Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

Rereading them, Snowden wondered if a white person would get the meaning of "folk" and realize they were being excluded. On further thought, Snowden wondered when was the last time any white person had gone to a newsstand and bought the New Holland Herald. There was no reason for them to read it. With blacks writing at the top newspapers in the country, with endless glossies devoted to African-American interests and life, there didn't seem too much reason for black folks to read it either. That's why Snowden never felt embarrassed by how bad it was, or guilty at taking pleasure reading it aloud. Snowden felt confident in the assumption that no one else was listening.

The walk to the New Holland Herald ' became eventful once the two came in sight of the new Disney Store on 125th and Frederick Douglass. The state of righteousness Bobby'd been stuck in for weeks, Snowden knew it would set him off, but since the paper's office was on the other corner, it was unavoidable. In preparation, Snowden had attempted to ensnare Bobby into the more nuanced debate about the corruption allegations involving the Apollo, the other landmark they were passing, but the smaller man would have none of it.

"Fucking bloodsuckers. Fucking mind-numbing smiley-faced Jim Jones Kool-Aid bloodsuckers up here to siphon what little money we have with their poison blankets shaped like plush corporate logos," Bobby started chanting. Snowden found the worst part of talking to Bobby when he got like this was that Bobby would take Snowden's own opinions but become so froth-mouthed fanatical that Snowden felt forced to claim the opposition for the sake of keeping the discussion in the realm of sanity.

"Well, they've provided some jobs up here, and it looks good for the one-two-five, as far as attracting investment," Snowden said and immediately resented Bobby for this, for making him defend the mouse.

"Right, like six jobs at eight dollars an hour. Up, you mighty race!" It was amazing how he could do that, hyperventilate and talk at the same time. Several women paused with their bags in front of Lane Bryant and McDonald's Express to take in the licorice blur vibrating past them, his voice modulating with each word between stage whisper and scream. Snowden was waiting for somebody to offer a wallet to stick in Bobby's mouth so he didn't bite his tongue off, "Goddamn leeches, riding up in their Trojan horse to suck the green right of the place, then they'll go back to Anaheim and do a Pocahontas on Sally Hemings, turn that into a love story too."

"It will attract people to Harlem. That's the point of what we're doing, right?"

"It attracts white people to Harlem. That's the point of it. It says, 'Look, no broken windows, the canary's alive and well.' Then they take over the last bit of the island that they're not in the majority. That's the plan. We'll all get pushed to Newark and they'll get this back again, and to them it will just be a loaded name and a bunch of cool brownstones. They'll even open some jazz theme clubs to remember us by, like they do with fake villages on the lands they got from the Indians."

Snowden said, "Healthy canaries are a good thing. They send the message that the air's all safe to breathe," but nothing more. Snowden took the talk of race as a sign to shut up and just keep walking. Snowden always took the talk of race as a sign to shut up and keep walking because he'd never figured out how to discuss the subject without stating the obvious, sounding bitter, or like a sellout, doomed however he approached it. Talking about race was like trying to have a serious argument about the existence of the Easter Bunny: No matter what position you took, you always ended up sounding either thick or mildly insane.

By the time they reached the office of the New Holland Herald, Bobby was so worked up that he was forced to lean against the wall of the abandoned building next to it in order to regain his composure.

"I should burn that bastard down," Bobby wheezed. "It would probably take out most of Harlem USA with it but, you know, 'by any means necessary.'" He tried to light a cigarette but was breathing too hard and ended up in a coughing fit, limply cursing the class warfare of the tobacco companies as he put it out against his foot, pocketing the filter so as not to litter. Inside, the two men parted when Bobby was directed to the offices upstairs and Snowden to the classified desk on the first floor. Bobby parted with, "Don't wait up for me," managing a wink before succumbing to another fit of coughing, pausing on the long wooden stairway as others quickly went around him.

The clerk behind the counter seemed ecstatic to see Snowden, looked so relieved to have a break in the monotony of the otherwise empty room, its dust, its faded furniture. The guy didn't even take his money, he held it for a moment, yes, but then when he read the copy he smiled and nodded as if he'd been the target of a harmless joke and handed it back. Piper Goines stood in the room behind him, looking good like that. Snowden smiled, she smiled back, remembered him and came over.

"Excuse me," she said. "Does that guy Robert M. Finley still work with you? Because I've been getting these calls on my phone from Robert M. Finley ever since I moved in, he doesn't even leave messages anymore, he just keeps calling and then hanging up on my machine."

Bobby was upstairs leaving Ms. Goines a surprise. Snowden was downstairs, trying to convince Ms. Goines to associate the word persistent with the name "Bobby Finley" instead of the word psychopath, not making any headway with his argument until Piper realized that Bobby was the one who looked like a human snow crab and not the creepy one with a head like a rottweiler.

"Bobby's a really smart guy, funny. It's just that we're not from here, we work a lot, he was just trying to reach out. We're from out of town, don't really know anybody in the area, you know how it is. He's good people. He gave you his book, right?"

"That's right, that's right. Actually, I tried to read that thing but couldn't get past the first page. It didn't seem to make any sense, like there'd been misprints or something. I probably just didn't read it close enough," Piper was the one making the guilty face now. Snowden nodded at this like a mistake had indeed been made, staring at her, trying to think of a way to tell her that the man they were talking about was at this moment at her desk. Piper watched as Snowden struggled to say something and got tired of waiting.

"So you don't know anyone. You kind of know me," Piper told him. "You've already been to my place, you might as well come back over and we can have dinner sometime. I'm on my way to Ephesus to cover the protest meeting about the Mumia Abu-Jamal Memorial Halfway House, the one the state's trying to open by Mount Morris Park, but there's tomorrow."

"Memorial House? Mumia Abu-Jamal hasn't even been executed yet."

"I know! Sick bastards."

In moral law, there was definitely an edict about dating your friend's obsession.

"If you're worried about your buddy, I'm sure he's a nice guy, but I'm never going out with him. That just ain't happening."

Snowden appreciated Piper's plucky initiative, her persistence. It meant that every time he felt a pang of guilt for accepting her invitation he could tell himself he'd been forced into doing so, take some of the bite out of it.

THE THING THAT really pissed Piper off about living in the apartment above her sister and brother-in-law was that she had to walk through three floors of their home to get to hers, and even though she loved them they were materially driven intentional archetypes of the bourgeoisie, something Piper once even said to their faces months before their wedding only to have them high-five gleefully in response, dancing circles together in their boutique clothes as they waved their status symbol watches in the air in victory. Their home was a museum of all the class accoutrements they'd collected in just seven years working as a tag team: rich woods, fabrics, and leathers placed on rugs so expensive that having them on the floor was indulgent insolence. Piper kept redecorating but it didn't matter, by the time she reached the top floor her home seemed a slave quarters in comparison.