by Mat Johnson
Snowden woke up paranoid. His dream hallucination that he'd been sleeping in a coffin-sized office drawer turned out to be the product of the manila files underneath the sheets of Piper's bed, ones she hadn't bothered to mention or clear when they'd collapsed there. Snowden was pulling them out from beneath himself when Piper reached out for his hand.
"I didn't expect this, you know. I mean, it wasn't an expectation, do you know what I mean? I realize, at least it's my understanding of this whole thing, that we're just messing around here. But I want to tell you I really appreciate it, you coming over here to console me, taking into account how I must feel."
"Console you" Snowden sat with it a moment, admitted there was no way he could hold that statement that it would make him see it clearly. "I'm sorry, did something happen to you?"
"Jesus." When Piper flopped back on the bed like that, Snowden could hear that there were even more files hidden beneath her. "You didn't even see the article, did you? You probably don't even read the Times, do you?"
"Oh, I don't just not read the Times, I don't read nothing at all. I'm a total moron." Snowden caught the flash of white from Piper's rolling eyes as she jumped out of the bed and past him. He was beginning to wonder if he should follow her when she returned to drop the weight of the Sunday paper on the bed beside him. As she went searching through each section, Snowden became certain that when she was done she would leave the periodical right there where she dropped it for weeks, kicking it piece by piece onto the floor in her sleep.
"You know what? The most annoying thing about all this is now you're going to be all freaking happy about it too, about my travesty." Piper threw the section at him, bouncing it off his slow hands and down to the floor in front of him. The paper looked as if it had been shared by a bored army for a month, its sides soft and rounded from repeated bending, gray with the ink of smeared words.
"My editor in chief called me last night to tell me about it. The bastard even sounded happy that I'd been scooped. He's supposed to be my advocate and I could almost see the old fool smiling on the other end of the phone. He must have gone through my insurance records to get my home number. It was like his little payback for my piece knocking out his Special Report, as if I had a damn thing to do with that."
Snowden heard none of this, the auditory processor of his brain being infringed upon by the visual overload of seeing Cyrus Marks right there on the cover of the real estate section, his smiling visage centered and in color, Horizon Realty's swinging sign over his shoulder, the number showing clearly. Deja vu as Snowden found himself reading the paper with his fate caught in the text, but now the anticipation of each additional sentence given the context of joy. The article's tide, AMID ACCIDENTAL ASHES, A NEW HARLEM BLOSSOMS.
"See? See? Not only does the bastard not mention that I'm the one who broke this story, he doesn't even bother mentioning the New Holland Herald at all. You know, you think sometimes that black people are starting to get respect, then you look at the way the black press gets dissed . . . It's goddamn antebellum. It really is."
"Although much has been made in our local tabloid press about the high number of accidental deaths in the historic Mount Morris section of Harlem, it must be taken into account that these figures apply entirely to the lower-income residents of the area, the elderly, the drug-addicted, and others who are obviously at a much higher risk than the flourishing and unaffected high-income newcomers." After that, Snowden read the sidebar about Mr. Marks, Harlem's favored son. Cyrus Marks was the only real estate agent profiled, his optimism for Harlem quoted and unquestioned, his hope for all Harlem, rich and poor, beyond reproach. A long, run-on sentence listed his charitable contributions and affiliations.
"The thing that kills me is the morally reprehensible tone this guy gets." When Piper got mad, she had a habit of slamming her fist down. The bed shook. "It's like he's implying it's some bourgeois Manifest Destiny, like Harlem is just weeding itself to make room for the moneyed fucks to come steal it away for themselves. It's disgusting."
Snowden got to the quote from Lester at the end. "A well-groomed, courteous man, Marks's one-time parolee, then chauffeur, and now lead agent. 'Of course white New Yorkers are welcome in Harlem, just as the former president himself. Black Harlem enjoys the diversity they bring to our community'"
If there were any lingering suspicions about the accidents, this article dispersed them beyond the borders of memory. It was the first moment since he saw Baron Anderson's lifeless body that Snowden could actually believe he would make his way out of his situation. Snowden had never considered sending flowers to a man before, but he promised as he read that Lincoln Jefferson, the reporter, would be his first recipient.
