Hunting in Harlem (28 page)
It was that easy. That African bass thrown into his voice for resonance, his pointer finger raised for emphasis, thumb resisting
halfway up it as a nod to Martin Luther King, and all of a sudden he was a leader. The words kept coming, falling after each
other easily, even the intonation came naturally. A couple of minutes in and he wasn't even listening to what he was saying,
but that was OK because he was busy reading the crowd instead. "Yes, searching for tomorrow's leaders among yesterday's failures
is dramatic and extreme, but what Horizon's Second Chance Program recognizes is that facilitating dramatic change in the ghetto
is going to take the extreme." When the front door opened across the room, Snowden was in such a flow he instinctively raised
his voice to keep the spell from unwinding. When Snowden saw the top of the black hat, then the uniform below it, he didn't
stutter, he didn't lose one bit of his passion or speed. He just thought,
Well, that's it. They've finally come for me.
Starting to lose the attention of the room as the cop pushed his way to the front of the crowd, Snowden slammed his fist down
on the podium for emphasis. Lester was the one who went to the officer, cut him off before he could get any closer. Snowden
watched as the two clasped like family and asked himself,
How could I ever question that this
was meant to be}
As Lester guided the officer back to the kitchen, Snowden nodded and smiled but didn't stop speaking for a moment.
By the time Snowden heard the door behind him open again he was firmly into the stride of his conclusion and had forgotten
his moment of panic. It came back to him, though, the feeling if not the specifics, when midsentence a tapped shoulder was
followed by the ear-whispered, "We have a serious problem." When Snowden turned to look at Lester's face he almost didn't
recognize it, having never seen it shaped by fear before.
Bobby Finley sat on the top of the Mount Morris watchtower with a bullhorn, a child hostage, and at least a thousand hardback
copies of the same book soaked in gasoline. This last number was an estimate and varied considerably depending on whether
you asked the crowd of firemen, the crowd of EMS workers, or one of the many representatives of the police. It was a clear
and sunny day and Bobby was really buoyed by this, because after all the exhaustive work preparing for this moment, rain would
have really put a damper on things.
Jifar, kicking his legs as they hung over the railing and pointing, was the one who saw Snowden coming, just another exciting
addition in the growing spectacle of the day. The boy deserved a good show, Bobby felt, after being such a good sport about
the heavy lifting and the fumes and everything. The two of them watched in great amusement as Snowden broke from the crowd
and started climbing up to them, leather-soled shoes loosing their purchase on the metal beams wet from the dripping
Great Works,
tie flapping desperately over his shoulder in the wind.
"Let him go," was the first thing Snowden said when his head poked over the edge. Jifar looked at Snowden's huffing sweaty
face and stuck his tongue out. As nervous as Bobby was, it was actually good to see the man.
"Yeah, I need your help with that." Bobby pointed at the mountain-climbing harness already tied around Jifar's waist. "I didn't
want him slipping climbing down so I need your help lowering him."
Snowden looked at the rigging on the boy like it was some sort of pedophiliac bondage gear, asked Jifar if he was hurt in
such a tender voice that the kid just laughed at him. Jifar was sitting on white paper Snowden recognized to be the loose
pages of
The Tome,
strewn everywhere like kindling.
"He's fine, and don't worry, it'll more than carry his weight. It's on a rather ingenious pulley system," Bobby said pointing
up. Snowden saw the dark color of the other man's jeans and realized they were soaking. It was also then that Snowden noticed
that Bobby had his favorite lighter in his hand. "The two of us have been hoisting up boxes and gas cans twice that weight
all afternoon without the slightest problem."
"That shit was dope," Jifar confirmed. "You should have been here!"
Snowden reached down and patted Jifar on the head, in part to see if the boy was as wet as
The Great Works
that were piled everywhere around them. Satisfied to his dryness, Snowden walked closer to Bobby, motioned for them to both
move farther along the perch for privacy.
"This is sick, Bobby. You got me, just like you demanded, now let him go." Snowden didn't even have to whisper for privacy,
another batch of approaching sirens covered his voice for him. Looking down, even at this distance, Snowden could recognize
some of the press people he'd been sermonizing only minutes before, some with their little hors d'oeuvres plates still in
their hands. Marks had barked at Lester immediately for interrupting Snowden's speech, but their guests would have noticed
the sounds and lights of the emergency vehicles climbing up the little hill right outside the window anyway. Forget shrimp,
everybody knew a lazy journalist's first love was a newsworthy spectacle.
