivin' your wife to the beauty parlor?

Aw, that's a shame! Course, you still a young man, so I wouldn't worry 'bout it too much!

Yessir, she said, 'how they treatin' you down there, Hoke?' You know how she sound, like her nose stuffed up. So I said, 'fine, Mrs. Harris, just fine, thank you.' She said, 'Well, you lookin' for a change, you know who to call.'

Oh, no sir. Your mama's in my business enough as it is. I ain't studying about making no monthly car payments to her. She's mine the regular way.

Best that ever come off the line! And this here new one, if Miss Daisy don't quite take to it, I'll let her ride in this one from time to time!

Well, you know, we do what we can!

You see it a few times, you get in it!

Looka there... ain't she got a head full of hair? Wonder how she get it so shiny?

Go on away from here, Idella!

Thought you would've done that by now. You know why you haven't? Because you think this might be an irreparable mistake. Because deep inside you, you know it doesn't matter what the rules say. When the lights go out, and you ask yourself "is she better off here or better off there", you know the answer. And you always will. You... you could do a right thing here. A good thing. Men live their whole lives without getting this chance. You walk away from it, you may not regret it when you get home. You may not regret it for a year, but when you get to where I am, I promise you, you will. I'll be dead, you'll be old. But she... she'll be dragging around a couple of tattered, damaged children of her own, and you'll be the one who has to tell them you're sorry.

I did what I did for the sake of the child. All right. For me, too. But now, I'm asking you for the sake of the child. I'm begging you. You think about it.

My only child was murdered. She was twelve. Did you hear about it? What you probably didn't hear, and what I hope you never have to deal with, Miss Gennaro, is what that feels like. What I have to deal with. Knowing that my little girl likely died crying out for me to come and save her. And I never did. My little girl died afraid and alone in a shallow ditch bank by the side of the road, not ten minutes from my house. I know what it feels like to lose a child. Now damn it, you force my hand and then you question the way I handle it.

I honor my child with this division. So that no parent has to go through what I've known. This child. That's all I care about. I'm gonna bring her home.

A four year old child is on the street. It's seventy-six hours and counting. And the prospects for where she might be are beginning to look grim, you understand? Half of all the children in these cases are killed, flat out. If we don't catch the abductor by day one, only about ten percent are ever solved. This is day three. He may look young, but if he wants to work this case, he better not act it.

I know you, Mr. President. I know you and your Presidency as well as any man - and your father's. You were a child at his side when he helped invent America. And you, in turn, have devoted your life to refining that noble invention. There remains one task undone. One vital task the Founding Father's left to their sons...

…before their thirteen colonies could precisely be called United States. And that task, Sir, as you well know, is crushing slavery.

They were first detained by officers of a brig off Long Island. They were conveyed to New Haven - under what authority, I don't know - and given over to the local constabulary. About forty of them, including four or five children. The arraignment is day after tomorrow. I can only assume that the charge is murder.

What is true, Mr. Tappan - and believe me when I tell you that I have seen this - is that there are some men whose hatred of slavery is stronger than any, except for the slave himself.

I am embarrassed to admit that I was under the misconception that our Executive and Judicial Branches were separate.

The ship is Amistad. It's too small to be a trans-Atlantic slaver.

Not necessarily. At least, they certainly don't look it. From the glimpse I caught of them on their way to jail. They have these - scars.

Your record confirms you're an abolitionist, sir. Even if you won't.

Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole / I thanks whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul. / In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud / Under the bludgeonings of fate, my head is bloody, but unbowed. / Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms but the horror of the shade / and yet, the menace of the years finds, and shall find me, unafraid. / It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishment the scroll / I am the master of my fate - I am the captain of my soul.

Forgiveness liberates the soul. It removes fear. That is why it is such a powerful weapon.

The day I am afraid to do that is the day I am no longer fit to lead.

I thank whatever gods may be / For my unconquerable soul. / I am the master of my fate / I am the captain of my soul.

