Colson Whitehead - John Henry Days

J.

Shut up, he’s at the door.

(sotto voce, to himself, glum tones)

And I felt so good when I got up this morning.

Excerpts from Hamms Stamp Gossip, “The Year in Review.”

Lick ’em if you got ’em, folks! It’s that time of year again when Good Old Hamm the Stamp Man looks back on the last twelve months, takes out the tongs and says, was 1996 Fine or Very Fine? Well, the experts all agree—1996 was darn Near Mint! I don’t know about you, my philatelic friends, but I’m still trying to catch my breath over the totally fab new record set when the Sweden Three Skilling color error went up for auction. Can anyone say 2.2 million dollars? That’s the kind of moolah that says, this ain’t no self-adhesive duck stamp you’re talking about here. It was the proverbial “shot heard around the world” of stamp collecting! Certainly the high mark (or should I say watermark?) in a year when many rare stamps traded hands at record prices. Hey, anyone out there have 2.2 million they can lend me? I’m good for it!

Frolicking Philately! Did the USPS go crazy this year or what? What’s Marvin Runyon smoking over there — old cut squares? Just kidding, Marv! But he sure has kept us all busy — this year the post office issued 89 commemorative stamps, 22 definitives, 13 special stamps and 1 Priority Mail issue. How’s a guy supposed to keep up with that? The most popular issue turned out to be (drum roll, please!) the James Dean commemorative. This will be no surprise to the lovely ladies of stampdom, who have been cooing over this particular issue since the day it was first announced (you know who you are!). Just another example of the genius behind the Postal Service’s new “open” selection process. Guess James Dean is a “Rebel with a Cause”—to celebrate!

And what about Stampgate? The world of collectors is still reeling over the so-called “Nixon Error,” in which 160 stamps of the RichardNixon issue were discovered with the red intaglio printing of the former President’s name upside down. Oops! When the stamps in question were later revealed to be just printer’s waste, Tricky Dick had to admit, “I am not a genuine error.” I’m still a McGovern man myself.

But it wasn’t all fun and games. There has been some speculation that the sad events of July 14 in the town of Hinton, West Virginia, at the unveiling of the John Henry stamp, may affect the price of the issue. Everyone knows a stamp with “a story” tends to bring out the worst traits in the philatelic community, but you’ve heard me go on about “the ghouls” before, so I’ll spare the sermon. In the end, only time will tell if the morbid history of General Issue 3083–3086 inflates the value of the John Henry stamp by itself, or the entire Folk Heroes set.

Adventure as she steps on the bridge. Sneaking out of the potluck dinner of the left bank, those tenacious houses a spyglass away from the main settlement, the grub and gasoline and trinket salesmen who drum their fingers waiting for tourists, that varied fare. Across the riveted threshold of the bridge is the banquet of civilization, she can see it, the town of Hinton, laid out before her. The bridge is a couple a hundred yards of concrete fast over impelled water. She looks over the guardrail and below. Looks around for witnesses, spits, sees her water dwindle and disappear before it joins that other water. She is stationary over things running away.

Quaint is always the word. Up a ways she sees the American spiral of a barbershop pole. The first building to greet her as she crosses the street is the First Baptist Church and she sees the sign: Temple Street. None of the buildings are over five or six stories — why push your luck when you’ve already chosen godforsaken land. There are a few level blocks of stores and other establishments before the town eases up the mountain and becomes residences until incline disallows. She doesn’t see any cigarette butts on the sidewalk or gutters, notes this, fingers her pack. The streets are busy. The few traffic lights earn their keep, herd. Toddlers extend chubby fingers to parental assurance and at intersections the young are kept from cars. Dawdlers point into shops and all shops are open and she can sense that this activity is unusual. The town bristles with the promise of John Henry Days.

She looks at her map as others do, just another tourist, unfolding and squinting, fixing what she sees in the sunlight into what the Chamber of Commerce says. It turns out she is right in front of where she has been told to go.

The sign says closed but the doors of the bank swing wide on stiff hinges. Where’s the bulletproof glass? It looks like an outlaw’s easy score, a still life of trust. Only wooden slats keep the patrons from the tellers, wide enough to stick a hand through. She can’t help it. Pamela is no thief but the vigilance and paranoia bred into her from generations of city dwelling often produce this inverse appreciation of opportunities; years of keeping her purse close by, her bags locked between her feet on the subway, have opened her eyes to the unattended.

“You must be Miss Street,” a voice declares. Padding up the marble comes a thin old white lady in a John Henry T-shirt and khaki shorts, sunglasses dangling on her bosom. “I’m Janet,” she says, extending a browned arm. “Jack will be out in a jiff. We’re just going crazy around here today.”

Janet leads her to one of the desks at the back of the bank, and Pamela sits in the customer’s seat like she has to beg them not to foreclose. Janet departs behind teller windows and says hurriedly, in tailgating syllables, “We’re just going crazy around here today, I’m like a chicken with its head cut off.”

Pamela doesn’t see an ashtray.

She wonders if she is early. She checks her watch against the slim black hands of the clock on the wall, finds they are in concordance. If you can’t trust the clock of a bank.

The plaque says President. The door opens inward, releasing the dull letters to the sunlight inside the office until they blaze and burn off. “I’ll be down there soon,” goes the mayor’s voice as he comes into view, in light blue pants and short-sleeved oxford shirt, striped blue tie, holding the door open for his visitor, a chubby man dressed in a pinching railroad engineer’s overalls, “just some things to take care of.” Cliff smiles at Pamela and says, “You’re here.”

The man in the overalls, obviously not a real engineer even in Pamela’s citified eyes, lifts his cap to her as he passes, summoning a fan of brown hair from the back of his scalp.

Cliff makes a quick call after he directs Pamela to a brown leather chair, “just a sec.” Lyndon B. Johnson’s hangdog visage pulls her eyes to a wall of pictures in Cliff’s office. Next to Lyndon is a photograph containing evanescent grays that fade into white mist as they near the frame. The caption tells her it is the C&O passenger station, Hinton, ca. 1900; six men in dark coats loiter and pose beneath the canopy of the plank building. Cliff says, “Tell them we’re not going to pay for it if it doesn’t get here by three.” Pamela’s eyes drop to a picture of an old locomotive, a C&O track gang, the C&O cafeteria. “What do you mean only two gross?” Mayor Cliff and his wife probably, his son probably, on a white porch, Cliff holding up a certificate she can’t read. His son in a football uniform, arm flexed Charles Atlas style. Mayor Cliff and his wife, and his son in a wheelchair, the porch now equipped with a ramp. “Thanks for coming down,” Cliff says to Pamela.

“This is a nice town. It’s nice to get out of the city.”

“I was up in New York City just recently. Heckuva time, me and the wife. Greatest city in the world. But there’s no way I could live there, if you pardon me.”