In May of 1950, the powers that be decided that the roof of the licence-plate factory ought to be resurfaced with roofing tar. They wanted it done before it got too hot up there, and they sued for volunteers for the work, which was planned to take about a week. More than seventy men spoke up, because it was outside work and May is one damn fine month for outside work. Nine or ten names were drawn out of a hat, and two of them happened to be Andy's and my own.
For the next week we'd be marched out to the exercise yard after breakfast, with two guards up front and two more behind ... plus all the guards in the towers keeping a weather eye on the proceedings through their field-glasses for good measure.
Four of us would be carrying a big extension ladder on those morning marches -I always got a kick out of the way Dickie Betts, who was on that job, called that sort of  ladder an extensible - and we'd put it up against the side of that low, lit building. Then we'd start bucket-brigading hot buckets of tar up to the roof. Spill that shit on you and you'd jitterbug all the way to the infirmary.
There were six guards on the project, all of them picked on the basis of seniority. It was almost as good as a week's vacation, because instead of sweating it out in the laundry or the plate-shop or standing over a bunch of cons cutting pulp or brush somewhere out in the willy wags, they were having a regular May holiday in the sun, just sitting there with their backs up against the low parapet, shooting the bull back and forth.
They didn't even have to keep more than half an eye on us, because the south wall sentry post was close enough so that the fellows up there could have spit their chews on us, if they’d wanted to. If anyone on the roof-sealing party had made one funny move, it would take four seconds to cut him smack in two with .45 caliber machine-gun bullets. So those screws just sat there and took their ease. All they needed was a couple of six-packs buried in crushed ice, and they would have been the lords of  all creation.
One of them was a fellow named Byron Hadley, and in that year of 1950, he'd been at Shawshank longer than I had. Longer than the last two wardens put together, as a matter of fact. The fellow running the show in 1950 was a prissy-looking downcast Yankee named George Dunahy. He had a degree in penal administration. No one liked him, as far as I could tell, except the people who had gotten him his appointment. I heard that he wasn't interested in anything but compiling statistics for a book (which was later published by a small New England outfit called Light Side Press, where he probably had to pay to have it done), who won the intramural baseball championship each September, and getting a death-penalty law passed in Maine. A regular bear for the death-penalty was George Dunahy. He was fired off the job in 1953, when it came out he was running a discount auto repair service down in the prison garage and splitting the profits with Byron Hadley and Greg Stammas. Hadley and Stammas came out of that one okay - they were old hands at keeping their asses covered - but Dunahy took a walk. No one was sorry to see him go, but nobody was exactly pleased to see Greg Stammas step into his shoes, either. He was a short man with a tight, hard gut and the coldest brown eyes you ever saw. He always had a painful, pursed little grin on his face, as if he had to go to the bathroom and couldn't quite manage it. During Stammas's tenure as warden there was a lot of brutality at Shawshank, and although I have no proof, I believe there were maybe half a dozen moonlight burials in the stand of scrub forest that lies east of the prison. Dunahy was bad, but Greg Stammas was a cruel, wretched, cold-hearted man.
He and Byron Hadley were good friends. As warden, George Dunahy was nothing but a posturing figurehead; it was Stammas, and through him, Hadley, who actually administered the prison.
Hadley was a tail, shambling man with thinning red hair. He sunburned easily and he talked loud and if you didn't move fast enough to suit him, he'd clout you with his stick. On that day, our third on the roof, he was talking to another guard named Mert Entwhistle.
Hadley had gotten some amazingly good news, so he was griping about it. That was his style - he was a thankless man with not a good word for anyone, a man who was convinced that the whole world was against him. The world had cheated him out of the best years of his life, and the world would be more than happy to cheat him out of the rest. I have seen some screws that I thought were almost saintly, and I think I know why that happens - they are able to see the difference between their own lives, poor and struggling as they might be, and the lives of the men they are paid by the state to watch over. These guards are able to formulate a comparison concerning pain. Others can't, or won't.
For Byron Hadley there was no basis of comparison. He could sit there, cool and at his ease under the warm May sun and find the gall to mourn his own good luck while less than ten feet away a bunch of men were working and sweating and burning their hands on great big buckets filled with bubbling tar, men who had to work so hard in their ordinary round of days that this looked like a respite. You may remember the old question, the one that's supposed to define your outlook on life when you answer it. For Byron Hadley the answer would always be half empty, the glass is half empty. Forever and ever, amen. If you gave him a cool drink of apple cider, he'd think about vinegar. If you told him his wife had always been faithful to him, he'd tell you it was because she was so damn ugly.
So there he sat, talking to Mert Entwhistle loud enough for all of us to hear, his broad white forehead already starting to redden with the sun. He had one hand thrown back over the low parapet surrounding the roof. The other was on the butt of his .38.
We all got the story along with Mert. It seemed that Hadley's older brother had gone off to Texas some fourteen years ago and the rest of the family hadn't heard from the son of a bitch since. They had all assumed he was dead, and good riddance. Then, a week and a half ago, a lawyer had called them long-distance from Austin. It seemed that Hadley's brother had died four months ago, and a rich man at that ('It's frigging incredible how lucky some assholes can get,' this paragon of gratitude on the plate-shop roof said). The money had come as a result of oil and oil-leases, and there was close to a million dollars.
No, Hadley wasn't a millionaire - that might have made even him happy, at least for a while - but the brother had left a pretty damned decent bequest of thirty-five thousand dollars to each surviving member of his family back in Maine, if they could be found. Not bad. Like getting lucky and winning a sweepstakes.