Brothers, sisters, comrades: I am here because I believe you have made a decision with insufficient information and foresight. I am aware of your earlier vote. I am aware that it was unanimous. Nonetheless, I believe we should restore the Springboks; restore their name, their emblem and their colors, immediately. Let me tell you why. On Robben Island, in Pollsmoor Prison, all of my jailers were Afrikaners. For 27 years, I studied them. I learned their language, read their books, their poetry. I had to know my enemy before I could prevail against him. And we DID prevail, did we not? All of us here... we prevailed. Our enemy is no longer the Afrikaner. They are our fellow South Africans, our partners in democracy. And they treasure Springbok rugby. If we take that away, we lose them. We prove that we are what they feared we would be. We have to be better than that. We have to surprise them with compassion, with restraint and generosity; I know, all of the things they denied us. But this is no time to celebrate petty revenge. This is the time to build our nation using every single brick available to us, even if that brick comes wrapped in green and gold. You elected me your leader. Let me lead you now.

Well, that is right. That is exactly right. But how do we get them to be better then they think they CAN be? That is very difficult, I find. Inspiration, perhaps. How do we inspire ourselves to greatness when nothing less will do? How do we inspire everyone around us? I sometimes think it is by using the work of others.

You criticize without understanding. You seek only to address your own personal feelings. That is selfish thinking, Zindzi. It does not serve the nation.

People don't realize that I played rugby myself when I was a student at Fort Hare. It is a very rough game, almost as rough as politics.

If I cannot change when circumstances demand it, how can I expect others to?

But I must. Because that minority still controls the police, the army, and the economy. If we lose them, we cannot address the other issues.

It is a HUMAN calculation. If we take away what they cherish; the Springboks, their national anthem, we just reinforce the cycle of fear between us.

We need inspiration Francois. Because in order to build our nation we must exceed our own expectations.

The Rainbow Nation starts here. Reconciliation starts here.

Good morning, how are you, thank you for coming at such short notice. I couldn't help noticing the empty offices as I came to work today. And all the packing boxes. Now, of course, if you want to leave, that is your right. And if you feel in your heart that you cannot work with your new government, then it is better that you do leave, right away. But if you are packing up because you fear that your language, or the color of your skin, or who you served previously, disqualifies you from working here now, I am here to tell you, have no such fear. Wat is verby is verby. What's past is past. We look to the future, now. We need your help. We want you help. If you would like to stay, you will be doing your country a great service. I ask only that you do your jobs to the best of your abilities, and with good hearts. I promise to do the same. If we can manage that, our country will be a shining light in the world.

I want all of you to take a good look at these people on the risers behind me. These people have been here roughly five years, and done absolutely nothing. These people are drug dealers and drug users. They have taken up space. They have disrupted this school. They have harassed your teachers. And they have intimidated you. Well, times are about to change. You will not be bothered in Joe Clark's school. These people are incorrigible. And since none of them could graduate anyway...

… you are all expurgated. You are dismissed! You are out of here, forever. I wish you well! Mr. Wright…

Next time, it may be you. If you do no better than they did, next time it WILL be you. They said this school was dead, like the cemetery it's built on. But we call our Eastside teams "Ghosts", don't we? And what are ghosts? Ghosts are spirits that rise from the dead. I want you to be my ghosts. You are going to lead our resurrection, by defying the expectation that all of us are doomed to failure. My motto is simple: If you do not succeed in life, I don't want you to blame your parents. I don't want you to blame the White Man. I want you to blame yourselves. The responsibility is yours! In two weeks we have a practice exam, and on April 13th we have the Minimum Basic Skills Test itself. That's 110 school days from now. But it's not just about those test scores. If you do not have these basic skills, you will find yourselves locked out. Locked out of that American Dream that you see advertised on TV, and that they tell you is so easy to get. You are here for one reason. One reason only: To learn. To work for what you believe in. The alternative is to waste your time, to fall into the trap of crime and drugs and death. Does everybody understand that? Do all of you understand me? Then welcome to the new Eastside High.

You think you run this school? If you could, then I wouldn't be here, would I? No one talks in my meetings. No one! You take out your pencils and write. I want the names of every hoodlum, drug dealer, and miscreant who's done nothing but take this place apart on my desk by noon today. Reverend Slappy?

You are now the Chief Custodian, Reverend Slappy. You will scour this building clean. Graffiti goes up, it's off the next day. Is that clear?

Detention students can help you. Let them scrub this place for a while. And tear down those cages in the cafeteria. You treat them like animals, that exactly how they'll behave.

This is my new Dean of Security, Mr. William Wright. He will my Avenging Angel, as you teachers reclaim the halls. This is an institution of learning, ladies and gentlemen. If you can't control it, how can you teach? Discipline is not the enemy of enthusiasm! Mr. Zirella?

Mr. Zirella, you are my new head football coach. Mr. Darnell? Stand up, Mr. Darnell.