"Oh, you can go too, just help me get the kid down safe and do me a little favor once you get on the ground again. I don't
blame you for what happened, Snowden. I don't. I blame myself for creating the situation. I sure as hell blame you for the
part you played, but you're going to have to deal with your conscience in your own way. This is just my way of offering repentance,
making the best out of the situation," Bobby said, holding up the lighter, knocking off the lid with a snap, and just as fast
closing it again. "Tell me something though, does that look like pretty much all the media whores from your little coronation
down there, or should I wait another minute before I get started?"
Snowden looked down. There seemed to be even more of them. Two news vans had appeared, both racing to raise the masts of their
broadcasting antennas. "Don't do this, man," Snowden told him. "You have a cause that really needs you, your intelligence,
your passion."
"I don't have a cause, not like that anymore. What cause could be worth it if it ends up with people like Piper Goines dead?"
Bobby asked, then smiled and waved to the crowd below, clearly enjoying himself. He finally has an audience, Snowden realized.
"So that's it. You're just going to light yourself on fire as some medieval self-punishment. You're just going to give up
on life like that, Bobby." Snowden frowned his distaste. "That is so stupid."
Bobby stopped waving, stopped smiling too, just turned and stared at him for few seconds before gaining a slight grin again.
"Don't you see? This isn't about giving up. This is about love. This is about sacrificing myself for the one thing in the
universe that actually is worth believing in."
"Bobby, you idiot, you're about to kill yourself for the biggest cliche there is."
"Yes, Snowden, but then considering my life, that's an
irony,
which makes it all better."
Bobby was right about one thing, Snowden concurred, getting Jifar to the ground was effortless. The boy floated below them
screaming in glee the whole way, his blood replaced long ago by adrenaline. When Jifar got to the ground a female cop ran
forward from the barricade to get him, and as soon as he was detached Jifar ran away from her as fast as he could, through
the crowd and down the hill back toward the lodge because he was a good kid and followed his instructions. Once he was out
of sight, Bobby pulled a box cutter from his pocket and handed it to Snowden, then pointed to a tarp hiding something the
size of a car at the far wall of the plateau, behind the crowd.
"You're a goddamn fool," Snowden told Bobby before starting to climb down again.
"Just go open those boxes, first thing," the fool said, dripping.
When Snowden reached the ground safely, the crowd couldn't help but show its disappointment. This was supposed to be a news
event. Without a hostage, the man on the fire tower was just another crazy nigger in Harlem. It was five fifty-five P.M.,
there were cameras here ready to go live, if the nut was going to call in this whole thing to 911 and drag an audience out
here, the least he could do was keep the show going another five minutes for the six o'clock lead-in. As Snowden was ushered
through the mob, reporters pushed their mikes past his police guardians. "Who is he?" and "What does he want?" they were all
asking. As if on cue, and possibly so since the lunatic was looking at his watch right before he said it, the man above announced
that he had something to say, and that at 6:01 he would deliver it, which all the telecasters greatly appreciated.
Snowden was led away to the open ambulance before the cops returned to the front. He could still smell the gas all the way
back there, even with the wind blowing in the other direction.
"People of Harlem, people of New York, people of the world. My name is Robert M. Finley," Bobby began, yelling into his megaphone.
Yelling even louder at Snowden at that exact same moment was the congressman, with Lester and Wendell beside him looking equally
grave. "He obviously orchestrated this entire scenario!" Marks was saying. "Tell me what the hell he's planning on saying!"
Over his balding head, Snowden saw the tarp only a few yards away. It was green, heavy canvas, probably military surplus.
Looking at it, Snowden thought
Bomb!
and jumped off the gurney past his employers in its direction.
"I'm here to tell you about a woman, the love of my life, even though we got to share so little of it together," Bobby's amplified
voice said. A crowd of reporters thought at the exact same time,
Everybody loves a love story.
Snowden reached the mass, yanked off the tarp to reveal at least twenty boxes.
"Her name was Piper and she was beautiful and fate stole her from me. Piper Goines was robbed of a life of promise, a life
of love, a life of accomplishment," Bobby continued. His overexuberance with the gasoline had left his cue cards blurred,
but this speech he felt etched inside of him. Far below him, Bobby Finley could see Cedric Snowden opening the first box.
