Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

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.

So Byron was doing a story in Harlem. He had already taped two morbidly obese black women, one of whom had actually reached into her shirt and pulled a Kleenex from her bra to wipe her forehead during the interview, a detail he was particularly pleased with. Byron had also collected tape of several large, sweating dark men, the kind he associated with Harlem, but while all the sound bites had been good enough to edit down to the fifteen-second piece they were being collected for, he was still searching for that one interview he needed to collect before they left for Chelsea and their next story. The interviewee with a bit more color, the easy plug-in for the closing of the segment. One of those salt-of-the-earth characters places like Harlem were associated with in the minds of the viewers, a much less refined and much more flamboyant character who would speak his or her mind with little regard for restraint, propriety, or grammar. Byron Harding wouldn't have used the N-word. It was always a shock, considering his understanding of Harlem, that it took so long to find the right one. When he saw the answer to his problem approaching, a muscular, feral, brown-skinned man in a green suit covered in luminescent gold buttons and tassels, all Byron could think was, Jesus Christ a walking Christmas tree, thanking the heavens that he worked in the age of color television.

When the camera crew charged in their direction, Bobby and Snowden spread with the rest of the crowd. Horus didn't even shift weight from one leg to the other. Whether it was that there was no question in his mind that he was their target or he simply didn't get out of people's way as rule was uncertain. Snowden watched him and he didn't even see Horus glance at the camera, he was so captivated by the woman who came with it, the one with the makeup too heavy for the weather, the primary-color ensemble, and the microphone.

"Sir, are you a Harlem resident?" the woman asked. Luanda something, Snowden recognized the woman from watching her in other neighborhoods talking about their problems. She was usually the one they brought out when it had to do with Negroes. Next to Horus she looked like a mannequin for children's clothes. Why were they all so short in person? Wasn't there one tall person out there insecure enough to sacrifice all for fame too?

"Fine, fine lady, I am not only a Harlem resident, I am the salvation of folks who dream of being a Harlem resident. I am the man who makes that dream come true. Horizon Properties, ask for Horus when you call. Horus, like the black god, not like the thing the Lone Ranger rides on." Horus reached into his uniform and whipped out one of his business cards like the reporter had asked for it, but as soon as she hesitanlyy reached out to take it, Horus whipped it away, held it up with two hands by its corners against the camera lens. The look of the producer looking back at this fool: like he'd just won something. Smiling, giving the camera and reporter the thumbs-up to continue.

The reporter, behind the press badge and mask of makeup, was Luanda Mullins, once ashy kneed like the rest of them, her own baby-powdered chest the closest she ever got to white skin growing up in Spring Falls, South Carolina: how sick was she of this shit? When am I going to just take this microphone and hit someone, be they coon or coon hunter? How can I make a difference if by the time I'm in a position to do so I've given up so much of my soul? Luanda Mullins, reporting for WKPS News, leaned the microphone forward to the latest amusement, promised herself to make a three-figure donation to the Urban League tomorrow and an equally expensive visit to her massage therapist that night.

"Are you aware that a recent report done by the New Holland Herald shows that residents of Harlem have a forty-two percent greater chance of accidental death than any other neighborhood?" Horus took the information, curled his pointer finger over his lips and bowed his brow, but only long enough for the gesture to be registered, snapping back immediately to his previous position.

"Well, as you know, Harlem's own New Holland Herald is a very respected paper with a long tradition — I myself am counted among its readers — but I would have to disagree with the article itself, the way you're telling it. I am an extremely graceful individual, and if y'all are saying black folks are particularly clumsy as a people, I got the names of several hundred millionaires in the NBA who might disagree with you." The last comment almost got Luanda Mullins to laugh, an urge exacerbated by desperation not to do so. In exchange for his lucid, if odd, statement, Luanda decided to offer him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there was a reason he was dressed like that. Maybe the Universoul Circus was in town.