by Mat Johnson
SITUATION
HE LOOKS A little . . . peaked," Cyrus Marks noted. "Does he always look like that?"
"No, no, not at all. I think it's just the stress of the immediate situation. And I gave him a Valium as well." In response to a look, Lester followed with, "Just a Valium, just one. Just to calm him down."
Snowden was sitting on his usual chair in the lodge's basement classroom, the other two men were in front of him. Cyrus Marks with a brown yarn mane circling his head, whiskers drawn with greasepaint on his cheeks, a plastic cup of fruit punch still gripped in one felt paw as it was when Lester pulled him from the children's party. Snowden was silent. Snowden had nothing to say anymore. He kept thinking he would start talking again, but since they'd left Baron Anderson's it hadn't happened.
"If you're worried about the boy, don't be," Cyrus Marks consoled. "Of course he'll have some sad days ahead, but after that his future will be brighter than it's ever been. Lester already introduced . . ."
"Jifar," a smiling Lester helped.
"Right! Jifar, already introduced him. A lovely, sensitive boy. Intelligent. You can see it in the eyes. He'll come here now, and he'll fit into the little Leaders League perfectly. Several of our young ones were the offspring of accidents."
"Almost all, actually," Lester clarified. Cyrus Marks nodded in agreement, leaned in closer.
"It really is an amazing program, now that you're moving closer to the inner circle I can tell you. Some of the best tutors in the city, museum trips weekly - we really take advantage of all New York has to offer. We're even planning a new language component, we'll have them fluent in French in two years. Plus, of course - did you tell him about the scholarship fund?"
"No! Not yet, I didn't want to spoil it. Snowden? Snowden? Can you hear me? You'll like this, listen."
"All of their college tuition will be paid for. Horizon has done better than even I could have planned. I'm selling vacant shells right now I bought at forty thousand dollars for ten times that! If the housing boom continues just a bit longer, we'll even be able to set up graduate school funds as well. Imagine that. Not only are we breaking poverty's cycle of ignorance and violence, we are literally producing the next generation of leaders right here."
"Why?" Snowden muttered. It was a breakthrough. Snowden said it several more times immediately after, each utterance bringing his mind closer to the surface. Cyrus Marks is dressed as a lion, he realized. The congressman is dressed like a lion but still reminds me of a hedgehog, only now he looks like a hedgehog dressed up as a lion.
"Why? I think I just explained a good enough reason to you. In the larger sense? It's time. Harlem, like so many black communities, has just been getting by for years now. We've been treading water, focusing on keeping afloat. Thing is, we've never swum ashore because so much of our energy goes toward overcoming the leaden weights - like your Mr. Anderson - that pull us down. It's simply time to cut them loose, isn't it? Move on."
"There's something wrong with my ears. I hear words, but none of it makes sense. Lester? I think it was that pill you gave me."
"I just gave you one Valium."
"Lester." Snowden turned to him not in search of a sympathetic ear but out of the hope that he was the less mad of the two before him. "What you're talking about, what you're both being all matter-of-fact about, it's crazy. You know that already, right? You're talking about killing people. Shit, you're talking about lynching! You can't commit . . . atrocities and think that good can come out of that."
"Oh but Snowden, it does!" Lester said, looking to greet Cyrus Marks's gaze so they could nod back and forth their mutual agreement. "It's very sad, really, but if you look at history, you'll see that almost all drastic social improvement is the result of moments of inhumanity. It was the staunch disregard for the humanity of blacks and Indians that made America the great nation it is today. The world can be changed. A terrible beauty is born all the time."
Cyrus Marks, hand on Lester's shoulder, interrupted. "This is a new age, Mr. Snowden, we need new ways of doing things. My generation, the last of the civil rights warriors, we've done our part, but our way of thinking and fighting has become as old and weak as our bodies. We were raised to fight white oppression, and guess what? We won! Not every battle, but that war is basically over, as we knew it. Nowadays, black folks' biggest problem isn't white racism, it's ourselves. White people aren't breaking into our homes, attacking us on the streets, or selling drugs to our children, it's black people who terrorize us, isn't it? You don't fight drug lords like Parson Boone with marches, sit-ins, or rallies. Harlem doesn't need another mural or community center, another law or bill, we need new blood, new ideas to fight new enemies. That's why you're here. This is your destiny. This is our last stand."
"But I don't want to stand. I don't want to stand for anything," Snowden told Marks, but the congressman wasn't listening.
"Those coons, those liabilities who hold us back, will be eliminated! In their place, we're bringing the best and brightest of our people to make this place thrive again. We do a dark deed, my brother, but when the price is paid Harlem will become the shining jewel of the black world it was meant to be. Harlem is a symbol! Imagine what it would mean to all those other ghettos across the world if we could prove that it is possible for the oppressed to rise from the ashes, seize their own destiny, and thrive like never before. Don't you want to be a part of that?"
