Hunting in Harlem

by Mat Johnson

  Credit ratings, no matter how disparaging, should be considered only if they displayed a clear weakness of character. Credit card debt, in fact, could be erased with the purchase of the house, included in the price of the home and then passed back to the client as a rebate to assist him in lowering his interest payments, getting him on the right track to afford the household maintenance cost he might not be prepared for.

  Lester was in the process of telling them how to enable a happy face buyer with bad credit to circumvent the bank when someone knocked on the door behind them. All turned, all surprised, because while they'd certainly heard a door knocked on in their lifetimes, they had never heard this one. Snowden, closest to it, got up and walked to it when no one else did. It had opaque glass at the top of it, and the light was on brightly in the hall leading to the stairs beyond, and Snowden could see a little brown head at the bottom. Swinging the door open, it wasn't Jifar but an even younger boy who walked in wearing the little Leader sports coat and went to Lester with a note in his hand. The child was no higher than Snowden's belly button and at no more than six years of age could not have written the message he was offering. After reading it, a blank-faced Lester picked up the child and held him at his side like a monkey as he walked out and closed the door behind him.

  "He's coming back, right?" Horus asked no one. "Cuz, yo, I did the homework. Whole time I was in school, I think I did the homework maybe once. Y'all read that stuff? I loved that shit."

  Bobby enjoyed the fact that both his and Snowden's seats were just far enough behind Horus's that he could offer mocking glances and not get his face punched in.

  "I knew you'd love that one," Bobby offered, the smile he was wearing hidden in his voice.

  "The Art of War," Horus said, turning around to hold up the title to them as if on their desks were not two identical copies. "I heard about this shit before, but yo, I didn't think I could relate like that. That part about training the harem, that's for real. I seen that before, no joke. Back Chi-Town, there was this pimp down by the old stadium, a Ranger, had a stable just like that. Killer hoes. He trained them, I bet he read that shit. Straight up, cold-blooded killer hoes. Sounds funny but I ain't even joking. I seen them jack a nigger up before, right in front me. That's all a general is too, a pimp getting you to sacrifice yourself for what he wants, just like a ho."

  Snowden was actually disappointed when Horus's take on the philosophy of Sun Tzu was interrupted by Lester again at the door, this time saying class would be canceled for the day and made up the following Thursday, when the only move on the schedule was a studio coming up from ninety-third and Columbus. By the time the three had rebuttoned their jackets, repacked the briefcases they'd appropriated just for this occasion, Lester was nowhere to be found. Upon walking out the door, Snowden could hear the unusual sound of a television coming from upstairs.

  It was a lovely day with only a few hours wasted. There was a deep blue above them that stretched all the way across to tenement horizons. There was elation on the part of Bobby and Horus, and they insisted on sharing that with their inexplicably gloomy competitor. The president was supposed to arrive today, they could go now instead of waiting for their lunch hour. Horus, determined not to let Snowden slip home, clamped a hand on Snowden's slumping shoulder as they passed his block, kept it there firmly until they'd walked two streets past it.

  With no radio present to inform them otherwise, they walked over toward the Adam Clayton Powell building to see the former leader, but more to participate and witness the spectacle it would create. It guaranteed to be an impressive one because this was a president so beloved by black people that he was referred to with some regularity as "the first black president." Unfortunately, this was not because the white man had shown an emotional commitment to the black community, though he had, but because he grew up on welfare in a broken home, was raised by his mother, couldn't keep his dick in his pants, and had a penchant for big bootie women, but when you'd never had a president to call your own you didn't get particular.

  For years, every black bookstore and stand had sold a pamphlet claiming several presidents as secretly black, based on unreliable reports of distant African ancestry. However, most of these presidents hated black people anyway, so what was the point in claiming them? It was refreshing to have a president who publicly embraced his perceived "blackness," who truly loved black people, because this is what it was all about, anyway. This was the only voting issue in the black community. Education, drugs, crime, affirmative action, all secondary, none of them driving masses to the polls. The only issue black people voted on en masse was whether the candidate hated them. Loved was better, but a rare luxury. This was what they asked, this is what they responded to. This is why some politicians could propose a bill for slavery reparations and still most black folks wouldn't vote for them: because they could look at their lips and see the word nigger floating effordessly between them. They would vote for a crackhead if they knew he had a place in his heart for them.

