Colson Whitehead - John Henry Days

J. doesn’t have an opinion either way. While accustomed to thinking of four varieties of Bob, his work will not change if Bob’s Alive! is ratified and passed by the body of junketeers. He will weather the rough seas of the polemic. Puff is puff; it is puff. Observing the debate from the sidelines, he will wait for the smoke to clear, and continue to perform his function as he has for many years now. J. saws off a corner of prime rib and sticks it in his mouth. One piece left. He decides to finish off the limp broccoli and save the final bit of beef for the end.

Tiny rails against Bob’s Alive! “I was against Bob Is Hip, too,” he reminds them with a snarl. “I never thought we should have gone that way. It’s too diffuse — this is a prime example.”

“I remember your whining,” Frenchie recalls.

“And now you want to go and bring in this Bob’s Alive! thing. Is Talcott Alive?”

“I said New South,” Dave corrects. “That’s a trend piece. I can bring in improved race relations. It’s Bob’s Hip. Talcott is hip, they have a black hero. I can bring in Atlanta. I can bring in lots of stuff. Houston — Houston is hot now, it’s attracting a lot of diversity.”

“I’d go for Debut personally,” Frenchie says.

“Debut?” Dave asks. “John Henry has been around for years, this town is a physical thing that has a history. I don’t personally care to know what that history is, but it surely exists. I think trend is perfectly appropriate.”

“See what I’m talking about?” Tiny thunders, spraying droplets of a substance from his beard like a dog shaking off rain. “You could make a case for Talcott as Debut, Comeback or Return or Hip. It’s all jumbled up now. I’m accustomed to four varieties of puff and I like it like that. Four elements, four humors, four seasons, four varieties of puff. Otherwise why have categories at all? Why not make everything a category. A puff for every little thing.”

“We already have that,” One Eye interjects. “We call them magazines.” One Eye has been quiet all night, and after his comment he looks back down at his food and prods corn. J. asks him if anything is wrong.

“Just thinking is all,” One Eye says.

“Thinking about your secret mission?”

“What?”

“You said in the van. A mission that could change the course of human events.”

One Eye’s one eye narrows. He had forgotten he mentioned it. Dave, Tiny and Frenchie continue their argument. One Eye leans over to J. and whispers, “I’m taking my name off the List. Permanently.”

“You renounce Satan and all his works? How do you intend to do that?”

“I have been plotting and planning, my friend, plotting and planning.” His face illegible. “I’ve had this event circled in my filofax for some time now.”

Before he can question One Eye further, J. sees Arlene go up to the podium. The musical entertainment. The red light beckons. Deciding he better get seconds on the prime rib before they close the food down, he throws his napkin on the seat and hustles. No hick is going to gyp him of his bounty. He removes himself and scurries over to the red light. One Eye looks disappointed, but J. figures he can pick up the conversation later. Arlene describes the singing prowess of one of the sons of Talcott, a boy who will go on to great things. This time J. doesn’t take any vegetables. He asks for five proud slabs of prime rib. A young man departs one of the tables near the podium, a burly teenager with a soft balloon face. His baby fat has never gone away; it has chased the teenager’s growth inch for inch, keeping in step, swelling proportionally. At the boy’s table are an older man and woman — his mother and father, J. gathers. He hadn’t noticed them before. That makes five black folks in the room. Who says integration can’t work, he asks himself.

J. returns to the table, plate before him, the raja’s rubies on a velvet bed. Dave and the others are watching the boy get himself together at the podium. He wears a black church suit and a brazen red tie clenched by a clumsy fat knot. His eyes and mouth, tiny things, disappear into his soft face like the buttons of a plush couch. The boy looks a little nervous, but then he starts to sing, and from the depths of him rouses a gorgeous baritone — it reels from the amplifiers like a flock of dazzling birds. The boy sings the “Ballad of John Henry.” The boy sings,

John Henry was just a baby,

When he fell on his mammy’s knee;

He picked up a hammer and a little piece of steel,

Said, “This hammer will be the death of me, Lord, Lord,

This hammer will be the death of me.”

John Henry was a very small boy

Sitting on his father’s knee,

Said, “The Big Bend Tunnel on the C&O road

Is gonna be the death of me, Lord, Lord,

Is gonna be the death of me.”

John Henry went upon a mountain

And came down on the side;

The mountain was so tall, John Henry was so small,

That he laid down his hammer and he cried, “Lord, Lord,”

That he laid down his hammer and he cried.

The rude talk that pestered the earlier speakers disperses. Lord, Lord: He hacks at primal truth and splinters off words and the men and women ache. Enraptured, all of them, openmouthed in beatitude and slack in delight at the nimble phrasings of the boy. Except for J. J. attacks the prime rib. He has not had his fill. He cuts off a piece ringed by a crust of blackened fat and sticks it in his mouth. It is a big piece, a hearty plug of meat, he doesn’t know what time he’ll eat tomorrow and he needs the meat. He rends tendrils of meat with his teeth, repositions them with his tongue, rends them further. He swallows quickly, another piece already impaled on his merciless tines, and the plug catches in his throat. He can’t breathe.

The boy sings,

John Henry told his captain,

“Captain go to town

And bring me back two twenty-pound hammers,

And I’ll sure beat your steam drill down. Lord, Lord,

And I’ll sure beat your steam drill down.”

John Henry told his people,

“You know that I’m a man.

I can beat all the traps that have ever been made,

Or I’ll die with my hammer in my hand, Lord, Lord,

Or I’ll die with my hammer in my hand.”

The steam drill set on the right-hand side,

John Henry was on the left.

He said, “I will beat that steam drill down

Or hammer my fool self to death, Lord, Lord,

Or hammer my fool self to death.”

It won’t go down. He tries to swallow again but the plug will not oblige him. It is a stern and vengeful plug of meat. He tries to swallow again, panic trebling. Surely he isn’t choking. It won’t go down. He’s going to die on a junket? This is some far-out shit, this is a fucking ironic way to go. Is he using ironic incorrectly? The copy editors are going to kill him. They are really cracking down on the misuse of the word ironic, it’s like this global cabal of comma checkers and run-on sentences and fragments. Roaring in his ears. Why won’t it go down? He finds it inconceivable that no one knows what is going on with him. They are looking at the boy and listening to his words. He has a problem asking for help. He does not want to look weak. And it might not be an emergency. Surely it will pass. The meat is just fucking with him. He could jump up, slam the table, knock over their free drinks, that would get their attention. But he’s sitting there choking, quietly choking. Is this his pattern? That sounds like a diagnosis. And if he can self-diagnose, he can self-medicate. He has practice in that area. But you can’t do that when your throat is stopped. Seduced by a red illumination. Bang, whimper, what the fuck. The boy sings,