Mr. Darnell will be your assistant. You know why you're being demoted, Mr. Darnell? Because I'm sick and tired of our football team getting push all over the field. Thank you, sit down!

I want precision. I want a weight program. And if you don't like it, Mr. Darnell, you can QUIT! Same goes for the rest of you. You've tried it your way for years, and 60% your students - excluding those with criminal records - 60% of them can't even pass the state's Minimum Basic Skills Test. THAT MEANS THEY CAN BARELY READ! They've given me one school year - less than 12 months - to turn this place around, to get those test scores up, so that the state will not take us over to perform the task which YOU have failed to do: TO EDUCATE OUR CHILDREN! Forget about the way it used to be. This is not a damn democracy! We are in a state of emergency and my word is law! There's only one boss around in this place. And that's me, the H.N.I.C. Are there any questions?

Now, let me tell you something: The trouble with being a teenager is you don't know nothing. The problem with teenagers is you THINK you're smarter than people who've already been down the road you're traveling. You know what I'm trying to say, boy?

DO YOU?

It kills your braincells, son! It kills your braincells! Now, when you're destroying your braincells, you're doing the same thing as killing yourself; you're just doing it slower! Now, I say if you wanna kill yourself, don't fuck around with it! Go on and do it EXPEDITIOUSLY! Now go on and jump! JUMP!

Alright, Sams, I'll tell ya what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna go back on my own word, just this once, and let you back into my school... 'cause you're still a baby and you don't know shit.

But you understand this, boy. You're not gonna get a moment's rest! I'm gonna be on your case every minute! You mess up just once and you're outta here! Now you understand me?

Mr. Major, on behalf of myself and on behalf the students of Eastside High, you can tell the State to go to hell!

All right, people, here we are. In one hour, you will take an exam administered by the State to test your basic skills... along with the quality of education at Eastside High. Before that, I want to tell you what many people are saying about you, and what they think about your chances. They say that you're inferior! That you are just a bunch of niggers and spics and poor white trash! That education is wasted on you! That you cannot learn! That you're lost, all of you! So I want all the white students to stand up. All of my white students, stand up! Come on, don't be shy. Stand up!

These are my white pupils; as you can see, they're the same as everybody else! They've got no other place to go. Otherwise, they'd have abandoned us a long time ago, just like everybody else did! So here they are at Eastside High, with the rest of us. You can sit down.

Are you getting my point, people? Am I getting through to you? Whether we sink or we swim, whether we rise or we fall, WE MEET OUR FATE TOGETHER!

Now, it took the help of a very good friend to make me know and understand that. And I do understand that, and I'm grateful. I'm eternally grateful... And now, I've got a message for all those people out there who've abandoned you and written you off! Can you hear me? Good! You are NOT INFERIOR! Your *grades* may be. Your *school* may have been. But you can turn that around, and make liars out of those bastards, in exactly one hour... by taking that test, and passing it! So, here's what I want you to do: Whenever you find your thoughts wandering - and don't say that's not gonna happen - I want you to KNUCKLE BACK DOWN! Remind yourselves what's at stake, and show what Eastside High is all about!

... I want all of you to take a good look at this slovenly, sloppy boy - as an example of how NOT to dress. If you look like THIS in the morning, find some other clothes to wear. Self-respect permeates every aspect of your existence. If you don't have respect for yourself, you're not gonna get it from anyone else.

... You ask, "How do we get the students in on Saturdays for remedial reading?" So I'll tell you how: We'll go to their homes. We'll talk to their folks. If their folks can't read - as some of them indeed cannot - then they can come in, too. The only way we're going to get anything done around here is to get everyone involved! That goes for all of you: it's time to GET INVOLVED! Everyone in this section, put both your hands above your heads. Raise your hands! PUT THEM UP!

You people represent the 70% of our students who just failed the practice exam. SEVEN OUT OF EVERY TEN STUDENTS! But that is not THEIR failure. I don't blame THEM. The problem is with YOURSELVES! How many hours do you spend preparing your lesson plans? How often do you stay after school to give your students, THE ONES YOU KNOW NEED IT, the extra help they require? Keep your hands up! Now you are getting a hint of the hopelessness and shame which makes those failing students throw up their hands at the thought of facing a world for which you have not prepared them. You now get the merest inkling of the despair they feel when left to the mercy of the streets. Keep your hands up high! Now, look around at yourselves. TURN AND LOOK AT YOURSELVES!