  When Snowden, Bobby, and Horus arrived to find that no crowd had assembled in front at 125th and Adam Clayton Powell other than the one that always surged there, it was Horus who was most disappointed. He had, repeatedly, pointed out the fact to the others that he hadn't been laid since Chicago, a period of time going on five months now, a span of drought he claimed was unheard of. This comment was usually followed by a complaint about New York women, "Them bitches act like they don't want to speak when you call them out on the street" being Horus's primary grievance. Considering the ex-president's well-documented sexual escapades, Horus was expecting a legion of lustful females in attendance, scores of potential "Horus Adorus" to recruit from. It was due to Horus's insistence that instead of turning around, the three instead found themselves in front of the chipping white paint of the once majestic Hotel Theresa, amid the small crowd surrounding the television news crew set up there.

  For producer Byron Harding, the objective of field reporting was not simply to announce information, but to capture and convey the energy of the location itself. Anchors could give facts, what field reporters offered was feeling, bringing news to life for the viewers. For this reason, when conducting street interviews, it was always his mission to select people who truly represented their environment. On Wall Street, whenever the financial news crossed over into the mainstream coverage, it was important to have at least one man in an expensive suit, one floor trader in his signature jacket, and one street vendor, for the everyman color. In Chinatown, older Asian market women were preferable for an emotional, less educated response, and younger Asian student types were pulled for the more intellectual commentary (glasses preferable). On the Upper West Side, white women with strollers and white men in casual clothing, both between the ages of thirty and fifty were essential. On the Upper East Side, older women in expensive outfits were all you were looking for, preferably with small dogs in hand, captured under the awnings of their buildings and with doormen behind them. Of course, there were always other people in all of these neighborhoods, out-of-place ethnicities and classes either passing through or local minorities, but Byron's goal was to get the true voice of a community, the archetype with an opinion.

  So Byron was doing a story in Harlem. He had already taped two morbidly obese black women, one of whom had actually reached into her shirt and pulled a Kleenex from her bra to wipe her forehead during the interview, a detail he was particularly pleased with. Byron had also collected tape of several large, sweating dark men, the kind he associated with Harlem, but while all the sound bites had been good enough to edit down to the fifteen-second piece they were being collected for, he was still searching for that one interview he needed to collect before they left for Chelsea and their next story. The interviewee with a bit more color, the easy plug-in for the closing of the segment. One of those salt-of-the-earth characters places like Harlem were associated with in the minds of the viewers, a much less refined and much more flamboyant character who would speak his or he
r mind with little regard for restraint, propriety, or grammar. Byron Harding wouldn't have used the N-word. It was always a shock, considering his understanding of Harlem, that it took so long to find the right one. When he saw the answer to his problem approaching, a muscular, feral, brown-skinned man in a green suit covered in luminescent gold buttons and tassels, all Byron could think was, Jesus Christ a walking Christmas tree, thanking the heavens that he worked in the age of color television.

  When the camera crew charged in their direction, Bobby and Snowden spread with the rest of the crowd. Horus didn't even shift weight from one leg to the other. Whether it was that there was no question in his mind that he was their target or he simply didn't get out of people's way as rule was uncertain. Snowden watched him and he didn't even see Horus glance at the camera, he was so captivated by the woman who came with it, the one with the makeup too heavy for the weather, the primary-color ensemble, and the microphone.

  "Sir, are you a Harlem resident?" the woman asked. Luanda something, Snowden recognized the woman from watching her in other neighborhoods talking about their problems. She was usually the one they brought out when it had to do with Negroes. Next to Horus she looked like a mannequin for children's clothes. Why were they all so short in person? Wasn't there one tall person out there insecure enough to sacrifice all for fame too?