"She deserved more, she deserved the chance to live a full life, the kind I, a humble novelist, once imagined for her. I am
here today to bestow that imagined existence unto you, the blessed readers, so that through your hearts and minds Piper Goines
might in some way continue living. Please take a copy of my manuscript,
The Orphean Daze,
with you on the way out, they're available from that gentleman there in the back," Bobby said, pointing at Snowden. It was
like his finger had reached out and turned every member of the crowd's head simultaneously. Even the television cameras turned,
and they were broadcasting live.
"Thank you for giving Piper Goines, and our love, a chance to live eternally. I couldn't afford to print that many, so you
might have to share. If there are any pages missing, contact the Kinko's on 111th Street. Thanks again for coming," Bobby
concluded, putting the bullhorn down politely before snapping on his lighter and holding it to his chest, igniting everything.
Snowden stood looking at the blaze, knowing that it was coming having failed to prepare him. The tower was like one massive
match, the inferno a thick ball at the top of it. There was so much movement on the surface of the flame it was impossible
to see what was happening inside of it. Fire was so beautiful even as it was horrific, Snowden could see why Bobby had always
liked it. Snowden was so captivated by the sight, the way it swayed, the black smoke trailing above as a beacon to millions,
that he failed to notice the mob stampeding toward him until it was too late to avoid being knocked to the ground. Stomping
across Snowden's screaming body, it clawed and it tugged, it yanked and it pulled, all in its ravenous frenzy to get its hands
on the hot new novel by one Robert M. Finley.
WHEN OLTHIDIUS COLE Sr. finally announced to Olthidius Cole Jr. that he was retiring and leaving the
New Holland Herald
in his son's complete control, Olthidius Cole Jr. thought that was a really good thing, because if that had not happened soon
there was a good chance he would have come into work one day, taken off all his clothes, and started screaming. Still, neither
he nor any of his employees truly believed the old man would let the mande be pried from anything but his dead, cold hands
until that last box was packed and Olthidius Cole Sr. was walking down the staircase with it, weeping and wheezing in equal
measure.
The celebration began immediately. Tears continued for the rest of the evening, mostly of joy this time. The ones that weren't
were confessional, cathartic, were tinged by the context of victory. Raises were announced, the Web site revealed, the new
computers finally carted up from their hiding place in shipping. A real design team would be hired immediately. Freelancers
would be paid the living wage of a dollar a word instead of forty bucks an article. The paper would go double-size biweekly
to provide the opportunity for work to be properly matured and edited. Predictions of future victory were declared by all
in attendance, a dawn of new quality was heralded, Harlem was entering a new era and its favorite periodical was going with
it! The keg was tapped at about nine-thirty, but it was midnight before the headquarters of the
New Holland Herald
was emptied.
By eleven-fifteen the following morning, it was officially the same shit all over again. Only half the workers showed back
up at their desks; the rest were late. Olthidius Cole, the sole one by that name in the office anymore, had to listen to three
people he'd personally seen stumble into a cab and tell the driver, "Sugar Shack!" call in and claim "flulike symptoms" with
utter earnestness. The first submissions on his desk that day consisted of three film reviews from the
New Holland Heralds
senior entertainment editor, all of which began, "This movie is really good. It shows a lot of positive images of black people.
You should go see it." The next piece the new editor in chief braced himself to read was an article by a regular freelancer
on an altercation outside the Harlem Heat nightclub. The first sentence was, "Renton Johnson got shot, in front of the tittle
bar at night." Olthidius Cole read no further. He was too stunned to continue. His head hurt too much, and it was his turn
for crying. All these years he'd assumed that the poor grammar, bad writing, and spelling errors the staff of the
New Holland Herald
produced so consistently were because of the low pay, deplorable working conditions and, of course, the fact that they hated
his father as much as he did, and all this time they really were as incompetent as the old man said.
The new boss sat in his father's former office with his head down and wrapped in his arms on the desk, his own things still
on the floor in front by the door where he'd first dropped them. There came a point, a couple hours in, when he'd accepted
his situation, when it didn't even seem so unbearable anymore, but he couldn't bring himself to stand up and go face his staff
knowing what he knew, so he just kept his position and took a nap instead, hoping to wait them out till the end of the workday.
