C&O road
Is gonna be the death of me, Lord, Lord,
Is gonna be the death of me.”
John Henry went upon a mountain
And came down on the side;
The mountain was so tall, John Henry was so small,
That he laid down his hammer and he cried, “Lord, Lord,”
That he laid down his hammer and he cried.
The rude talk that pestered the earlier speakers disperses. Lord, Lord: He hacks at primal truth and splinters off words and the men and women ache. Enraptured, all of them, openmouthed in beatitude and slack in delight at the nimble phrasings of the boy. Except for J. J. attacks the prime rib. He has not had his fill. He cuts off a piece ringed by a crust of blackened fat and sticks it in his mouth. It is a big piece, a hearty plug of meat, he doesn’t know what time he’ll eat tomorrow and he needs the meat. He rends tendrils of meat with his teeth, repositions them with his tongue, rends them further. He swallows quickly, another piece already impaled on his merciless tines, and the plug catches in his throat. He can’t breathe.
The boy sings,
John Henry told his captain,
“Captain go to town
And bring me back two twenty-pound hammers,
And I’ll sure beat your steam drill down. Lord, Lord,
And I’ll sure beat your steam drill down.”
John Henry told his people,
“You know that I’m a man.
I can beat all the traps that have ever been made,
Or I’ll die with my hammer in my hand, Lord, Lord,
Or I’ll die with my hammer in my hand.”
The steam drill set on the right-hand side,
John Henry was on the left.
He said, “I will beat that steam drill down
Or hammer my fool self to death, Lord, Lord,
Or hammer my fool self to death.”
It won’t go down. He tries to swallow again but the plug will not oblige him. It is a stern and vengeful plug of meat. He tries to swallow again, panic trebling. Surely he isn’t choking. It won’t go down. He’s going to die on a junket? This is some far-out shit, this is a fucking ironic way to go. Is he using ironic incorrectly? The copy editors are going to kill him. They are really cracking down on the misuse of the word ironic, it’s like this global cabal of comma checkers and run-on sentences and fragments. Roaring in his ears. Why won’t it go down? He finds it inconceivable that no one knows what is going on with him. They are looking at the boy and listening to his words. He has a problem asking for help. He does not want to look weak. And it might not be an emergency. Surely it will pass. The meat is just fucking with him. He could jump up, slam the table, knock over their free drinks, that would get their attention. But he’s sitting there choking, quietly choking. Is this his pattern? That sounds like a diagnosis. And if he can self-diagnose, he can self-medicate. He has practice in that area. But you can’t do that when your throat is stopped. Seduced by a red illumination. Bang, whimper, what the fuck.
The boy sings,
John Henry dropped the ten-pound hammer,
And picked up the twenty-pound sledge;
Every time his hammer went down,
You could see that steel going through, Lord, Lord,
You could see that steel going through.
John Henry was just getting started,
Steam drill was half way down;
John Henry said, “You’re ahead right now,
But I’ll beat you on the last go-around, Lord, Lord,
I’ll beat you on the last go-around.”
What’s this guy singing? He’s choking on the stubborn plug of meat. John Henry, John Henry. He works on the C&O Railroad. He pushes puff, he is going for the record. His muscles must be jumping out of his skin. It won’t move, it sits like a bullet in his throat. No oxygen for me, thanks, I’ve had enough. Luke Cage the Marvel Comics superhero had bulletproof skin. At one point he had a sticker book where he kept stickers of Marvel Comics superheroes, they jumped out of the page, dynamic, Avengers Assemble and all that, muscles on full ripple, Luke Cage the jive-talking ex-con. This is what we get. Your whole life is supposed to flash before your eyes and this is what I get. Step into the light. Red light? What was up with that yellow shirt he wore anyway, some sleazy guy in a disco laying lines on the ladies, Luke Cage. He finds it incredible that in this crushing and collapsing time, he has the time to think these thoughts. But they say your life flashes before your eyes. I’m a sophisticated black man from New York City and I’m going to die down here. With cicadas, they got cicadas down here, don’t they. I want roaches, real crumb-eating fucks from out of the drain.
The boy sings,
John Henry told his shaker,
“Big boy, you better pray
For if I miss this six-foot steel,
To-morrow will be your burying day, Lord, Lord,
To-morrow will be your burying day.”
The men that made that steam drill
Thought it was mighty fine;
John Henry drove his fourteen feet,
While the steam drill only made nine, Lord, Lord,
While the steam drill only made nine.
John Henry went home to his good little woman,
Said, “Polly Ann, fix my bed,
I want to lay down and get some rest,
I’ve an awful roaring in my head, Lord, Lord,
I’ve an awful roaring in my head.”
Isn’t there something he is supposed to do? He feels like he is falling from a height. He can’t think of it. He can excrete twelve hundred words in two hours and yet he can’t think of any last words. How about an epitaph? He can’t get farther than his name and the pertinent bookend dates. He slaps the table to get their attention. Their drinks jump. He sees a restaurant sign, yellow and deep blue, on the wall of a restaurant, on the walls of infinite restaurants. Who wants to be the guy in the picture turning blue? Black folks turn blue? Look for the telltale signs. Pictographs. Certainly public service announcements, like road signs and airport signs, need a simple language. Simple message, simple expression. Is that a journalistic axiom? He can’t remember, and yet it sounds so official. Nobody notices his death. Sensation of falling. Who wants to be the blue guy in the choking picture on the wall of a cheap restaurant? Where is this place’s sign? There must be laws about the placement of the signs, eating establishments must post them in convenient places. Federal law, but then maybe they vary from state to state. States’ rights! States’ rights, these people love their states’ rights, signs on fountains, back of the bus, Rosa Parks. This place will fucking kill him. He should have known better. A black man has no business here, there’s too much rough shit, too much history gone down here. The Northern flight, right: we wanted to get the fuck out. That’s what they want, they want us dead. It’s like the song says.
The boy sings,
John