Colson Whitehead - John Henry Days

J. slides in next to Pamela. She says, “I’m not sure what I thought this would be.”

Three teenagers in U of WV football shirts perform calculations in their heads, make charts with Risk, Ballsiness and Ridicule Potential headers. While they ponder and cogitate, their date rape stares ease into squints of scholarly contemplation. Two arrive at a figure in unison and shove their slower comrade toward the barker, spilling beer over rims.

“All right, citizens, looks like we have a contestant!” the barker yelps, grabbing the redheaded conscript’s arm before he can squirm back to his friends. “Listen here, Red,” steering him toward the contraption, “this ain’t hauling kegs up the frat house steps. This is serious business.” He shoves a scraped-up wooden mallet into the frat boy’s hand. “You don’t want your friends there telling Lisa Ann that her beau doesn’t have what it takes, do you?”

Red can’t back out now, so he hams it up for his pals and the crowd, hoping to shape this incident into a flattering anecdote his friends will recount for years to come, preferably when he is trying to get laid. He flexes Atlas-style, does two pushups and spits into his palms while his chums hand over the two bucks.

“Just hit the target, Red, and try not to break anything,” the barker advises, less solicitous now that he’s roped one in. He directs Red’s attention to the padded plug at the base of the device. Red takes one last look at his cronies, unleashes a rebel yell and brings the mallet down on the target, whereupon rudimentary kinetic energy transfer systems are initiated and the red ball shoots up the center groove of the totem. It jets up; he’s no WATER BOY or APPRENTICE, but SHAKER, and the red ball, having judged and designated, delivering in quivering apex summary judgment, falls back down. Red does not ring the bell, sound in clear summer air his legend. His friends shout “Shaker! Shaker!” and slap the man on his back.

The barker says, “Too many shakers and not enough men around here, been like this all day.” Back at the crowd now, ushering this last contestant back into the crowd and searching for rubes. “Who’s next? Two dollars an affirmation, who’s next, who’s next? Two dollars to see if you have that steeldriving stuff. Take a swing, every day may be your last.” Spittle off his lips clear in the sun. “Think you got what it takes?” Judging the crowd in advance of his machine. “You, in the sunglasses, come on up and take a swing, son.”

It becomes evident to J. that the man is addressing him. “No, thanks,” he says, taking a step back.

“Why don’t you go ahead?” Pamela asks. Perhaps a mischievous expression roosting there in those oxbow eyebrows, wide pupils.

“No thanks,” J. repeats.

“I understand, my man,” the barker says, drawing disappointment from the well of his face. “Don’t want to look bad in front of your girlfriend, but performance anxiety is nothing to worry about. Happens to a lot of men, I hear.”

“Here’s two dollars,” Pamela says, handing him the cash. She looks back at J., hands on her hips as if he’s been standing there for hours. “Come on, J., take a swing.”

“I’m not sure if your friend has taken his Geritol today,” the barker offers, “perhaps that’s what’s bothering him. You take your Geritol today, son?” He extends the mallet to J.

Can’t escape without pushing past the crowd behind his back. He doesn’t have any choice, really, does he? He steps up to meet his fate.

“You gonna let go of that?” the barker asks.

He has the statue under his arm.

“I’ll hold that for you,” his new enemy Pamela offers, and an exchange is performed whereby he trades the statue for the mallet.

“Where are you from, son?” the barker inquires, mock friendly. Up this close his face is all pores. He’s going to have a little fun with J. before he lets him take a swing.

“Brooklyn,” J. mumbles.

“Big Apple,” nodding, scratching beneath his bowler. “I was in New York once when I was in the navy. Hung out in Times Square with all the lights. Caught a dose so bad it still hurts to — sorry, ma’am. Wouldn’t go back there if you paid me. Let’s see — do you work out? This muscle tone, what are you, a construction worker?”

“Writer. I’m ready to go if you’d just step aside.”

“College boy, huh? Well, we don’t discriminate here. Why don’t you take your shot. Wait a minute, hold it like this. It ain’t a bunch of daisies. Hold it like you want to drive steel, son.”

J. spreads his legs apart, trying to insinuate his slack limbs into a pose of classic athleticism. A statue a museum would be proud to acquire. Wouldn’t mind giving Pamela a little knock on the head, to tell the truth. Ignore everybody; he attempts to do so, but he can feel their eyes on his neck, and sweat torrents from ducts. He feels like he felt at dinner last night, all the crackers around him watching his troubles. The mallet is a little heavier than he thought it would be. He makes a note to himself to give the swing a little oomph when he brings the head over his shoulder. Makes a note to have good aim and hit the mashed plug square. He will not falter and damn Pamela and damn all them behind him.

WATER BOY.

Out of the crowd whitecaps of swelling laughter, which collapse into a splashy foam of chortle and chuckle. A few cheer out of honed politeness. The mad barker at the end of the world nods exaggeratedly in commiseration, hat in his hands over his belly. He takes the mallet from J. and says, “Noble profession, Water Boy. Some of my best friends are Water Boys. No shame in a trade like that,” then he quickly pivots and faces the crowd, hectoring, on to the next victim, “Hit the bell and make it ding ding ding, make it sing that old John Henry song!”

“Come on, Water Boy,” Pamela says, sliding her arm into his.

J. is startled by the heat of her arm, but still too pissed to take in the full implications. “What did you have to do that for?” he sputters, but he doesn’t take his arm away.

She pats his hand with warm fingers. “Don’t worry about it. You were just a little too smug. It’s all in good fun.”

“Those things are rigged,” he halfheartedly fumes. “See how he was leaning on the post? Has a switch back there where he can adjust if he doesn’t like someone. That college boy crack …”

At their backs they hear, “Think you’re John Henry? You ain’t no John Henry, I’ll tell you that.”

“I still haven’t seen the tunnel up close yet,” he says. He can’t think of anything else to say.

“That’s where we’re going.” GENUINE STEEL-DRIVING EXHIBITION—4 P.M.

MATT HENDRICKS OF INTON

VS.

TONY LESLIE OF TALCOTT

The biggest rock in Summers County sits on a wooden stage, bulging eight feet high, one side sheared off into an almost level surface. Red, white and blue streamers dangle from posts, patient for wind that will marshal and inspire them into patriotic ruffle. Two ruddy white men, shirts off, take practice swings with sledgehammers; they stretch muscles and suckle water bottles.

J. and Pamela force themselves into the biggest clot of people yet. It’s almost four o’clock and time for the show.

“The steeldriving exhibition,” Pamela says. “I don’t know how they plan to do it,” pointing up at the flat front of the rock. “See those two holes there? I think they drilled a little ways in to start them off, and then the two of them will hit into the holes and see how far they get into the rock in a set amount of time.”

“Gambling allowed in West Virginia?”

“They need someone to hold the bits straight — they need shakers.”