Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

His politeness and respect were not a total facade either, because when Snowden went to the bathroom Piper listened and she didn't hear the crashing sound that would have erupted if he'd attempted to peek in the medicine cabinet. A legion of pill bottles had been placed there specifically to fall out if the door was opened, revealing a handwritten note that said YOU DON'T KNOW WHO YOU'RE MESSING WITH, a homemade novelty item for friends and a warning to dates that her heart had its own security system.

The meal disappeared rather quickly, the bottle of red also, but Piper's mouth kept running. She started with a capsule version of her life story, a set background piece she used with new friends to get it out of the way and provide context, which she followed by more in-depth studies into the more prominent themes and incidents: Abigail Goines's failed attempt at breeding the uber-Afncanus woman, Piper's exchange year in Portugal, the buying of this condo within her sibling's home, and the anecdote that displayed that her brother-in-law's credit wasn't as clean as he liked to pretend it was. The complete New Holland Herald breakdown, including employee profiles and her desire to overtake the office and seize control, if possible by armed struggle, the latter confession telling her she was officially tipsy and that she was talking entirely too much. Despite polite (if not overly enthusiastic) efforts to draw her guest out, the only thing Piper'd learned was that he was from Philadelphia and had attended Temple University, a fact that he himself admitted was probably true of nearly half the city's population.

"So you're how old? Can I ask you that, or will you blush and get coy on me?" A slight teasing. This was a major component in Piper's arsenal of seduction. It always worked, and when it didn't it was probably for the best anyway.

"I'm thirty-one. And I'm too dark for blushing," Snowden bantered.

"And so where have you been? What have you been doing since you graduated?" Snowden removed his napkin from his lap in response to the question, accepted that he liked her enough that he would definitely be back and therefore was unable to give his usual lies as an answer.

"I didn't graduate," Snowden said flatly. It was meant as a deterrent, offering a statement of failure as emotional libation while defining a border clearly marked against further trespass. Piper respected no such boundaries.

"College is expensive, half the time it's useless. But that doesn't explain where you've been, what you've been doing, does it?" Piper was smiling. She wasn't pretty, but she was cute and she used this sometimes to excuse her rudeness. She did it so well that Snowden noticed only when he was about to begin confessing, annoyed at the manipulation.

"I was in jail."

Piper didn't even pause before following with the mandatory response, "What for?"

There was the word, manslaughter. It was the proper one to use because it was literally the action he'd been found guilty of and sentenced for. It was also the best word there was to say that you killed someone. At Holmesburg State Penitentiary, it meant that this was not to be your permanent residence, and that you'd been smart enough to get a lawyer who arranged a lesser sentence. In this world it implied that there were ulterior circumstances, that the murder might even have been justified in everyday morality but legalities forced this minimum judgment. Its vagaries were one of the reasons Snowden hated saying it, it was a word that demanded questions. Worse, every time he said it, Snowden could clearly hear both words it was made of. When Snowden said it, Piper didn't bother to ask for more, just waited quietly for him to offer.

"My father — I mean there were problems for a long time, I was in foster care mostly growing up, he was in jail. He was a Panther, then in the BLA, that's the Black Liberation Army; he was nuts. I came home from college winter break, we got in a fight, I just hit him wrong. That's it." That was. There was more Snowden could say, but that was enough.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry, I always push things too far, I'm always screwing up doing that."

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm not used to talking about it. I should be. I mean, it's not like I don't think about it, or don't regret it, it's something on top of everything I do. It's just, you know, something I've been working myself away from. So I got out almost two years ago and I've been struggling to get a good job, but now I do. I got hooked up by my PO in this program with Horizon, you know. Got the chance to make some money, do some good, right?"

"They have some kind of community program?"

"No. I mean, that's what it is, exactly what it is, community work. That's what Horizon is doing, trying to create another era of thriving black Harlem. Things been rough since the black middle class ran off to integration and took the money with them, right? So we're trying to bring them all that back."

"So how is that good?" Piper asked. "Helping the fortunate take Harlem away from the poor people who've been living here all this time?"

"No, that's not it, that's not what I'm saying. What Horizon has planned is better than that. They don't want to displace everybody, they just want to bring enough people back here to make the place healthy again. People to spend their money, create some vibrant retail life like back in the day, create jobs. Straight up, also to have some folks as role models walking around, to show that you can do it."

"Believe me, just because they make money it doesn't make them any kind of role model. Come on, it's just the same old story, isn't it? Gentrification." Piper bugged her eyes out and chuckled bitterly.

"Gentrification? No, no," Snowden shook his head in near confusion. "It's not gentrification when it's black folks moving back into the black community. It's. . it's housecleaning."

"Great. So you got it all planned out, then."

Apparently Snowden did. Snowden had never really had a plan for anything, one that required sturdy bridges of faith to keep it connected. Rinsed by euphoria, Snowden kept going. Piper looked at him like he was glowing. It just encouraged him to burn brighter. He sounded like Lester himself, worse, like Bobby at his fevered best, but he wasn't channeling. Freed from the role of reluctant skeptic only to find himself a true believer. A dream was a drug. In a world without meaning, belief was an aphrodisiac. Snowden could feel it working on him, working on the woman across from him. So being a dreamer felt like this, having a belief brought this out in others. It made sense that so many dreamers were whores.

"Thing is, it has to be now. We don't have time to fool around anymore. The white people are coming. The island is full, they got nowhere else to go. They're scared to death of us, but that's how bad they need a place to live. If we don't start buying up this area, moving into its apartment buildings and staying there, in twenty years our Harlem will be lost. There's already a Starbucks on 125th Street. . and it sure as hell ain't for us."

"I'd love to do a story on you guys."

"You should." Snowden smiled, pointed at her. "You met the other guys, Bobby obviously, Horus is the other one. Like I said, not that bad, really, once you know them, like most folks really. Whoever performs best this year is going to be promoted to oversee the whole thing, too, even get a house out the deal. I'm in the lead, I'm pretty sure. My boss has me doing a special project the others aren't even in on, things are going good."

"What kind of project?" Piper asked.

"Well, it's a little morbid, but when people die and nobody claims their stuff, I go in with him and we clean it all up. Mostly it's accidents, and it's just in this little area of Harlem around historic Mount Morris, up to Adam Clayton Powell, rarely above 128th or below 117th."