"Wow. . . You're really fucking nuts, aren't you?" Snowden said. It wasn't even meant as an insult. It was an observation. Either way, the older man leaped from his seat and in an instant had both thick hands around Snowden's neck, his momentum knocking the two of them to the floor. Once there, Cyrus Marks continued trying to slam Snowden's head into the linoleum, the smell of his boiled cabbage breath stronger with every word.
"Now you listen to me, you little shit! You're already so deep in this you should be breathing out the top of your head. We could go to our friends in the police department and get them to book you for Anderson or any of the other executions you've been cleaning up after and leaving fingerprints behind for months. Don't think we couldn't use a fall guy: No corporation ever has enough insurance. In light of Lester's recommendation, though, I'm going to forget your attitude. I'm going to chalk it up to nerves, little Cedric, give you a second chance to redeem yourself. You're going to pay me back with two - "
"Fuck you," Snowden managed to get past Marks's choking hands.
" — three more accidents. Lester needs a break anyway. If, at the end of that period you want to quit, I'll let you. I'll have enough leverage on you to last a fucking lifetime. If you shock me and rise to the level of the challenge, learn to believe in the wisdom and importance of our mission, then you will be a welcomed permanent addition to the cause. How's that? You have my word. The choice is yours, then, so enjoy it. It'll be your only bit of free will for a while."
The congressman found his way back to standing, carefully brushed off his fur. Snowden stayed on the cold linoleum until Marks had left. Lester offered his handkerchief, then his hand.
"Well, that certainly could have gone better, but surely it could have gone much, much worse too. Our congressman is a very passionate, driven man, that's what makes him so good at everything he attempts. Does he remind you of your father?"
"What? No. Why would he? My father was a loser. He was vicious and crazy, too, so I guess there's some similarity if that's what you're going to go by." Snowden wanted to cry. He scrunched up his face, tried to cry, but nothing came out so he gave up.
"Come now, it won't be as bad as you think. I'll help you with your assignments, teach you the tricks. No rush, we won't be dealing with any accident business for a while, anyway. You probably didn't see it, but an article slipped into the New Holland Herald that touched a little close to home on the topic; we're working to figure out its source. Just in case though, I think all around a break is needed."
Snowden sat at attention. Snowden's mouth forced into its first smi
le of the evening. "I did see that but I'm sure it's nothing. Nothing to be concerned about. I mean, let's face it, it is the New Holland Herald. I mean, nobody actually reads that rag." Snowden tried to smile.
Lester covered his mouth to contain his laughter. "How irreverent, Snowden. You are just so bad," he giggled indulgently.
Snowden took Jifar back from the lodge with him. The boy had made friends, it was the first time Snowden had seen him with children his own age or that happy. Back at their own building, he knocked on Jifar's front door like he actually expected Baron Anderson to open it, thought he heard a noise on the other side and became utterly petrified that the knob would turn. The image stayed with him in sleep, was not evaporated by daylight when he and the boy were back again, banging loud enough to wake the dead if that was possible. Jifar slept on the couch, watched cartoons and three Planet of the Apes sequels, and didn't seem to get worried until it got dark once more.
Lester buzzed the cops in. The boy was upstairs eating the ordered pizza; Snowden spent most of the proceedings sitting on the step Jifar used to sleep on. They walked in, they walked out, Snowden looked shocked when they told him. That wasn't hard, the hard part was not seeming like he was in a state of shock when he called 911 and they showed up in the first place.
Lester went off to intercept Child Welfare, Snowden went back upstairs to tell the boy. Jifar took the news of his father's death fairly well, Snowden knew, because he had no real understanding of what it meant.
Snowden knew what loss meant. Jifar's crying over the next two days, it was just the harbinger of the real pain. Snowden also knew guilt and profound regret, and understood that as agonizing as it was to listen to, it was only the beginning of his own suffering.
None of Jifar's cousins were prepared to take him in, but Horizon of Harlem was, and those relatives who cared in any way about the boy were thankful for it. They toured its halls en masse after the funeral, marveled at the little Leaders League's fully loaded toy room in the basement, the oak walls of their dining area, the luminescent glow of their computer room. Thank God for these good people, they said to themselves as they signed the papers. Maybe they were right. Maybe some good can out of this, they told each other as they left Jifar behind.
OH TANNENBAUM
A PPARENTLY SOMEBODY DID read the New Holland Herald, it just took a week. The issue in question almost made it successfully off the stands without incident, was a day away from being replaced by a newer edition destined to go equally unnoticed, when political events brought the eyes of New York to Harlem and then suddenly left them there with nothing to look at.
The source of Snowden's misfortune was an improbably large pimple on the nose of the former president of the United States of America. It was a painful, intrusive ball underneath a red mound of porous skin, and the moment it broke through in a white dot smaller than a period, the leader of the free world attacked, against the advice of his closest advisers. Sadly, the move proved an impertinent one, as the zit became infected, and the following morning returned fire with an expected display of swelling and pus, so that no amount of professional makeup could hide it. Luckily, the president had just recently finished his term and left office, so all public events scheduled for the day could be, and were, canceled. Despite the fact that all the news crews had arrived and were set up there waiting for him.
