Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

Horus was dressed in a some sort of military formal wear, but it was not an outfit someone actually in the military would own, rather the type of uniform a doorman or the guy who takes the tickets at a fancy show would be forced to wear. Its felt material was Astroturf green, the rope that lined it gold metallic. Horus saw Snowden looking and, smiling, brushed off absolutely no lint from the glowing rope that lined the shoulders, arms, and five-inch cuff links.

"How much did you pay for that?" Horus asked Snowden. The question was nonjudgmental, but the way Horus nodded to Snowden's suit, with his nose leading, Snowden could sense the distaste in it. Snowden adjusted his own shoulder pads, both of which seemed to be determined to emigrate south and get jobs as elbow pads.

"One forty," Snowden told him. Pissing contests were tax-exempt. "

Snowman, you should have gone with me to the warehouse. I told you." Horus spread his legs, slight and stiff, held out his arms for inspection. "Eighty bones, my son. That's what I'm talking about. Forty for the coat, forty for the pants. Check this out." Horus leaned into Snowden, glanced over at Bobby for mock privacy. "It buttons all the way up the neck so I don't have to waste money on a shirt or tie neither."

Their first training day set the schedule for the rest: At exactly eight A.M., a man appeared, a Mr. M. R. Linden. M. R. Linden was white and bald except for his beard, which disappeared over his ears and was brown with an oval albino patch on the left side of his face as if he'd fallen asleep in a shallow pool of Clorox. He looked like a genetically modified pig, but he wore a much nicer suit than they did so his students listened intently. Day one was the basics: the difference between rent controlled ("a set rent price that increases slowly for the length of the rental") and rent stabilized ("a controlled rent price that can be raised by a citywide certified percentage each year"). From there Mr. Linden flew without pause into the particulars: Rent control is over, the only people who have it are the elderly or live-in descendants who inherited the robbery; rent-stabilized status applies to an apartment regardless of the owner, and even when a tenant leaves the rent can be raised only by a controlled percentage. The first postlecture discussion topic: Are rent control and rent stabilization the cause of Manhattan's exorbitant real estate prices?

Snowden leaned forward in his chair just to get a look at Bobby. Bobby the preparer, Bobby memorizer of manuscripts, dark prince of data. Bobby, who in less sober moments had confessed that since he was long and weak his best chance at proving himself to the powers of Horizon was to intellectually dazzle, was preparing to use this opportunity to display the depth of his knowledge of the ruling argument of New York housing questions: whose fault were the prices, the realtors or the renters? Snowden could tell Bobby was reciting his speech in his head, raising his hand with no intention of waiting till he was called on. Brushing off one of the techniques that got him through high school, Snowden quickly excused himself to the bathroom, tried to make it to the door before Bobby could start talking.

The hall outside was poorly lit, the lights were on but were too weak to manage the cavern. During the building's second incarnation as the Upper Manhattan Guild of Hebrew Men, the basement floor had been lowered ten feet to serve as a respite from Prohibition for the distinguished gentlemen of Judea. The bathroom was porcelain, tiled and equipped to facilitate a regiment struck by incontinence at once, but unfortunately a sign on its door said all of its services were temporarily unavailable, so Snowden headed instead for the WC on the second floor as the text instructed.

Snowden had never been up there before and the action of climbing the wide wooden steps felt both naughty and one of employee entitlement. The hallway off the balcony had the same institutional feel as the basement, the same oak-lined walls and porcelain doorknobs, but the colored glow of the animal-shaped night-lights plugged intermittently along the floorboards gave the space a life missing below. Also missing: the bathroom. It had been Snowden's expectation that this floor would be built on the same grid as the one he knew, but much to his disappointment there was not even a doorway where he'd expected the bathroom to be. What doors he could find had signs on them, but they said things like TV and PLAY SPACE instead of MEN or WOMEN.

Congressman Marks's voice came from down the hall after Snowden was already walking back, resigned to the thought that he would just have to hold it in for as long as it would take for Bobby to shut up and class to end. Moving toward the sound, Snowden wondered for a moment if he would be chastised for his intrusion, but then he located the door it was coming from and the sign above it said BOYS. Snowden, relieved to relieve himself, burst right in.

Marks sat in a rocking chair dressed in a smoking jacket of green satin, Wendell's lump of brown canine flesh was snoring on the floor beside him. There was a book in the man's lap, one Marks stopped reading aloud as he turned up to look at Snowden. So did all the kids. From where Snowden was standing, it looked like at least twenty bunk beds filled the length of the room. Each one had a boy in a maroon blazer and short pants sitting on top of a mattress, looking over his shoulder to get a view of the intruder.

"We have a special guest, one of Horizon's future leaders come to tuck you in for your nap. Say hello to Snowden, men." The bored, elongated welcome of children directed in unison. Snowden waved to them. A hand waved back. It took Snowden a moment to recognize that the boy it was attached to, probably around ten as most seemed in the room, had a question for him.

"Yes, Mr. Godfrey?" Cyrus Marks asked, smiling.

"Is Snowden your first name, or your last name, or is that a made-up name?"

"Last name," Snowden told him. He looked over to Cyrus Marks, expecting some sort of explanation for the scene he was witnessing, but the man just sat there, legs folded, finger holding his place in his book, waiting for Snowden to answer like the rest of them.

"My first name's Cedric," Snowden continued. "I just don't use it."

"How come?"

"Cedric was my dad. I'm just Snowden."

"Junior!" a child's voice came from the other end of the room, the laughter it emitted from the other boys was what finally got Cyrus Marks out of his seat. The discomfort of stifled urination and the sound of Wendell farting: the only things that kept Snowden positive this vision wasn't his creation, staring over his shoulder as the congressman grabbed him by his shoulder and pulled him politely out of the room.

"Mr. Snowden, so good to see you." Cyrus Marks in the hall, whispering, door closed behind him. "I really wish I could spend more time with our men of the Second Chance Program. You can use their rest room up here, but I wouldn't suggest sitting down: One of the boys seems to like urinating on the seats. I'm still trying to find out which one."

"I'm sorry, sir, but what was that? It looked like a boarding school in there."

"Are you pulling my leg? Lester hasn't informed you three about the Little Leaders League? I'm surprised. Lester is very thorough."

"I knew there was a tutoring program, but those boys look like they live here."

"Oh yes, of course they do. And you should see our strong little ladies, on the third floor; they've done a lovely job decorating their room. We're just starting to expand, take in more of them. Hale House used to have the same kind of services, but less so since Mother Hale died — God bless her, she was a lovely woman — and all their financial troubles. This is the first time many of these children have had a peaceful, orderly home. You should volunteer sometime! Lester says wonderful things about your work, I'm sure you'd be perfect for it."