"I see you brought some honkies with you, Jelly Roll," said the huge Negro man.
"Yes, I have, John Henry," said Jelly Roll, "but I assure you they're cool, daddy-o."
"The lady looks cool," said the man.
"Why, thank you, kind sir," said Miss Blackbourne, "for the delightful compliment."
"You can come in," said the big man. "May I ask your name?"
"Blackbourne is the name, Margaret Blackbourne," said Miss Blackbourne, "but, please, call me Margaret."
"I shall call you Miss Margaret," said the huge man, with a slight bow.
"And may I call you John?"
"My friends all call me John Henry."
"And so, with your permission, I shall call you John Henry, sir," said Miss Blackbourne, and she horizontally extended her lily-white hand with its blood-red fingernails.
The man called John Henry placed his enormous fingers and thumb in a gentle touch on Miss Blackbourne's hand.
"Like a delicate flower," he said.
He disengaged his fingers and looked at Mr. Whitman.
"Who's this goofball, Jelly Roll?"
"Whitman's my name," said Mr. Whitman, extending his own hand. "Walt Whitman. Perhaps you have heard of me? I wrote a little book called Leaves of Grass?"
"Never heard of it," said John Henry.
"Oh," said Mr. Whitman. "Well –"
"You ever read anything by Horace P. Sternwall?" said the big man.
"Um, the name sounds vaguely familiar," said Mr. Whitman.
"That man can write like a motherfucker."
"Indeed?" said Mr. Whitman. "Which of his books might you recommend?"
"All of them, but just off the top of my head, Salt Chunk Mary and Her House of Blue Lights is pretty good."
"Salt Chunk?" said Mr. Whitman.
"Mary and Her House of Blue Lights," said John Henry. "Another good one was Rip Roaring Rip Riley, Range Rover."
"Okay," said Mr. Whitman, "I'll make a mental note of that one."
"He writes good poems too. A favorite collection of them is one called Christmas for the Doomed. The title makes it sound kind of gloomy like, but it's actually pretty uplifting."
"Okay," said Mr. Whitman. "I'm a poet myself, and so I always like to see what other people are doing in the discipline –"
"Then you'd probably like this other poetry book he wrote called A Bed of Cobblestones. That's a good one."
"Okay," said Mr. Whitman.
"Another one of my favorites from Sternwall is a book of inspirational essays, it's called, Pass That Bottle Over Here."
"Well, I'll certainly look out for any of his books, Mr., uh, Henry."
John Henry had ignored Mr. Whitman's outstretched hand, and so Mr. Whitman made a couple of grasping motions with his fingers,
as though he were trying to loosen up a case of writer's cramp, and then lowered the hand and rubbed it in a nervous-seeming way on the front of his thigh.
John Henry now turned his impassive gaze on Milford.
"And who is this sad-ass looking pale little motherfucker?"
"You don't have to let me in," said Milford. "I don't mind."
"What's your name, boy?"
"It doesn't matter," said Milford. "I can go."
"His name is Melman," said Mr. Whitman, "but I call him Mel."
"His name is not Melman, Walt," said Miss Blackbourne. "It's Milford."
"I'm pretty sure it's Melmer," said Mr. Whitman. "Otherwise why would the diminutive be Mel?"
"What's your name, sonny?" said John Henry to Milford.
"Marion Milford, sir," said Milford. "But I prefer to be called simply Milford."
"Your first name is Marion?"
"Yes, but I didn't choose it."
"Milford, you say?"
"Yes, but you can call me anything. Most people do."
"I'll call you Milford."
"Thank you, sir."
"Call me John Henry."
"Okay, Mr. John Henry."
"Just John Henry will do."
"Okay, John Henry."
"Give me your lily white hand."
"I hope you're not going to crush it."
"I ain't gonna crush your hand," said John Henry. "Now give it to me."
Reluctantly, Milford extended his small white hand, the only kind of hand he had, and John Henry engulfed it in his own enormous black hand. His grip exuded strength and power, but he was as good as his word, and he refrained from squashing Milford's hand to a pulp,
and in fact Milford felt a strange surge of puissance entering the flesh and bones of his hand, which ran up his arm all the way to his chest and through his lungs and into his sluggishly beating heart.
"Your hand, young fella, is even more delicate than that of the lady here, Miss Margaret," said John Henry.
"Yes," said Milford. "I have spent my entire life thus far avoiding physical exercise as much as possible."
"I'm a steel driving man myself, and have always gloried in the flexing and pulsing of my muscles," said John Henry.
"So also I," said Mr. Whitman. "I wonder if you have ever tried kettle balls?"
John Henry ignored Mr. Whitman, and released Milford's hand.
"Start with one push-up, pushing up very slowly, and coming down very slowly" he said to Milford. "Each day do another push-up, very slowly, and when you feel you're ready, go up to two push-ups, remembering to go up as slowly as you can, and down as slowly as you can. Incrementally, try to increase the number of slow push-ups until you have reached your absolute limit.
Then take a break for a few days, and begin again, with as many slow pushups as you can manage. After a year of this régime you will have arms and shoulders and a chest of steel, with a stomach as hard as that of a medieval knight's suit of armor."
"Okay," said Milford, although he doubted he would really follow through on the suggestion.
"All right, then," said John Henry. "I like you, and you can come in. This place can get rough, but don't worry – what was your name?"
"Mel," said Mr. Whitman. "His friends call him Mel."
"Milford, actually," said Milford.
"Don't worry, Milford," said John Henry. "Anybody in here fucks with you, they fuck with me."
"Thank you, sir," said Milford.
John Henry turned to Jelly Roll.
"Okay, Jelly Roll, I guess your friends can come in." He glanced at Mr. Whitman. "Even him."
"Thank you, John Henry!" said Mr. Whitman. "We really appreciate it so much. And by the way, I have long been an admirer of the Negro race. I especially enjoy your folk music and dances, and I fancy I can clog out a passable black bottom or cakewalk myself–"
"Great," said John Henry. "All right, follow me."
The big man turned about face and went into the room, roaring as it was with music and shouting and laughter.
Miss Blackbourne and Jelly Roll followed, and Mr. Whitman whispered into Milford's ear, "I think you really impressed him, Mel!"
He took Milford's arm and guided him through the doorway into what was a large barroom, dark, smoky, loud, filled with dark-skinned people.
John Henry turned his head and said in his booming voice:
"Close that door behind you."
Mr. Whitman let go of Milford's arm, and quickly backed up and closed the door.
