by Mat Johnson
"Complementary, you see? We'll be like one of those gold necklace sets in the Penney catalog, the ones shaped like two jagged sides of a broken heart." Bobby was thirty-four years old and usually wearing a banana-colored work suit when he said things like this. Snowden was so embarrassed for the man he wished it were true.
Snowden spent the morning getting his physical at the company doctor's office up on Striver's Row, didn't get out until half past noon and only went straight back to work because that's what the other two guys had done when they went for theirs in the weeks before. He found the Horizon truck at the address given, already returned from picking up the day's customer from Connecticut, its back gate open and a quarter of the haul already removed. Walking up its narrow metal ramp to get inside, Snowden found Bobby, too, nearly obscured in the rear among the shadows of boxes and dressers.
"She's here. Piper Goines, our client, the lady we're moving. She's her. She's the one."
Bobby was talking in near whispers. Until he stepped farther out of his hiding space, Snowden wasn't certain Bobby had even been talking to him, nor was he entirely sure after. Bobby's usual plum skin seemed drained, ashen. There was a cigarette in his fingers that he dragged on, then shook his head like someone had just defecated on his tongue.
"Then why do you smoke?" Snowden asked him.
"It's the only thing I'm allowed to light on fire anymore."
This was not the first time that Bobby had suspected he'd found "the one," not even in the few weeks since he'd revealed his mythology. There'd been the woman Bobby'd been in line behind at the Jamaican take-out place on 125th, the one he'd followed for four blocks before realizing she couldn't possibly be "the one" from the vagaries of her gate. There'd been the woman glimpsed momentarily standing at the 79th Street station platform as Bobby'd whisked by on the 2 express downtown. By the time he'd taken the local train back up, she was gone. This had provided conversational fodder for days. These past events, however, had always left Bobby in a cheerful mood, elated, prone to say really pathetic things like, "It must mean I'm getting closer," or to go into his theory that the reason he had never met her before was that he was destined to come to New York City to do so.
In response to Snowden's glare, Bobby said, "I'm not hiding, I'm preparing. First impressions are of extreme import. Being characterized negatively, or incorrectly, could have devastating results down the line. I am trying to avoid a tragedy here." Snowden noticed the yellow notepad sitting on the chest-high pile of boxes as Bobby put his cigarette back in the side of his mouth and lifted a pen from behind his ear.
Snowden climbed aboard, looked for something to carry, even considered grabbing a good-sized television for the chance to peek at what Bobby was writing before choosing a large teddy bear instead and just asking.
"Notes. I'm writing out possible conversation directions so that I'm prepared with something that demonstrates my capacity for witty banter."
"Why not just be yourself?" Snowden smiled, shrugged to him.
"Because that is a cliché," Bobby sighed. "Look, this is no . . . 'round-the-way-girl whose affections can be bought with a howyadoin' and a Pepsi. Piper Goines is clearly a person of refinement. A woman of sophistication and substantial beauty," Bobby said back to him.
"The boy's right, Snowball. You should see the ass on this bitch," Horus declared coming up from behind. Snowden turned to catch Bobby's reaction, but the skinny man had disappeared deeper into the truck behind the stacks of furniture.
"Straight up dog, I'm about to get me some of that!" Horus continued. "I'm going to be all up in that booty, you watch me. I'm going to bang it hard. I'm going to bang it greasy? Horus crinkled his nose above his smile as if even he was somewhat disgusted by the image. After he'd hoisted a bookshelf onto his back, Horus trudged off again, cursing in delight with every step. Snowden turned around and grabbed the teddy bear with the intention of following him into the house, and Bobby was standing exactly where he was before, same footing and everything.
"Dear God you have to stop him." Bobby's face had lost so much blood Snowden imagined it tingled.
"Me? What's this got to do with me?"
"If that animal goes in there and starts slobbering over her, he won't just ruin my chances, he'll disgrace the honor of Horizon Realty itself! Besides, he'll listen to you. He respects you more than he respects me," Bobby insisted.
"Now why the hell would you think that?" Snowden asked incredulously.