So apparently, somebody did read the New Holland Herald, somebody associated with UPN 9 News, who was spied on by someone who leaked E-mails to WB 11 News, who employed another person, whose idea of corporate sabotage was to call in all proposed exclusive stories to her contact at New York 1, because by eleven-thirty A.M. all three set up live feeds on 125th Street to run with the New Holland Herald's front-page story.
Their broadcast vans double-parked, their field reporters impeccably manicured, they may have arrived to cover an appearance by the ex-president to announce the site of his new office (canceled due to "flulike symptoms"), but now they fought vigorously for positioning on the filler story. UPN 9, the first to arrive, maintained their positioning at the entrance of the Adam Clayton Powell Federal Building, while the crew for New York 1 maintained their position across the street as well, satisfied with the more scenic view of the entire structure in the background and confident they could keep their presenter standing in just the right position that his head would block out the sight of the UPN 9 crew and van behind him. WB 11 chose instead to broadcast a block away and use the Apollo Theater as a backdrop, partly because it was Harlem's most recognizable landmark and partly because the WB network had recently begun airing reruns of Showtime at the Apollo. The onsite producer had received a call, soon after the presidential story was delayed and the unusually high accidental death rate filler was pushed in, that this location would be in his best interest.
The three men of the Second Chance Program sat in the lodge's basement classroom, one profoundly miserable, the other two simply happy that this morning was not one of the ones when they were required to move something heavy. It was a beautiful thing, getting up tired and feeling the remnant of every muscular overindulgence, walking into a house and seeing the couch, each chair and dresser, and not having to motivate your body to abuse itself once more in the process of lifting them.
Mr. M. R. Linden brought his typical level of passion to his lecture topic of the day: creating and facilitating a bidding war on a property. M. R. Linden kept using that word for it, war, repeating it regularly with visible relish, the tick-sized beads of his sweat re-forming every time he wiped them away. The basic point was simple: Force the buyer to bet not simply on the worth of the property but also against the net worth of the fellow bidders, and the settlement price inflates to a figure all parties would have laughed at at the beginning of the seduction. M. R. Linden's technique, that's where the beauty was. The "missent" faxes and E-mails, assisting the banks in preapproving loans far beyond the interested parties' intended mortgage range "just to be sure," the early "steadfast" bidding due dates that induce high offers to serve as mere starting points when the date magically became malleable again. When Linden concluded, Horus was so moved he provided a one-man standing ovation, one that M. R. Linden took solemnly and with much grace, offering a simple, courteous nod before turning his cell phone back on and departing with the same swiftness he arrived with. Silk that fine made no sound no matter how thick the legs it covered or how fast they walked away.
The Chupacabra was dressed in purple, a melanzana suit lined with golden pinstripes, violet dress shirt, gold socks and tie, his processed hair ever wet and parted to the other side on this day for no given reason. Lester began his portion of the day's lesson as he often did.
"Why are we here? Are we here to make money?" The way Lester said it, the disgust on the final word made even Horus respond in the negative, give his one-word answer with nearly as much conviction as he had just shown at the prospect of ripping people off. Snowden looked over at Horus, looked at the tiny pupils dotting the whites of his eyes, and was convinced you could bring in fifty different insane ideologues in as many hours, each contradicting the last, and Horus would believe every one of them equally. There was a gang lord somewhere in Chicago missing this guy. There was a neighborhood out there were he remained, as myth, a resident.
"Then what are we trying to make here?" By this time, Lester had preached the Horizon message so many times he could come in cold, not having lectured since the week before, and his crowd was still warm for him.
"Community," two said in unison. Snowden remained silent, engrossed with staring at the floor, imagining what hell would be like beneath it.
"I think I heard a whisper. I said, I think somebody forgot and left their radio on because I heard the whisper of a word but I don't know what it was."
"Community!" the three screamed. Snowden felt nauseous but yelled with the others anyway just to move the day on so he could go home and cry again.
This goal asserted, Lester began to diagram the preferred Horizon
buyer, a status not achieved by a high bid but based on the other assets this prospective resident brought to the community. At the top of the list were families with children, nuclear and otherwise, in which the adults were heavily invested in those children's education and lives in general. These were given a happy face on the blackboard. Four quick strokes done effordessly, not since Michelangelo had there been a freehand circle as true as this one. Conversely, parents and/or guardians who were involved in their careers and/or social lives at the expense of the children's needs, or adults whose children had an established history of antisocial behavior, were given a thumbs-down, a symbol Lester took the time to draw, knobs for the four folded fingers and the nail on the downturned digit included. Same-sex couples and households where the adults had an ongoing record of community involvement were given a happy face as well. Same-sex couples, particularly male ones, Lester explained like he wanted his class to write this down, on the whole were more likely to invest in their property and its general appearance, those without children having a much greater disposable income and time to invest in the community in general.