"You know, you could at least give me the respect of not smiling like that until you're dressed and out of here," Piper told him.
The following morning, Monday. The phone rang at seven-ten and it was Lester. Snowden heard the voice and groggily begged to know what was wrong, what did they want of him now, what the hell was wrong with this world.
"Everything's fine," Lester chirped cheerily. "Everything's fine now. Horizon has many friends, in many places. It's all been taken care of."
The day's relocation was originally scheduled for noon, but Lester wanted Snowden to show up at nine instead, back up Nina in reception by clearing the messages off the voice mail. Snowden had performed the duty before and disliked it. Nina was an adherent of the Ebonic school of customer service, felt rudeness as much her right as her paycheck, got even worse when she was forced to share her small territory behind the reception desk. Her image in Snowden's mind was intertwined with the smell of rotten flowers, provided by a decade of her sweating through her perfume in Horizon's cramped front office. The job was easy though, involved sitting in the small space behind her with a notepad, transcribing the messages from the eight or nine calls that, on busy days, overflowed.
When Snowden arrived, Nina didn't even look up, not even to roll her eyes. There were four calls blinking on hold. The voice mailbox was nearly full. Aside from two magazine reporters, every single one of them wanted to know about available properties, when they could come in for a tour. Snowden handled 114 calls by noon, left the rest for her when he went to change into his banana suit again.
THE GATHERING
A NIGHT OF designed levity, a bit of glamour to add to Harlem's luster, a moment to celebrate the unprecedented success of the last few months. Horizon Realty's black tie celebration was conducted along the entire 400 block of West 119th; the Fruit of Islam security force began clearing cars and sealing off the block after sunset. Dinner and dessert were to be held in the lodge's ballroom, but to highlight what the celebration was all about, Horizon-sold brownstones along the street were selected to host the preliminary courses.
Lester noted to the three that this location would have been impossible just two years before, but the comment was unnecessary. The location would have been impossible only eight months ago when they got there. The single-room-occupancy on the far corner from the lodge where the guy used to bring his TV out on the stoop attached to an extension cord - sold to a "happy face" buyer last April. The one across from that whose residents opted for stereo speakers and stained sheets in their windows instead of curtains now the home of a vice president at HBO whose parents uprooted from Mount Morris to Mount Vernon in 1958. Those three vacant shells? Sold in the boom of the last three months. The one whose contractor had yet to start made an impressive donation to the little Leaders Foundation in exchange for its art class painting images of polka-dot-curtained, flower-filled windows over the cinder-blocked ones.
The second Mrs. Bryant began serving hors d'oeuvres before the blockades were even erected, her home the perfect starting point, the incarnation of the brownstone dream. Bought in 1927 by the late Charles Bryant (1972) and refurbished by the first Mrs. Bryant soon after, enjoyed by her for nearly ten years before she was hit by an errant taxi somewhere in Murray Hill. "She had excellent tastes
," said the second Mrs. Bryant, tray in hand, blooming under her guests' collective gaze.
Appetizers were up the steps of the Franklin townhouse. Joshua Franklin, two-year resident, his fiancée Regina Buder, resident for half that time. They had the food catered from three different Harlem restaurants: Bandana (Dominican), Bamboo (Creole), and of course M&G's Soul Food. The decor of the Franklin house could best be described as a mix between old brown wood and old brown cultures, the African carvings blending seamlessly in with the dark Victorian fixtures.
The residence of Daniel Harper and Gil Meehan was of much lighter bent, eggshell walls serving as perfect screens for the colorful mirages projected by outside lights through their many stained-glass windows. "All original," they assured their visitors. Mr. Harper was a set designer, Mr. Meehan a makeup artist. Everyone found Gil a treasure, appreciated that the white man seemed so at ease to be so outnumbered, appreciated the diversity he brought to the crowd.