  "Fine, fine lady, I am not only a Harlem resident, I am the salvation of folks who dream of being a Harlem resident. I am the man who makes that dream come true. Horizon Properties, ask for Horus when you call. Horus, like the black god, not like the thing the Lone Ranger rides on." Horus reached into his uniform and whipped out one of his business cards like the reporter had asked for it, but as soon as she hesitanlyy reached out to take it, Horus whipped it away, held it up with two hands by its corners against the camera lens. The look of the producer looking back at this fool: like he'd just won something. Smiling, giving the camera and reporter the thumbs-up to continue.

  The reporter, behind the press badge and mask of makeup, was Luanda Mullins, once ashy kneed like the rest of them, her own baby-powdered chest the closest she ever got to white skin growing up in Spring Falls, South Carolina: how sick was she of this shit? When am I going to just take this microphone and hit someone, be they coon or coon hunter? How can I make a difference if by the time I'm in a position to do so I've given up so much of my soul? Luanda Mullins, reporting for WKPS News, leaned the microphone forward to the latest amusement, promised herself to make a three-figure donation to the Urban League tomorrow and an equally expensive visit to her massage therapist that night.

  "Are you aware that a recent report done by the New Holland Herald shows that residents of Harlem have a forty-two percent greater chance of accidental death than any other neighborhood?" Horus took the information, curled his pointer finger over his lips and bowed his brow, but only long enough for the gesture to be registered, snapping back immediately to his previous position.

  "Well, as you know, Harlem's own New Holland Herald is a very respected paper with a long tradition - I myself am counted among its readers - but I would have to disagree with the article itself, the way you're telling it. I am an extremely graceful individual, and if y'all are saying black folks are particularly clumsy as a people, I got the names of several hundred millionaires in the NBA who might disagree with you." The last comment almost got Luanda Mullins to laugh, an urge exacerbated by desperation not to do so. In exchange for his lucid, if odd, statement, Luanda decided to offer him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there was a reason he was dressed like that. Maybe the Universoul Circus was in town.

  "So you don't think there's anything odd about it? Have you heard people saying it's the Chupacabra running around?"

  "What the hell is that? They like the Latin Kings? I'm from Chicago, I don't have no type of association with those dudes."

  "No, it's an urban myth, a monster. Just, could you give us a comment on whether you think this might put a damper on its current real estate boom?"

  "Harlem is the savior of New York City, the top of the island because that's where cream rises, understand? There ain't no problem up here. Where else in Manhattan you gonna go, you gonna get a beautiful brownstone for under five hundred thousand dollars? Where you going to rent a fine two-bedroom for less than fifteen hundred? The only monster around here is me, sweet thing, and I'm a monster of love."

  The last sentence got edited. So did the bit with the business card. The rest didn't. Horus was shown in mute clips behind the teaser ads in between the cartoons until the four o'clock news finally came around as promised. After that, aside from the begrudging nod between six-thirty and seven P.M. to the entire world that somehow existed outside New York City, the segment played regularly at twenty-six and fifty-six past the hour, sports then weather, then Big Daddy Horus breaking it down.

  Every time he saw it, Snowden noticed something new about the moment as well, like Horus giving the reporter a long wink after his "graceful" line, or the look on Snowden's own gray face behind Horus's right shoulder. That Snowden kept mouthing "oh shit" to himself for the length of the interview, a fact that had not Bobby joyously pointed out Snowden would have remained unaware of.

  Every single time, at twenty-nine and fifty-nine past the hour, the anchors concluded with commentary on either Horus's personal appearance or his visible interest in their windblown coworker. Every time they found this funny, more so as the evening continued. By the news's final episode, the last representation of the present before reruns promoted the past again, the sports anchor, a white man much too old for his haircut, followed the clip with the sole comment, "Thank you, General," and the entire cast lost it. The weatherman, by breed a particularly jolly fellow to begin with, was literally caught off balance by the comment, falling off his stool and to the floor in laughter, taking several once neat piles of notes with him. Laughter could be heard coming from off camera as well, both before and after this minor accident. As the light dimmed on the set, Snowden could see the outline of the four who remained seated, their heads bowed, their backs bouncing, each to the rhythm of their own hilarity.