When the last person had left for the night, fluorescent lights silenced behind them, Olthidius Cole crept out of his hiding
place, grabbed the day's submissions from his secretary's in-box, and shot back in his office. The last of them read from
beginning to end, the younger Cole began to calm down again. It wasn't that bad, really. It was bad, but not so bad that it
made him question his calling. The
New Holland Herald
was just like any other floundering entity, no worse. There were a couple of writers who were really good, there were a bunch
who were OK, and then there was a minority who needed to be eliminated immediately. It wasn't like doing that would be easy,
some of these hacks were staff, had been at the paper for decades, people who'd given him gifts of candy on childhood visits,
kisses on the cheek up until the day he too came to work here. It wasn't like these people had voice mails from headhunters
at Knight-Ridder to fall back on. Unfortunately, none of that mattered. Revolution meant disregarding individuals for the
sake of the whole. The
New Holland Herald
simply couldn't afford them anymore.
Laying out his articles upon his desk, Olthidius Cole organized the submissions the same way: the ones to be cut, the ones
that had potential or were just satisfactory, and those pieces that were exemplary. In the most esteemed pile was, of course,
the consistently impressive sports writing of Charlie Awuyah and classical news reporting of Gil Manly, one set for the front
page and one for the back automatically, but there were also two other articles of interest that gave Olthidius Cole hope
for the future. Both were longer, three-thousand-word-plus pieces he himself had personally solicited the moment he caught
his father starting to pack his things, both were written by graduate students from the New York area whom Cole hoped to recruit
directly out of their respective schools of journalism.
The first story, written by the Columbia grad student Althea Woods, coincidentally dealt with the last Columbia J-school alumni
the
New Holland Herald
employed. It was a look back at the Mount Morris burning books fiasco from over a year ago. Hands down, it gave the most insightful
critique Cole had seen of the continually blurring line between news and morbid entertainment that was further obscured when
New York City local news chose to run live images of a man lighting himself on fire, reshowing them repeatedly in the days
that followed, their clips becoming increasingly graphic to compete with the national and cable news outlets that had jumped
on the story's bandwagon. It was also the first critique Cole had read that questioned author Robert M. Finley's motivation
for the suicide at all, which was surprising considering the book's numerous reprints since it was first rushed to press.
Woods had even obtained an internal document from his publisher citing the abysmal sales of the original release of Finley's
The Great Work.
The article also examined what actual percentage of the book's gross was going to the family of Piper Goines as requested,
as well as the issue about the book's title, if Robert M. Finley would have actually agreed to changing it to
Burnin' Luv in Harlem,
but so many articles had been written about both of those subjects already that Cole planned to edit out those bits. If the
actual book was half as interesting as this article about it, Cole mused, maybe he would have read more than twenty pages
before giving up. Dry, dry stuff. Just dreadful. Still, some people were just fanatical about it, a good-size group, Apparently.
Dry, dreadful folks, Cole imagined. The man was no Bo Shareef, Cole snorted. Now that's a writer.
The second story was from the student at NYU, Lucretia Yates a lot of potential in that one, very astute, knowledgeable, she
was white, but the rest of the staff would just have to get over that. Her submission was a collection of profiles of the
new pioneers of black New York, the next generation of leaders taking control as the baby boomers were forced into retirement
along with their old ways. Olthidius Cole saw himself as being a prominent member of this movement and - if he did manage
to keep from calling up Yates and requesting a profile of himself be added - wanted the foreword to put it in the context
of his own recent ascension. Besides that context shift, Cole loved her whole thesis: that this was a less sentimental group,
secure enough for the harshest of self-criticism. They were the first generation of black leaders not formed by the struggle
against a hostile white world, Yates argued, so were more likely to be focused on their own world's internal dilemmas.
One thing Olthidius Cole would alter about Yates's piece was the order of the subjects, particularly which profile would come
first. If this was to be a cover story, the most compelling profile should be the first thing the reader sees. The person
Cole chose for that honor was the new president of Horizon Realty. In the wake of the announced retirement of flamboyant former
congressman Cyrus Marks, Horizon was continuing its tradition of high-profile front-men with the appointment of Cedric Snowden
Jr., a product of Horizon's own Second Chance Program. A swashbuckling figure in his public relations photo, a rags to riches
story, it had all the ingredients that
New Holland Herald
readers demanded. The man even answered questions in the form of sound bites. When asked what was the key to Horizon's success,
particularly in light of their planned expansion into Brooklyn, Newark, Pittsburgh's Hill District, and Washington, D.C.,
in the year to follow, Cedric Snowden smoothly replied, "When you believe in what you do, what you can do you won't believe."