Charlene and Bill Dougal were scheduled to offer coffee, tea, and cider in their living room, but the contractor had worked late and there was so much dust that they ran his industrial extension cord out to the front stoop and served from there. Originally excited about the idea, Charlene had called Lester Baines just that morning to try to back out, fearing that in comparison to the others, their brownstone, which had only just begun its transformation back to a single-family-home from a single-room-occupancy, would serve as a cautionary tale as well as an embarrassment. By nine P.M., when all participants were called to the serving of the main course in the lodge by Ghanaian talking drums, Charlene was relieved Lester'd never returned her call. The Dougals' home, its shredded floors, its barren caulk-filled walls had indeed seemed stark in comparison, but the emotion it prompted in the visitors was awe, and not simply for how little they'd paid for it. Strangers openly marveled at her strength in the face of such a momentous undertaking, the undertaking itself and goal at the end of it. The crowd grew in what would one day be the Dougals' dining room, forsaking the more comfortable alternatives to listen to the woman as she stood in front of the tent covered in plaster dust and nailed to the floor between the wood beams that the Dougals' were at this stage sleeping in. Engrossed in the tales of the trials she'd already encountered, the guests eased her fears with their own projections of how beautiful it would be when completed. They listened and believed for a moment that they too could be pioneers up here.
Having one's waitstaff dressed in Harlem Renaissance period clothes was so overdone, it was decided to have them dress up in traditional African garb instead. Ibos served entrees, Ashanti warriors handed out bottles of Star Beer while struggling to keep their kente wraps on with their left hands. Masai stood on one foot, aperitif trays attached to the ends of their staffs. Roles were assigned based on ethnic resemblance. Handing out the costumes, Horus joked that Bobby, by that logic, should be forced to "hold one of them spear trays as well," which was funny the first time, but Horus just kept saying it.
Horus's date was not a stripper. Horus's date was not a stripper. If Horus's date was not a stripper, then why was he smiling like that, repeatedly pulling Snowden to the side to deny something she was never accused of? Why was she wearing shoes with glass heels the size of hot dogs? Why was she handing out his business card? What other possible explanation could there be?
Snowden was dateless. Piper was there but had come on an invitation to the staff of the New Holland Herald, and that relationship was dying down anyway. With Snowden extremely careful about what he said to her, they had run out of things to talk about, or rather, after two months of little more than polite banter, they had become embarrassed that they'd found no shared interest to elevate the dialogue. They'd found a few things to argue about, but since the relationship had yet to develop enough animosity to need an outlet for it, those topics felt pointless as well. mostly they had sex, and mostly to cover up the silences, and not even that often anymore.
Snowden had never had a relationship that lasted longer than five months. Once one was started, he'd begin immediately asking himself how it would end. When would be the last kiss? Would the relationship explode in a heated exchange over some perceived insult, or would it simply dissipate into nothingness, a phone call never returned or followed up? With Piper, even ignoring the inherent danger of her inquisitive nature, they were so ill matched. Snowden had begun hoping that their end would come quickly and quietly, but was willing to risk a violent confrontation if she took offense at him trying to meet a new, better-suited partner among the night's attendees.
Aside from the minor distraction of Piper, the evening marked the return of the upbeat Snowden (it had been so long). This mental state was due largely to the fact that in all this time no more accidents had even been mentioned by the senior men of Horizon. Snowden had begun to strongly suspect that after the success of the Times article the tactic was deemed no longer necessary. This seemed possible, logical even. Cut your losses — made perfect sense. Snowden adored this suspicion, took comfort in the idea that he could just do his best to take care of Jifar and forget the rest.
The lodge was crowded with the beautiful women of New York City, glowing princesses emigrated from smaller towns and uglier cities, drained of aloofness by the humbling proximity of so many others. Bobby Finley, two cocktails in hand as he circled the room, trying once again to identify his romantic counterpart, his one, past failures far behind him. If she was here, Bobby would go to her and raise the extra glass to ask, "Martini?" and that simply his destined love affair would begin. The Great Work laid as bait back at an apartment somewhat cleaned for the occasion.
