Colson Whitehead - John Henry Days

Crickets on the stump campaign in the near woods.

“Tabling the whole hubris thing here for a moment,” Tiny starts after a volcanic belch, “maybe Johnny’s real problem was a congenital heart defect. You know the religious edicts against eating pig — because if you didn’t cook it long enough you’d get trichinosis. The bearded community fathers gotta come up with some holy reason to get people not to eat pig. So it’s like that. Creating a fable to explain something natural but they don’t have the science yet. Genetics. Johnny knows from childhood Big Bend is going to be the death of him because he has heart trouble. It runs in the family. High blood pressure — you know black people have higher blood pressure than white people. What does he expect to happen with all that hard work? They didn’t know about this kind of stuff back then. Might as well be mainlining pastrami sandwiches.”

“Black people and fat people — high blood pressure,” J. says.

“Good point. Hey, can you pass me some of those chips over there?”

“I’m all into the prophecy thing, you understand,” Frenchie grunts, his arms splayed in a gesture of Gallic expansiveness. “I respect it, I’m a Sagittarius, have been since the day I was born. What I don’t get is, if you read the horoscope and the experts tell you to be careful about financial transactions or look out for Tauruses, what do you do? You keep the purse strings tight and look out for those horns. John Henry has a premonition that Big Bend is going to be the death of him. So you avoid Big Bend Tunnel. Meet a guy named Benjamin Tounelle, he’s a big guy, you avoid him too. He could have avoided the whole situation if he’d listened to his horoscope.”

“There goes Frenchie again, bringing the topic around to fate versus free will.”

“Everything’s a think piece to this guy.”

“Think he had a choice?”

“We all have choices. Look at that atrocious shirt you’re wearing, J. — that’s a choice.”

“Pass me one of those beers, will you, son?”

“I was born with a caul on my face.”

“A what?”

“A caul. On my face.”

“He means afterbirth. He had afterbirth stuck on his face when he was born.”

“It means you have special gifts.”

“It’s true — it’s not everyone who gets to be a contributing writer to six different tax shelter magazines.”

“This is my impression of a contributing writer.”

As the next cricket candidate described his platform, it was the only sound to be heard among the junketeers. After an appropriate time had passed, the junketeers chuckled at the joke.

“Okay, okay. This is my impression of a contributing editor.”

After another interval of silence, shorter this time, as the joke settled amiably into its promising future as an in-joke among their number, the junketeers chuckled.

“Who won the race?”

“John Henry.”

“The steam drill, dummy.”

“Steam drill always wins in the end.”

“I meant at the thing today.”

“That’s right — you were in the tunnel of love.”

“The local boy won.”

“They were both local boys.”

“Exactly.”

“I think it might make a nice article. Pretty butch stuff, it might make a good pitch for one of those new men’s mags starting up. Man against machine becomes man against man, how the times change the nature of the contest.”

“Beer for you, J., or are you still on the wagon?”

“I’m cool.”

“You know the hard thing about being on the wagon?”

“What?”

“So many hours in the day.”

“What time is the grand coronation tomorrow?”

“I think the stamp ceremony is at one o’clock. In the town square. My flight is taking off at five.”

“Mine, too. J. — you going to that paperweight thing next week?”

“Yeah. You?”

“No. Just wondering.”

“He’s trying to protect his investment. Frenchie thinks you’re going to beat the record. Has a hundred bucks on you.”

“You’re betting?”

“Of course we’re betting. We haven’t had this much fun since, well, since Bobby Figgis. In total disclosure, I don’t think you’re going to make it. No offense. I just don’t think you’re in shape.”

“He can do it. Look in his eyes. He’s halfway there.”

“One Eye has spoken, glimpsing into the mysteries of the human spirit. So what kind of party you want to have when you beat the record? I think we should rent out something appropriate to the occasion, like a dive bar downtown. Lock up the place for a couple of hours and have festivities.”

“When it gets to that I’ll tell you. Frenchie — why don’t you tell us a story? What about that incident in Caracas?”

Beset by such idiots, One Eye buttons himself up in smug resentment, a finely tailored item of apparel, every seam stiletto, each stitch bitter. He is beset by idiots, he can see this clearly; his depth perception may have been affected by his wound, but not his moral acuity. Setting his half-full swill to the concrete he takes leave of his comrades without a word. He’s put off this mission for too long, distracted by a game that had occurred to him: to see how many times his comrades could repeat the lines they have said so many times before. Their troupe improvises, of course, each locality has its customs to incorporate, but they respect the spirit of the text. The run of their show is completely booked, far in advance, and there are obligations. Dropping out of the show is no simple matter. Bracing himself he ticks his tongue against his teeth and squares his shoulders.

His progress up to the second floor of the Talcott Motor Lodge is to him a gallows shuffle up stairs to destiny’s waiting instrument. The mechanism up there. Such is the cast of his recent hallucination, extreme, melodramatic. He remembers in Brazil, in Rio on an airline magazine’s dime to help repair crime’s erosion of the tourist trade, he noted the faces of the blinded as he walked the streets. All his far-flung kin. No one wore eye patches. Their wounds were on display, darkened sockets pooling dread from passersby. One Eye covers his wound as much for himself as other people.

From his adventure this afternoon, One Eye finds the key easily. He takes one last look to see if his fellow dogfaces have noticed his disappearance— maybe J. has changed his mind and is halfway up the stairs — but no one sees him. What is he trying to prove exactly? Ridiculous times call for ridiculous measures, and that is enough, he is inside Lucien’s room with a hundred keys in his hand like clanking alms-coins.

Two things register first. The first is parcel of this weekend. Instead of the maudlin drawing of railroad tracks that hangs above the bed in his room, Lucien’s room features a drawing of John Henry. It’s a headshot of the man of the hour, familiar to him from all the hours at the fair: the postage stamp. This version is full color, blown up, bordered by drawn-in perforations for effect. Along the bottom it reads, First Annual John Henry Days July 13, 1996. What strikes him is the fact of today’s date fixed under glass. It implies a series and a division: this day and what has come before from all those fairs to come. Big weekend for the town, of course, that’s why he’s here, to help bring it into being. The little dispatches of his kind contribute. Next year’s guests see the poster and feel part of a ready-made tradition. Seeing the date up there, even on flimsy hooks drilled into cheap plaster, it is monumentalized. Glory attends even to this small affair in the mountains. He takes it as an omen, for today is also the date of his manumission. It is the day he exits the List.

The second thing he notices is that Lucien’s computer is on.