Hunting in Harlem (13 page)
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.
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.