Colson Whitehead - John Henry Days

J., long time no see, it’s Jane Almond from Hotshot Media calling you again about that event at Haze on Tuesday, it’s for that new paperweight Sharp is launching. I’m going to put you on the list plus-one, but you should get there early because I know a lot of people are coming. Love ya!

He checks the digital clock, faithful ally through an infinity of hotel rooms, and reads on. “While it was hazardous work, the C&O utilized all the best safety procedures of the day to provide the healthiest working conditions for its men.”

J., it’s Mark. Someone on the business side put a red flag on some of your reimbursements for the L.A. trip. Got it right here on my desk, see you put down lunch one column, but then the receipt you put in there lists three margaritas. You know if it was up to me, but they’re really cracking down on that sort of thing here since we got bought, so.

He skips ahead. “Those who say that John Henry is a mere legend will risk the ire of local residents. Many of the older residents recall being told the story of the great competition by grandparents or uncles who were employees on the C&O and witnessed the race with their own eyes.” Lucky he didn’t get beat up in that diner this morning.

J. — good news. This is Victor. We’re finally going to run that luxury doorknob piece it looks like. Turns out we have some space in the section because one of our writers went AWOL. I know it’s been a while but do you have any factchecking material you can send me on that? I hope this is still the right number.

“The foreman and the drill salesman ran to get the results of the race. By the time the referee fired his shot signaling the end of the competition, John Henry had drilled a total of fourteen feet. The poor steam drill, however, had only drilled nine feet. John Henry had triumphed over the nefarious machine!”

Hey, J. — hey, that rhymes. Umm it’s Evelyn and I’m going to send out that kill fee today, but I don’t think I said it was for the whole thing. If you look at the contract, it’s a twenty-five percent kill fee for things now ever since we got that new editor in chief. Sorry about that. Gimme a call.

He realizes that he hadn’t thought of the record for whole hours, not until he got back into his room. Seeing the room, being back in the room reminded him that he was only a temporary guest here. He is one in a series of people who are given the key and this is only one in an uninterrupted series of assignments. Best to keep thinking of it as such, not expect too much from whatever kinds of encounters he has with Pamela, and plan for next week’s streak of junketeering.

This is Gene in factchecking again. Just… give me a call when you get in.

“Some say that the great steeldriver was laid to rest with his beloved hammer in the fill near the eastern portal of the tunnel. There are others who insist that John Henry sleeps on top of Big Bend mountain, where a log church once stood. But if you ask the old-timers of the area, they’ll tell you that the bones of the legendary hero lie in the old Negro cemetery that still stands in the northern slope.”

Hey, it’s Jane from Hotshot. I can’t remember if I called you back about that paperweight thing, but it’s still on for Tuesday and you’re plus-one. Love ya!

He sees himself holding cotton candy at the festival and telling Pamela, “You know, there’s no doubt that the great John Henry lies on the northern slope. At the old Negro cemetery, you know the one,” dispensing this like some metropolitan cocktail party tidbit. He’ll probably get some ribbing from the others if he’s hanging there talking to Pamela with his nose all open. One Eye will say something. Best to avoid his friend for now. Immediately following their escapade, when they were safe in the parking lot, once they were out of the bathtub, his monocular comrade tried to enlist him in the next mission: to break into Lucien’s room and hit the master. He smelled the asphalt bake as One Eye cried, “It’s Lucien that bastard! I knew it was him. We go in there, we’ll just take our names off, click click, that’ll show ’em.”

“It’s one thing if you want to know who runs the List. Fine,” J. said. “It’s an elegant idea in its way, a machine to keep the media-saturated society up and running. Deserves a patent, or at least a franchise agreement so that other cities can get in on the action. Now you know who thought it up. Here’s a lollipop. But it’s one, stupid to try that trick again and think you won’t get caught and two, if you don’t want to go to events just don’t go. No one is forcing you. There’s no gun at your back. Lucien walks in and pals or no pals he’ll probably call the cops to teach you a lesson.” Thinking, these white boys think they can do anything mighty-whitey style. Like there are no consequences.

“I’m talking symbolism here. Symbolism is important. Many important events in human history have happened because of symbolism. You got your Boston Tea Party, dump the shit in the harbor, love that dirty water, you got all kinds of shit, giving blankets full of smallpox to the Indians. Our country is built on symbolism. Look, answer me a question. Why are you going for the record?”

“How are smallpox blankets symbolic?”

“Of contempt, contempt. We come in peace and we try to kill ’em off with courtesy. ‘Oh, snuggle up in these innocent-looking blankets, Chief, no one’s going to suspect these lovely quilted jobbies.’ Why don’t you just answer the question?”

“To see if I can. To prove I can.”

“Prove what to who?”

“It’s a circular argument, but yeah, to prove I can to myself.”

“It’s a symbol of something to yourself even if you don’t know what it is. So who are you to deny me my own private symbolism, not matter how silly it may seem to you when you’re doing the same thing? You’re like the symbolism referee trying to throw me out the game.”

“Delete yourself. But leave me out of it.”

“You have your machine to beat and I have mine.”

They left it at that.

J., got a quick copy query for you. Do you want it dimwit with a hyphen like dim hyphen wit or do you want it one word dimwit? I’ve been going back and forth with the copy department about this and we’re stumped. Give me a ring when you get this.

Perhaps going for the record had been inevitable ever since he found himself on the List. Those years before. Like this competition had been waiting for him the whole time and he hadn’t known it.

This is a message for J. Sutter. This is Mr. Ardin in Accounts Payable. I received your message of the sixth about your check for the May issue and I’m not sure who you talked to in the office before, but they were incorrect about the procedure. If you were paid the incorrect amount for an article, you have to ask us to send you a Form 199, send that back to us, care of me, along with the check, and we will cut a check for the correct amount. It should take about sixty to ninety days to process.

He still has a few minutes and decides to wait outside for his ride. There’s a lot more traffic on the road, all of it heading west and that’s where he figures he’s headed. Recreational vehicles and compact cars, maps splayed out on the dashboard, fast food drinks snug in plastic popout holders, antiradar devices plugged into cigarette lighters and bouncing invisible waves off ranges and peaks. A red Range Rover speeds by, trailing multicolored kids’ balloons that are whipped and impelled by velocity. The mountain is in front of him. Maybe it is Big Bend. He thinks about what it must have been like before the road made it just another hill, to look at it and think, I’m going through this mountain. Then this line of thought evaporates and he half wishes he had a beer.