  For Snowden, it didn't get old either: that sinking feeling it evoked, the way it made his nipples poke firm and the top of his lip sweat though no other part of him did. The growing certainty that he would spend the rest of his days in prison and then in hell if the Christians were right about the afterlife. In Snowden's imagination Lester mouthed "loose lips sink ships" as he "accidentally" pushed Snowden over his own building's banister.

  "Look, I don't see what you're getting yourself worked up about. It's not like this is going to ruin the market up here," Bobby offered. "It sure as hell doesn't help, Snowden my man. People already have enough little horrid fantasies about Harlem, but it's not like everything is over. It's just an anomaly, there're tons of old folks and users up here messing up the curve. Look at it this way, with the housing situation as tight as it is, the more of them that knock off, the more places we got to move people in. By 'any means necessary'"

  "You know what? That's a cliche."

  "No it's not, it's a quote. I am a literary writer, Snowden. I don't deal in cliches," Bobby dismissed.

  Snowden ignored Bobby Finley, kept drinking. He'd started at two in lieu of pizza but threw up after the first telecast so felt he had some making up to do.

  "I wish I was Catholic," Snowden confessed. This time it was his turn to be ignored as Bobby desperately surfed channels for something as absurd as Horus to keep his good mood going. Snowden wished he was Catholic because he wanted to do some talking. He gave himself a count of sixty during which he would tell Bobby about his side project, about Jifar's dad and his final song, even how he'd messed around with Piper and told her about it, that she'd blown the whistle and they were all surely doomed now, them, the little Leaders, even Harlem. Bobby lay on his couch atop a layer of rejected pages of The Tome. Their sense of housekeeping - yet another thing Bobby and his soul mate had in common.

&n
bsp; "I slept with her," Snowden offered. It was meant as an opening toward much greater revelation, a warmup. I am a sinner, he heard himself saying. The engravings, the monks' self-mutilation and torture, Snowden understood them now. Catholics could drink as much as they wanted too, the religion was made for him, he could only hope he'd remember his conversion tomorrow.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Bobby asked, but there was already pain there. There was already a mental image because, even though he wanted it to be different, at the vague reference "her" it was Piper Goines he thought of.

  For Snowden's part, it was simply stunning how quickly his desire for self-flagellation and revelation abandoned him. In the moment between when punishment was instigated and the blows were to come, it had absconded, leaving a flow of dread to fill out the cavern burned by desire. "Oh shit" once again emerged as Snowden's mantra.

  "Look, I mean, you were right about the whore thing. Totally. She was just not your 'one.' I think this just proves that more than anything."

  "You fucked her." Bobby had picked up his lighter, was practicing opening the lid and lighting it at the same time with just a snap of his fingers. Perfect every time. Snap and then whoosh and then there was this flame as long as an erection, blue and narrow, lighting up Bobby's face and the room beyond it. The sight turned the remaining waste in Snowden's bowels to liquid. Hearing his intestines gurgle like a novelty straw, it was with some awe that Snowden noted, Wow, I'm so scared I'm about to poop myself. Lying seemed a better alternative.

  "Yo, my man, it was after, after you said you wouldn't have anything to do with her. Days past, you already made it clear you wasn't interested, that she was not the one. I ran into her at a bar, we got drunk, it was awful. An awful, skanky thing. I was immediately ashamed of myself. I just tell you this to, you know, confess my sin to you. I am so, so sorry. And you were right, she's a bad, bad person. And she hurt me, she hurt me too. I got seduced, then she used me, and it hurts, man. It really does. I just wanted you to know that you were right all along. She's evil. I just should have listened."