Because you are failing to educate them, this is the posture that too many of our students will wind up in. Only they'll be staring down the barrel of a gun!

... You'll be dead in a year, son. Hear what I'm saying? You'll be dead in a year!

And what are you? So full of hate you want to go out and fight everybody! Because you've been whipped and chased by hounds. Well that might not be living, but it sure as hell ain't dying. And dying's been what these white boys have been doing for going on three years now! Dying by the thousands! Dying for *you*, fool! I know, 'cause I dug the graves. And all this time I keep askin' myself, when, O Lord, when it's gonna be our time? Gonna come a time when we all gonna hafta ante up. Ante up and kick in like men. LIKE MEN! You watch who you call a nigger! If there's any niggers around here, it's YOU. Just a smart-mouthed, stupid-ass, swamp-runnin' nigger! And if you not careful, that's all you ever gonna be!

Lord, we stand before you this evening, to say thank you! And we thank you, father, for your grace, and your many blessings! Now I run off, leaving all my young'uns and my kinfolk, in bondage. So I'm standing here this evening, Heavenly Father, to ask your blessings on all of us. So that if tomorrow is the great getting-up morning, if that tomorrow we have to meet the Judgement Day, O Heavenly Father, we want you to let our folks know that we died facing the enemy! We want 'em to know that we went down standing up! Amongst those that are fighting against our oppression. We want 'em to know, Heavenly Father, that we died for freedom! We ask these blessings in Jesus' name. Amen!

Edward Perriman Cole died in May. It was a Sunday afternoon, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky…

Even now I cannot understand the measure of a life, but I can tell you this. I know that when he died, his eyes were closed and his heart was open. And I'm pretty sure he was happy with his final resting place, because he was buried on the mountain. And that was against the law.

Dear Edward, I've gone back and forth the last few days trying to decide whether or not I should even write this. In the end, I realized I would regret it if I didn't, so here it goes. I know the last time we saw each other, we weren't exactly hitting the sweetest notes-certain wasn't the way I wanted the trip to end. I suppose I'm responsible and for that, I'm sorry. But in all honestly, if I had the chance, I'd do it again. Virginia said I left a stranger and came back a husband; I owe that to you. There's no way I can repay you for all you've done for me, so rather than try, I'm just going to ask you to do something else for me-find the joy in your life. You once said you're not everyone. Well, that's true-you're certainly not everyone, but everyone is everyone. My pastor always says our lives are streams flowing into the same river towards whatever heaven lies in the mist beyond the falls. Find the joy in your life, Edward. My dear friend, close your eyes and let the waters take you home.

Edward Perryman Cole died in May. It was a Sunday in the afternoon and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. He was 81 years old. Even now, I can't claim to understand the measure of a life, but I can tell you this: I know that when he died, his eyes were closed and his heart was open, and I'm pretty sure he was happy with his final resting place because he was buried on the mountain, and that was against the law.

It is difficult to understand the sum of a person's life. Some people will tell you it's measured by the ones left behind. Some believe it can be measured in faith. Some say by love. Other folks say life has no meaning at all. I believe that you measure yourself by the people who measured themselves by you.

Don't say that. Maggie walked through that door with nothing buts guts. No chance in the world of being what she needed to be. It was because of you that she was fighting the championship of the world. You did that. People die everyday, Frankie - mopping floors, washing dishes and you know what their last thought is? I never got my shot. Because of you Maggie got her shot. If she dies today you know what her last thought would be? I think I did all right.

If there's magic in boxing, it's the magic of fighting battles beyond endurance, beyond cracked ribs, ruptured kidneys and detached retinas. It's the magic of risking everything for a dream that nobody sees but you.

Frankie likes to say that boxing is an unnatural act, that everything in boxing is backwards: sometimes the best way to deliver a punch is to step back... But step back too far and you ain't fighting at all.

The body knows what fighters don't: how to protect itself. A neck can only twist so far. Twist it just a hair more and the body says, "Hey, I'll take it from here because you obviously don't know what you're doing… Lie down now, rest, and we'll talk about this when you regain your senses." It's called the knockout mechanism.

Some people say the most important thing a fighter can have is heart. Frankie'd say: show me a fighter who was nothing but heart and I'll show you a man waiting for a beating.

Boxing is about respect. Getting it for yourself, and taking it away from the other guy.

