Colson Whitehead - John Henry Days

The boys sprawl across the benches, bending elbows and killing time. Flies alight on their faces for brief disappointed moments.

“I think they should give us free T-shirts. I want a free T-shirt.”

“Don’t think they carry your size, my man.”

“For my mother.”

“How old do you think she is?”

“She’s seventy-four. That why I want to get it, for her birthday.”

“Not your toothless ma, that woman there in the red tanktop.”

“Those guys over there keep drinking out these jars, man, been watching them. It’s moonshine.”

“Ever tell you about the time I was interviewing Lynrd Sknyrd and we drank from their still? Drinking a bucket of nails.”

“What time is this steeldriving thing? It’s like some kind of monster truck thing, right?”

“I say we go over there and buy some of that shine.”

“I gotta dig that steeldriving event. Maybe I can squeeze a GQ thing out it. Mano-a-mano is really big right now.”

From time to time, J. sneaks a peak at the next bench over, where some locals have bivouacked for similar purposes. So far J. has cataloged one “get a load of these guys” thumb gesture, three different rounds of chortles at his friends’ expense, and assorted steel-eyed squints of challenge. Only he has noticed. There’s not a fight brewing, but one or two lessons to be taught to the rude outsiders are being debated under their baseball caps, drawn from fisticuff curricula.

“Still pissed?” One Eye taps on his shoulder.

Ever since their embarrassing internment in Lawrence’s bathroom, One Eye has avoided him. J. figured his friend was probably busy with caper preparation: diagrams of heating vents, timing with a stopwatch the length of time it took to get to Lucien’s room from his, counting and recounting paces, calculating lines of sight. At 12:05 on the dot every night the security guard leaves his post for a bathroom break. Now here he is with a white cotton candy cone picked bare except for a few tufts of pink fur, as if he’s been picking meat off a dead cartoon animal.

J. says, “Forget it. Just don’t mention it again.”

“It’s up to you, my friend,” One Eye says, ripping remnants of pink, “But I’m hitting Stage Two tonight, with or without you. Lucien’s having dinner with some of the local muckety-mucks and I’m going to hit him them.”

“Enjoy.”

“I’ll take you off too if you want… Oh, look, here comes Captain Johnson now.”

Lucien and his herald try to make an elegant stride over to the beer garden as gawking tourists and hyperactive children divert them into constant course corrections, pausing here, dodging left or right. Dressed in the only Angelo Marini suits for a hundred miles probably. Lawrence follows behind his master conjugating to irritate with every step (he irritates, has irritated, will irritate). “Hello, friends,” Lucien says as the final obstacle jets across to the giant spud and clears the way. “There is a truly exemplary ice cream stand on the other side a little farther up.”

“Just between you and me,” Lawrence says in a Dow Jones whisper, “the Rocky Road is your best bet.”

As they greet the group, J. looks over their shoulders to see if he can spy Pamela. She ditched him once they made their way down the hill. He had a bit of trouble maneuvering around this lady’s double stroller, asked, “Do you want to go this way or down there?” and she was gone. He stood there with John Henry under his arm and correctly reckoned he’d find Dave Brown, Tiny, Frenchie and One Eye near the most convenient beer station. He doesn’t see her.

“Glad to see you’re all enjoying yourselves,” Lucien smiles. “Not the usual, eh?” J. has to agree. The sun is a pleasant kind of irritation on his back. Out here in the open, under unpillaged blue, it’s a nice rest stop, it breaks things up as he goes for the record. Monday he’s back in cities again, taking his usual train routes to the standard event locales, taking his usual cab routes home after the standard event closings. “Off the beaten track to be sure,” the p.r. man continues, “so you know I appreciate the effort you men have put in.”

“Ours is not to wonder why, Lucien,” One Eye growls.

“Dave,” Lucien turns, “how is old Milt Chamber? You’re covering this for West Virginia Life, correct?”

“Nice guy,” Dave hiccups, “we’ve only talked on the phone, but didn’t he used to be at the Times'? I think I met him a few years ago. Had some kind of breakdown, right?”

“Dehydration, I think, was the explanation I heard. One of those new fad diets. J. — heard you talked to InterTravel. It sounds like it’s going to be one hell of a site when they launch. Apparently you can just click on any city and you’ll be able to get restaurants and hotels. The local attractions. Isn’t this world wide web marvelous? The head of content there is a dear friend.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s really smart. You guys should get together once you get your piece in. I think they’re looking for good writers, and with Time Warner behind them, they should pay quite well.”

“Sounds great.” Lunch, let’s do lunch, let’s meet for drinks, here’s my card, that’s the office number and I’ll put my cell number on the back.

Lawrence points. “What is that?”

“That’s J.’s,” Dave Brown says, tapping the John Henry statue. “His little buddy.”

“He’s really got the spirit.”

“The merchandise isn’t too garish,” Lucien says. “I’m quite surprised. They’ve shown remarkable restraint.”

“I would have gone for an action figure at least,” Lawrence twitters. “Margins on action figures these days are not to be believed. Board games, any number of directions they could have gone in. There’s not even any sweatshirts. Everybody makes sweatshirts these days.”

“Why don’t you write them a memo, Larry?” Frenchie asks, winking to comrades.

“Oh, J.” Lucien interrupts, “I have something that might interest you. Lawrence?”

Lawrence fumbles with his leather briefcase and hands J. a newspaper. “We thought you might get a kick out it,” he says.

“The Hinton Owl,” Tiny says, “All the News That’s Fit to Hoot.”

It is the special John Henry Days edition, a slim four-sheeter. J.’s seen stacks of it lying on tables. But what’s it got to do with him? JOHN HENRY DAYS ARRIVES! with a picture of Mayor Cliff standing beneath the monument on the hill. This is real breaking news.

“Below the fold,” Lawrence offers, smiling thinly.

J. flips the paper. TRAGEDY AVERTED AT OPENING NIGHT GALA — VISITING JOURNALIST SAVED BY HEROIC LOCAL DOCTOR. There's a crime scene photo of J. on the ground, his arms spread out, while onlookers — he recognizes Frenchie’s coif — bend over him. Jesus Christ.

Tiny snatches the paper from his hand, roaring, “ ‘A near fatal accident was averted last night when J. Sutter of New York City almost choked to death during the opening ceremonies of the John Henry Days …’—catchy lede, I’ll say that. Blah blah—‘local talent Bobby Martin sang the famous “Ballad of John Henry” ’—blah blah—‘only inches from death’—yeah yeah— ‘if not for the expertise of respected physician Dr. William Stephenson, Mr. Sutter surely would have expired. A piece of roast beef is the suspected culprit.’ Wow, J., you got your name on the front page!”

“Better put out an APB on that roast beef before he strikes again!”

“It’s written by that guy who was hanging around, Honnicut or whatever. Gotta give that guy credit for having a nose for a story.”

“Guess you never know when you’ll make the news.”