The River King of 8th Street--Imaginary

 

The River King of 8th Street

The scream of the noon whistle from the sawmill cut across the bottomland, scattering a flock of crows out of the sycamores along Knapps Creek. Jesse Arbogast didn’t need a pocket watch. The whistle meant half a day of school remained on Friday, and two free days lay between him and Monday morning.

Jesse was twelve years old, all knobby knees, patched dungarees, and dusty canvas sneakers. He lived in a two-story white lap-sided house on 4th Avenue where the scent of morning coal smoke lingered until the sun burned above Buckeye Mountain.

When the bell at Marlinton Graded School finally chimed that afternoon, Jesse burst down the front steps, narrowly missing his buddy Roy, whose father ran the repair rack down at the motor company.

"Going to the depot?" Roy yelled over the din of shouting boys.

"Later! Cal Price promised me two bits if I sweep the back room behind the Linotype," Jesse called back, already sprinting down the hill toward 8th Street.

Walking into The Pocahontas Times print shop was like walking into an iron foundry that smelled of hot mineral oil, printer’s ink, and wood pulp. Mr. Calvin Price—broad-shouldered, silver-haired, with spectacles perched low on his nose—stood over the composition stone, his spectacles reflecting the daylight from the front window.

"You're late by two minutes, Jesse," Mr. Price said without looking up, his ink-stained fingers setting lead slugs into the chases with rhythmic clicks.

"Had to finish my geography test, Mr. Price."

"Geography’s fine, boy, but knowing where the broom is will put bacon on the table quicker. Sweep clear under the paper rollers. Watch out for stray type."

Jesse swept diligently, his broom bristles kicking up gray paper dust. He loved that shop. While he swept, he listened to the old men talking by the potbelly stove—tall tales of timber camps up near Cass, how the Greenbrier River had frozen bank-to-bank three winters back, and whether the wild panthers Cal wrote about in his "Field Notes" column were still roaming the spruce ridges of Williams River.

Twenty minutes later, with a shiny quarter pressed into his palm, Jesse slipped out into the autumn sunshine. Main Street was humming with Friday afternoon traffic. A brand-new green Chevrolet pickup rumbled past, hauling cedar fence posts, while farm women in pressed cotton dresses chatted outside the A&P grocery with brown paper sacks tucked under their arms.

Jesse ducked into the soda fountain at the drug store. The cool marble counter was quiet. For five cents, he bought a frosted glass of draft root beer, savoring the sting of cold syrup against his throat while he spun on the red vinyl chrome stool. With twenty cents remaining, his fortune was secure: ten cents for the Saturday matinee at the theater, five cents for a box of candy corn, and a nickel tucked away in his shoe.

He met Roy down at the C&O depot just before four o’clock. They scrambled up onto the stacked wooden ties near the baggage room as the Greenbrier Division steam locomotive came chuffing in from the south, smoke billowing black and sulfurous into the mountain air. Steam hissed violently from the cylinders as the engine screeched to a halt. The depot agent pushed a heavy wooden cart piled high with mail sacks, wooden crates of machinery parts, and cardboard boxes shipped from Sears, Roebuck in Chicago.

When the conductor swung down with his lantern, he caught sight of Jesse and Roy perched like hawks on the ties.

"Don't you boys go hopping the freight cars when we switch out the timber gondolas!" the conductor barked, pointing a stern finger, though his eyes crinkled with a grin.

"No sir, Captain!" Jesse grinned back, hopping down.

The true business of the day waited down where Knapps Creek curved beneath the road bridge and merged with the wide, rocky current of the Greenbrier. Shedding their canvas shoes on a sandbar, the boys waded calf-deep into the chilly mountain runoff.

Underneath a flat limestone slab resting in the eddy, Jesse slipped his hands into the current. With practiced slowness, fingers splayed, he searched under the lip until he felt the hard, scuttling legs of a hellgrammite. He snagged it behind the collar, holding it up like a trophy.

"Found the bait," Jesse said.

They spent the twilight hours perched on a flat river boulder, cane poles resting across their knees, watching their corks bob in the clear green water. Overhead, the ridges of Pocahontas County turned purple, then deep indigo, as the chill of the Alleghenies rolled down into the valley. In the distance, the faint, comforting chime of the courthouse clock began to strike seven, calling Marlinton home to supper.

Jesse reeled in his line, slipped two small red-eye bass onto a willow stringer, and slipped his sneakers back onto damp feet. In this valley, bounded by roaring rivers and endless spruce, he felt like the king of the world—and tomorrow, the picture show was playing a cowboy movie at one o'clock sharp.