"You know. Because you killed someone."
Piper Goines was moving into the condo on the third floor of the brownstone. The couple who owned the rest of the townhouse stood on the main floor guarding their domain, entwined at the bottom of the steps like dried vines, wearing matching sweatshirts and overalls as if they were doing the lifting. Behind them this place, Snowden walked slowly just to get a better look at it. Most of the brownstones they refilled were shells, houses scraped out and abandoned, cut into single-room-occupancy flophouses decades ago. Places of construction, dust and drywall, their architectural details hidden or stolen or replaced with modern finishings by the returning middle class. But this townhouse was how they all were supposed to be: intricate woodwork angling through the double doors, spinning lattice icicles above the archways, fireplaces snug in tile, cake-tin moldings along the ceiling above, the stained-glass mosaic of the back window, and all of it original. Snowden the agnostic saw it and couldn't help but think for a second of God. That God had made them build mansions for millionaires who never came, so that there was no one but their slaves to fill them. That this was his reparation. That Harlem was God's gift to black people.
Snowden walked up the ornate stairway with the stuffed bear in both hands, Bobby straining behind him with his arms wrapped around a narrow armoire. The wall going up was lined with paintings and Snowden was admiring them when he heard their owners yelling up from below.
"They're originals. Including the frames. Why don't I just get those out of your way." The brown and blessed, moneyed and mobile, Snowden couldn't remember if he'd moved this couple in or just so many of their type he could no longer see individuals. The female of the breed sprang into the narrow space alongside him, started taking the artwork off the wall before they could even get by.
"Negroes get a couple Henry Ossawa Tanners, think they running the Met," Bobby offered when they finally made it to the apartment, closed the door behind them. This was Bobby Finley: If the people they were moving had more blue-collar tastes, Bobby would make fun of their prints and assembly line African sculptures. If their possessions were more sophisticated, Bobby would attack them for their bourgeois pretensions. Bobby was militant about being middle of the road. "She probably thinks Monet is 'the root of all evil.'"
"First of all, that's my big sister you're dogging," a woman's voice responded, its owner following it out of the kitchen. "Second, even if I agreed with you - which I do - it wouldn't be right for me to say so since she's also flipping your bill. If it was up to me, I would have just got some bums off the corner to do the job for beer and pizza." The comments came coated in good humor, but Snowden could still see Bobby acting shaken, his lips fluttering before his words started bouncing through.
Standing before Bobby Finley, Piper Goines seemed like a separate species: better bred, better fed, better raised. Apparently taller than Bobby (he stooped so much, it was hard to tell even with him coiled next to her), Piper was round in face and arms, making her look both soft and strong at the same time. The curves below her waist that Horus coveted were lost in the folds of Piper's mud-cloth skirt, material as thick and wrinkled as elephant skin. Her beauty was in her face, the nose that dripped down into a smile of bright teeth and dark gums, but her strength shone all over her.
It seemed obvious to Snowden that Bobby Finley, who fit in his uniform like one french fry in a potato sack, was not in the same league as Piper Goines. Literally, figuratively, she seemed too much for him. If this was Bobby's ideal partner, Snowden deduced hi
s concept of the perfect human relationship must be based on the model set by the praying mantis.
"Hey, don't worry about it, my sister's a freaking Republican," Bobby responded. This might have been a good return, had Bobby not nearly said "fucking" and only caught himself after the first syllable, or had a sister at all. The last bit was immediately revealed as false when Piper asked, "Oh yeah? Is she older or younger?" and Bobby answered, "Medium."
Snowden broke in only to save him. "Madame, you got some nice furniture and all, but oak? Don't you think it's a little . . . how do you say . . . heavy? You know, Wal-Mart does some lovely things with plywood nowadays."
Snowden just got the first laugh. So that's how that started.
"See, this brother knows how to get a good tip," Piper Goines pointed out to Bobby. "He understands you have to charm a client." Her hair hung in soft bush behind her head, too much Euro in her blood to make a proper Afro.