The three in immaculate tuxedos, good shoes, even their socks matched. The three affording this because of two months of actually showing clients around, the Second Chance stipend being increased, and Metzer's Formal Wear's buy-two-get-one-free sale. The deal was only for wedding parties, so Horus played the groomsman. Temps had been hired to lift boxes into the homes they'd helped sell, taking the job now beneath them. The three looked so respectable even they could believe they were.
Most of the attendees had never spent much time in Harlem before. (Sharing the dining room of Sylvia's with busloads of German tourists didn't count.) Snowden had seen the guest list, typed out the envelopes himself, had gathered enough from Lester's comments to know who many of them were, even the ones whose faces he didn't recognize. The majority were the highest-ranking black employees of New York's most respected industries, male and female. The rest were cops and parole officers.
The parole officers could be easily identified by their cheap shoes, but Snowden didn't need that marker. Even in the context of these festivities, they stood out to him. They looked like people who spent all day being lied to. They were what happened when the secular, unblinded by faith, spent their lives dealing with humanity's worst at their worst. Worn, mundane, bitter — they were like office coffee left to burn on the plate for days. Snowden hugged walls, kept his nose in his drink, assumed they too could identify him at a glance. They were nothing like the congressman who greeted newcomers at the front door, transcending his bestial frame with elegance, success, and by standing at the top of steep steps. It was obvious to Snowden that the homicidal hedgehog was their hero. His rise from their ranks to become the president of the Parole Division Union, to Congress, to wealth back in the place he served as a public servant was legendary. Tens of them, dusty, smiling creatures, walking around the lodge like they owned it as much as he did.
No cameras, aside from private ones. Regardless of the many media folks in attendance, no press reports were to be written about the event at all, as per the invitation's request. A large but private function. A moment for black America's best and brightest to enjoy Harlem's renewal, take note that its time had returned, sample its possibilities, and maybe take a Horizon card from the discreet stand by the door on the way to their cab back downtown. No party worth attending was publicly reported on.
The upper tenth of the Tenth.
Most seemed to at least recognize each other, or pretend not to, or assume they were being recognized themselves, their private motions a dramatic interpretation of ease.
A lack of notable weather patterns raised the prominence of housing as a casual discussion topic, a New York City favorite made that much more appropriate by the occasion. Where do you live, what part, what size, how much? In New York, the questions were not considered rude or intrusive, because there was no way you could answer wrong. If you paid a lot it was a tribute to your wealth, bonding ground for the overpaying majority. If you paid barely anything at all it was a testament to your good fortune and ingenuity. Residence in the best neighborhoods was a source of pride, but residency in the worst even more so. It meant you were a visionary pioneer, braving the urban elements to bet on the next slum to become the next Utopia.
Not used to free food or drink, Snowden was both full and drunk by the time he'd arrived at the lodge for his entree. The rest of the guests weren't far behind him. This was when he noticed the first accident talk. Someone walking up the lodge's front steps slipped, sent a hand shooting for purchase on the wide stone banister. A voice in the crowd behind said, "Careful there, hold on tight! You don't want to be another clumsy Negro at the morgue!" Snowden, who always clenched the railing for that very reason, at first thought the warning was directed at him, then loosened his grip ever so slightly.
Inside and warmed, that incident had already been drained of reality for him, a moment of paranoia, vestiges of guilt he knew he was still susceptible to. Then came a guest's joke announcement warning the crowd to be "extremely careful" with their leftover appetizer toothpicks. Followed by a yell from across the room to be wary of the electric sockets, followed by another's calm reassurance that with nearly 200 folks in attendance, statistics said at least 190 had absolutely nothing to worry about. Greater laughter greeted everyone. All the fear returned, Snowden moved quickly away from the sound, was the first to find his place card at a table and sit down. From behind him, a man in the crowd claimed to have dressed as the Chupacabra for Halloween as well. Together, he and his companions threw out conjectures about what one might look like. Snowden tried to hum them out, still heard pieces of the man's story, something about sewing on dried pig snouts from the pet store.