To make a fighter you gotta strip them down to bare wood: you can't just tell 'em to forget everything you know if you gotta make 'em forget even their bones... make 'em so tired they only listen to you, only hear your voice, only do what you say and nothing else... show 'em how to keep their balance and take it away from the other guy... how to generate momentum off their right toe and how to flex your knees when you fire a jab... how to fight backin' up so that the other guy doesn't want to come after you. Then you gotta show 'em all over again. Over and over and over... till they think they're born that way.

She came from southwest Missoura, the hills outside the scratchy-ass Ozark town of Theodosia, set in the cedars and oak trees, somewhere between nowhere and goodbye.

No matter where he is, I thought you should know what kind of man your father really was.

All fighters are pig-headed some way or another: some part of them always thinks they know better than you about something. Truth is: even if they're wrong, even if that one thing is going to be the ruin of them, if you can beat that last bit out of them… they ain't fighters at all.

Boxing is an unnatural act. Cos everything in it is backwards. You wanna move to the left, you don't step left, you push on the right toe. To move right, you use your left toe. Instead of running from the pain - like a sane person would do, you step into it.

Only ever met one man I wouldn't wanna fight. When I met him he was already the best cut man in the business. Started training and managing in the sixties, but never lost his gift.

...but maybe he didn't have anything left in his heart. I just hope he found someplace where he could find a little peace. A place set in the cedars and oak trees. Somewhere between nowhere and goodbye. But that's probably wishful thinking.

Parting your soup is not a miracle, Bruce. It's a magic trick. A single mom who's working two jobs and still finds time to take her kid to soccer practice, that's a miracle. A teenager who says "no" to drugs and "yes" to an education, that's a miracle. People want me to do everything for them. But what they don't realize is THEY have the power. You want to see a miracle, son? Be the miracle.

"The gloves are off, God.", "God has taken my bird and my bush.", "God is a mean kid with a magnifying glass.", "Smite me, O Mighty Smiter." Now, I'm not much for blasphemy, but that last one made me laugh.

Heh, welcome to my world, son. If you come up with an answer to that one, let me know.

There are only 2 rules. You can't tell anybody you're God, believe me you don't want that kind of attention, and you can't mess with free will.

You always were funny, Bruce. Just like your father. He didn't mind rolling up his sleeves either, son. People underestimate the benefit of good old manual labor. There's freedom in it. Some of the happiest people in the world go home smelling to high heaven at the end of the day.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote, "The world is a fine place and worth fighting for." I agree with the second part.

If we catch John Doe and he turns out to be the devil, I mean if he's Satan himself, that might live up to our expectations, but he's not the devil. He's just a man.

I just don't think I can continue to live in a place that embraces and nurtures apathy as if it was virtue.

I didn't say I was different or better. I'm not. Hell, I sympathize; I sympathize completely. Apathy is the solution. I mean, it's easier to lose yourself in drugs than it is to cope with life. It's easier to steal what you want than it is to earn it. It's easier to beat a child than it is to raise it. Hell, love costs: it takes effort and work.

On the subway today, a man came up to me to start a conversation. He made small talk, a lonely man talking about the weather and other things. I tried to be pleasant and accommodating, but my head hurt from his banality. I almost didn't notice it had happened, but I suddenly threw up all over him. He was not pleased, and I couldn't stop laughing.

If John Doe's head splits open and a UFO should fly out, I want you to have expected it.

California, tell your people to stay away. Stay away now, don't - don't come in here. Whatever you hear, stay away! John Doe has the upper hand!

But you gotta be a, a hero. You want to be a champion. Well, let me tell you. People don't want a champion. They want to eat cheeseburgers, play the lotto and watch television.

Gentlemen, gentlemen... I'll never understand. All these books, a world of knowledge at your fingertips. What do you do? You play poker all night.

Andy Dufresne - who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side.

Sometimes it makes me sad, though… Andy being gone. I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up DOES rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.

There's not a day goes by I don't feel regret. Not because I'm in here, because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then: a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime. I want to talk to him. I want to try to talk some sense to him, tell him the way things are. But I can't. That kid's long gone, and this old man is all that's left. I got to live with that. Rehabilitated? It's just a bullshit word. So you go on and stamp your form, sonny, and stop wasting my time. Because to tell you the truth, I don't give a shit.

I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can't be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free.

I find I'm so excited, I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it's the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.

I'd like to think that the last thing that went through his head, other than that bullet, was to wonder how the hell Andy Dufresne ever got the best of him.