"Ms. Goines, you have my humblest apologies. I'd like you to have this as a peace offering," Bobby leaned forward, The Great Work in hand. Snowden hadn't noticed it on him, but with the way his outfit fit, Bobby could have concealed a whole library inside its folds.
"Oh. OK. Is it any good?" Piper reached out and took it from him, inspected its front and back, flipped the pages like that would tell her something.
"I hope so. I wrote it." Bobby beamed back at her.
"Cool. I write too. I just started as a staff reporter for the New Holland Herald " was Piper's response, and Snowden looked up to see Bobby's earnest reaction, as if they hadn't sat around his apartment on several occasions drinking while Bobby read the rag aloud and goofed on it. "What the hell, you go put this on the window ledge in my study and when I get a chance, I'll read it."
From the look on Bobby's face, Snowden could tell he was confused. He seemed to think Piper just said "I love you" from the way his lips quivered, his eyes instantly teared. Bobby's speed in disappearing down the hall to perform the task was the only thing that saved him from melting down completely before her.
As soon as Bobby was gone, Piper Goines turned to Snowden, grabbed him by his wrist and smiled, "OK, muscle man, I've got another task for you to do besides standing there and looking cute."
"You want me to sit down?" Snowden asked. There was guilt over flirting with Bobby's latest obsession, but it was reduced considerably by his certainty that he would take it no farther.
"I got some heavy boxes in the living room I want you to help me peek into, figure out what's inside so we can move them to the proper room before you abandon me."
"Ah, but my Nubian queen, that's why you're supposed to mark your boxes when you pack them," Snowden smiled back at her as Piper began to drag him toward the front of the apartment.
"You're right, moving man, I could have done that, but that would take away the thrill of surprise," Piper told him, squeezing Snowden's arm and winking over her shoulder on the last words.
Horus Manley was on his knees facing the wall, head in his hands. Bobby walked quietly behind him to drop off The Great Work by the window, thought Horus was praying until he turned around and saw that he was actually holding something to his face. It was a shiny emerald fabric, poking out of the spaces between his fingers and rumpled in a bunch around his snorting nose.
"What the hell are you doing?" Bobby demanded. When Horus took the cloth away, Bobby saw a look of pure joy, an innocent, ecstatic excitement as Horus quickly stuck a finger to his mouth, lightly shushing him.
"Yo kid, this box, it must have got crushed open in the ride. It's all panties in there! Victoria's Secret and everything. And guess what? They're dirty" Horus added with clear glee, throwing the pair he had down and reaching for another.
"Put that back!" Bobby insisted, stepping forward to yank them away from Horus's face. Horus snarled and butted his head forward and Bobby remembered himself, pulled his hand back, unsure if Horus had just tried to bite him.
"Don't do this, Horus. What do think the congressman would say if he found out?" Bobby asked him. Horus responded to the threat by further snarling, but a few seconds later the pose disappeared completely, was replaced by a disappointed sigh and the comment, '"You're no fun, man," as he shoved the panties back in the box before him. Emboldened by the passive stance, Bobby continued.
"Look, as long as we're on the subject of our hostess, Piper Goines, I want to ask you a little favor. I know we all just met her, OK, but I'm really interested. Long term, you know what I mean. I think . . . I think I could have something special with her and I would really appreciate it if you gave me a clear path on this chance."
Horus really thought about it. Cocking his head to the side and squinting his eyes a bit in consideration before nodding his head. "That's a good trade. The bitch for the drawers. Then I'm trying to find me a thong," his hands shooting back in the box, pulling out another pair and inspecting them.
Bobby Finley was not a strong man, but he was a quick one, flying across the room to grab Piper's undergarments out of Horus's clutch before he could shove them in his pants pocket. Bobby was good at leverage too — it's what helped him carry all that heavy furniture —and by placing his foot on Horus's thigh and pushing off with his full weight, he was able to effectively counter the larger man's advantage. It was the equal grips, Horus with one hand and Bobby with two, fabric wrapped around his back fist, that made the tug-of-war a draw, stretched the garment out like a flag for those seconds before Piper Goines herself walked into the room and broke the standstill.