　　一九五〇年五月，上面决定要翻修监狱车牌工厂的屋顶。他们打算在天气还没有太热时做完，征求自愿去做这份工作的人，整个工程预计要做一个星期。有七十多个人愿意去，因为可以借机到户外透透气，而且五月正是适合户外工作的宜人季节。上面以抽签方式选了九或十个人，其中两个正好是安迪和我。
　　接下来那个星期，每天早饭后，警卫两个在前，两个在后，押着我们浩浩荡荡穿过运动场，瞭望塔上所有的警卫都用望远镜远远监视着我们。
　　早晨行进的时候，我们之中有四个人负责拿梯子，把梯子架在平顶建筑物旁边，然后开始以人龙把一桶桶热腾腾的沥青传到屋顶上，只要泼一点那玩意儿在你身上，你就得一路狂跳着去医务室找医生。
　　有六个警卫监督我们，全是老经验的警卫。对他们而言，那个星期简直像度假一样，比起在洗衣房或打造车牌的工厂中汗如雨下，又或者是站着看管一群囚犯做工扫地，他们现在正在阳光下享受正常人的五月假期，坐在那儿，背靠着栏杆，大摆龙门阵。
　　他们甚至只需要用半只眼睛盯着我们就行了，因为南面墙上的警卫岗哨离我们很近，近到那些警卫甚至可以把口水吐到我们身上，如果他们要这么做的话。要是有哪个在屋顶上工作的囚犯敢轻举妄动，只消四秒钟，就会被点四五口径的机关枪扫成马蜂窝，所以那些警卫都很悠闲地坐在那里；如果还有几罐埋在碎冰里的啤酒可以喝，就简直是快活似神仙了。
　　其中有个警卫名叫拜伦·哈力，他在肖申克的时间比我还长，事实上，比此前两任典狱长加起来的任期还长。一九五〇年的时候，典狱长是个叫乔治·邓纳海的北方佬，他拿了个狱政学的学位。就我所知，除了任命他的那些人之外，没有人喜欢他。我听说他只对三件事有兴趣：第一是收集统计资料来编他的书（这本书后来由一家叫“粉轻松”的小出版社出版，很可能是他自费出版的），其次是关心每年九月哪个球队赢得监狱棒球联谊赛冠军，第三是推动缅因州通过死刑法。他在一九五三年被革职了，因为他在监狱的汽车修理厂中经营地下修车服务，并且和哈力以及史特马分红。哈力和史特马因为经验老到，知道如何不留把柄，但邓纳海便得走路。没有人因为邓纳海走路而感到难过，但也没有人真的高兴看见史特马坐上他的位子。史特马五短身材，一双冷冰冰的棕色眼睛，脸上永远带着一种痛苦的微笑，就好像他已经憋不住了、非上厕所不可、却又拉不出来的表情。在史特马任期内，肖申克酷刑不断，虽然我没有确切的证据，不过我相信监狱东边的灌木林中，可能发生过五、六次月夜中掩埋尸体的事情。邓纳海不是好人，但史特马更是个残忍冷血的卑鄙小人。
　　史特马和哈力是好朋友。邓纳海当典狱长的时候，不过是个装腔作势的傀儡，真正在管事的人是史特马和哈力。
　　哈力是高个子，走起路来摇摇晃晃，有一头稀疏的红发。他很容易晒得红彤彤的，喜欢大呼小叫。如果你的动作配合不上他要求的速度，他会用棍子猛敲你。在我们修屋顶的第三天，他在和另一个名叫麦德·安惠的警卫聊天。
　　哈力听到了一个天大的好消息，所以正在那儿发牢骚。这是哈力的典型作风，他是个不知感恩的人，对任何人从来没有一句好话，认定全世界都跟他作对：这个世界骗走了他一生中的黄金岁月，而且会把他下半辈子也榨干。我见过一些几乎像圣人般品德高尚的狱卒，我知道他们为什么如此——他们明白自己的生活虽然贫困艰难，却仍然比州政府付钱请他们看守的这群囚犯好得多。这些狱卒能够把痛苦做个比较，其他人却不能，也不会这么做。
　　对哈力而言，没什么好比较的。他可以在五月温暖的阳光下悠闲地坐在那儿，慨叹自己的好运，而无视于不到十英尺外，一些人正在挥汗工作，一桶桶滚烫的沥青几乎要灼伤他们的双手，但是对于平日需要辛苦工作的人而言，这份工作已经等于在休息了。或许你还记得大家常问的那个“半杯水”老问题，你的答案正反映了你的人生观。像哈力这种人，他的答案绝对是：有一半是空的，装了水的玻璃杯永远有一半是空的。如果你给他一杯冰凉的苹果汁，他会想要一杯醋。如果你告诉他，他的老婆总是对他忠贞不贰，他会说，那是因为她像无盐嫫母一样丑。
　　于是，他就坐在那儿和麦德聊天，声音大得我们所有人都听得到，宽大的前额已经开始晒得发红。他一只手扶在屋顶四周的矮栏杆上，另一只手按在点三八口径手枪的枪柄上。
　　我们都听到他的事了。事情是这样的，哈力的大哥在十四年前到德州去，自此音讯全无，全家人都以为他已经死了，真是一大解脱。一星期前，有个律师从奥斯汀打长途电话来，他老兄四个月前过世了，留下了差不多一百万美元的遗产，他是搞石油生意发的财。“真难以置信有些笨瓜有多走运。”这个该死没良心的家伙站在工厂屋顶上说。
　　不过，哈力并未成为百万富翁——如果真的成了百万富翁，即使是哈力这种人，可能都会感到很快乐，至少会快乐一阵子——他哥哥留给缅因州老家每个还活在世上的家人每人三万五千美元，真不赖，跟中了彩券一样。