In 1966, Andy Dufresne escaped from Shawshank prison. All they found of him was a muddy set of prison clothes, a bar of soap, and an old rock hammer, damn near worn down to the nub. I remember thinking it would take a man six hundred years to tunnel through the wall with it. Old Andy did it in less than twenty. Oh, Andy loved geology. I imagine it appealed to his meticulous nature. An ice age here, million years of mountain building there. Geology is the study of pressure and time. That's all it takes really, pressure, and time. That, and a big goddamn poster. Like I said, in prison a man will do most anything to keep his mind occupied. Turns out Andy's favorite hobby was totin' his wall out into the exercise yard, a handful at a time. I guess after Tommy was killed, Andy decided he'd been here just about long enough. Andy did like he was told, buffed those shoes to a high mirror shine. The guards simply didn't notice. Neither did I… I mean, seriously, how often do you really look at a mans shoes? Andy crawled to freedom through five hundred yards of shit smelling foulness I can't even imagine, or maybe I just don't want to. Five hundred yards… that's the length of five football fields, just shy of half a mile.

The first night's the toughest, no doubt about it. They march you in naked as the day you were born, skin burning and half blind from that delousing shit they throw on you, and when they put you in that cell… and those bars slam home… that's when you know it's for real. A whole life blown away in the blink of an eye. Nothing left but all the time in the world to think about it.

We sat and drank with the sun on our shoulders and felt like free men. Hell, we could have been tarring the roof of one of our own houses. We were the lords of all creation. As for Andy - he spent that break hunkered in the shade, a strange little smile on his face, watching us drink his beer.

Not long after the warden deprived us of his company, I got a postcard in the mail. It was blank, but the postmark said Fort Hancock, Texas. Fort Hancock… right on the border. That's where Andy crossed. When I picture him heading south in his own car with the top down, it always makes me laugh. Andy Dufresne… who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side. Andy Dufresne… headed for the Pacific.

There's a harsh truth to face. No way I'm gonna make it on the outside. All I do anymore is think of ways to break my parole, so maybe they'd send me back. Terrible thing, to live in fear. Brooks Hatlen knew it. Knew it all too well. All I want is to be back where things make sense. Where I won't have to be afraid all the time. Only one thing stops me. A promise I made to Andy.

I could see why some of the boys took him for snobby. He had a quiet way about him, a walk and a talk that just wasn't normal around here. He strolled, like a man in a park without a care or a worry in the world, like he had on an invisible coat that would shield him from this place. Yeah, I think it would be fair to say... I liked Andy from the start.

I must admit I didn't think much of Andy first time I laid eyes on him; looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over. That was my first impression of the man.

Two things never happened again after that. The Sisters never laid a finger on Andy again... and Bogs never walked again. They transferred him to a minimum security hospital upstate. To my knowledge, he lived out the rest of his days drinking his food through a straw.

Tommy Williams came to Shawshank in 1965 on a two-year stretch for B&E. That's breaking & entering to you. Cops caught him sneaking TV sets out the back door of a JC Penney. Young punk. Mr. Rock and Roll. Cocky as hell.

There must be a con like me in every prison in America. I'm the guy who can get if for you; cigarettes, a bag of reefer, if that's your thing, a bottle of brandy to celebrate your kid's high school graduation, damn near anything within reason. Yes sir, I'm a regular Sears and Roebuck.

You could argue he'd done it to curry favor with the guards. Or, maybe make a few friends among us cons. Me, I think he did it just to feel normal again, if only for a short while.

The following April Andy did tax returns for half the guards at Shawshank. Year after that he did them all including the warden's. Year after that they rescheduled the start of the intra-mural season to coincide with tax season. The guards on the opposing teams all remembered to bring their W2s.

I wish I could tell you that Andy fought the good fight, and the Sisters let him be. I wish I could tell you that - but prison is no fairy-tale world. He never said who did it, but we all knew. Things went on like that for awhile - prison life consists of routine, and then more routine. Every so often, Andy would show up with fresh bruises. The Sisters kept at him - sometimes he was able to fight 'em off, sometimes not. And that's how it went for Andy - that was his routine. I do believe those first two years were the worst for him, and I also believe that if things had gone on that way, this place would have got the best of him.

And that's how it came to pass that on the second-to-last day of the job, the convict crew that tarred the plate factory roof in the spring of forty-nine wound up sitting in a row at ten o'clock in the morning drinking icy cold, Bohemia-style beer, courtesy of the hardest screw that ever walked a turn at Shawshank State Prison.