"You shiftless bastards," Piper spit at them. When Piper stormed over, Horus let loose his grip first, leaving a mortified Bobby holding the panties when Piper snatched them from him. Stomping away, each footfall an assault, Piper almost made it out of the room before she turned around again. "You know what the worst part of this shit is? My sister told me not to hire a black company for this move, and I made a big fuss too about using Horizon. Then you no-account Negroes had to go fuck things up, didn't you? Why can't we ever do a goddamn thing proper? Be ashamed, you hear me?"
They did. Piper charged forward, her finger pointing, sending Horus scuttling away from her wrath and Bobby spewing frantic explanations.
Piper ignored Bobby's excuses, screamed louder to drown them out. "Be ashamed for yourselves. Be ashamed for your people."
Snowden, who'd trailed into the room on Piper's heels, was too stunned to follow them back out or make any comment at all. Even Horus didn't say anything until Piper had slammed the door behind her, then turned to Bobby to yell, "Look what you did! You had to go mess things all up. After work, punk, you're getting a beat down."
"Stop threatening him." Snowden stepped forward. "He doesn't have to take that shit from you."
Horus seemed surprised, even amused at Snowden's defense, walked close enough in front of him to whisper, "That's cool, dog. Then you can just take my shit instead. After work, when the truck's unloaded, don't go nowhere. Because I just scheduled you in for an ass whupping."
Snowden took his time working for rest of the day. Walked slow, took breaks, asked far more questions than he needed to. Piper Goines herself was no longer available for answers, so irate her sister was keeping her down in the back of the lower house so she didn't do something stupid and make them all vulnerable to a civil suit, putting her husband on guard in the apartment instead. Regardless of all the stall tactics, a point came when the back of Horizon's truck was empty, the receipts had all been signed, and the sole tip for the evening had been placed discreetly in Snowden's hand.
Fighting was stupid, there was nothing to be gained from it, it put both their bids for the lead candidate in jeopardy. This much Snowden told Horus when he approached him on the sidewalk halfway down the block, but Horus's response was just, "Yeah, you might got some points there, but what can you do? I got disrespected, so somebody's got to pay for it."
Horus popped every knuckle in his right hand individually, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, before going over to his left hand
, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, and then cracking his neck sharply left and right, Eleven, Twelve. Snowden stood waiting patiently to be beat up, but Horus seemed in no particular rush, like he wanted to do things right. Finished his stretching, Horus began unbuttoning the length of his Horizon uniform, from his neck down to his groin, revealing a pair of blue and green striped boxer shorts. It was Horus's very flesh, however, that made the biggest impression on Snowden. Not his prison muscles, taut tributes to boredom and vanity, nor the tattoos Snowden recognized as having been etched into his skin with sewing needles and the ink of cheap pens, but Horus's unintentional ornamentation. It was the scars. The flock of thick, keloid slashes from all the knives that had tasted his blood. The dark, dimpled caverns from all the bullets that had failed to kill him.
"What are you doing?" Snowden asked nervously.
"I don't want to get any blood on my work clothes," Horus told him, balancing on one leg to pull his booted foot through the outfit's cuff.
Snowden sought his own anger, that electric green rage that was always begging him for freedom. It was still there, but its hate was focused on Snowden himself for getting into this situation. When Horus was pulling himself out the sleeves, both arms tangled behind him, Snowden sprung forward and punched his opponent in the stomach with all his might. It was a cheap shot, free even, one Snowden would have never considered if he wasn't fairly sure it would be his last chance at a shot at all. Horus collapsed to the sidewalk, gasping, spending a few seconds learning to breathe again.
A sucker punch was a shameful thing, completely without honor, so little face could be lost succumbing to one. It was Snowden's hope that Horus would realize this, give them both an out from this situation, and keep his ass down. It was a faint hope, quickly dashed when Horus's hand shot out and grabbed a broken half of brick discarded by the curb, one of those blunt instruments he was so fond of.
