Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

"So you don't think there's anything odd about it? Have you heard people saying it's the Chupacabra running around?"

"What the hell is that? They like the Latin Kings? I'm from Chicago, I don't have no type of association with those dudes."

"No, it's an urban myth, a monster. Just, could you give us a comment on whether you think this might put a damper on its current real estate boom?"

"Harlem is the savior of New York City, the top of the island because that's where cream rises, understand? There ain't no problem up here. Where else in Manhattan you gonna go, you gonna get a beautiful brownstone for under five hundred thousand dollars? Where you going to rent a fine two-bedroom for less than fifteen hundred? The only monster around here is me, sweet thing, and I'm a monster of love."

The last sentence got edited. So did the bit with the business card. The rest didn't. Horus was shown in mute clips behind the teaser ads in between the cartoons until the four o'clock news finally came around as promised. After that, aside from the begrudging nod between six-thirty and seven P.M. to the entire world that somehow existed outside New York City, the segment played regularly at twenty-six and fifty-six past the hour, sports then weather, then Big Daddy Horus breaking it down.

Every time he saw it, Snowden noticed something new about the moment as well, like Horus giving the reporter a long wink after his "graceful" line, or the look on Snowden's own gray face behind Horus's right shoulder. That Snowden kept mouthing "oh shit" to himself for the length of the interview, a fact that had not Bobby joyously pointed out Snowden would have remained unaware of.

Every single time, at twenty-nine and fifty-nine past the hour, the anchors concluded with commentary on either Horus's personal appearance or his visible interest in their windblown coworker. Every time they found this funny, more so as the evening continued. By the news's final episode, the last representation of the present before reruns promoted the past again, the sports anchor, a white man much too old for his haircut, followed the clip with the sole comment, "Thank you, General," and the entire cast lost it. The weatherman, by breed a particularly jolly fellow to begin with, was literally caught off balance by the comment, falling off his stool and to the floor in laughter, taking several once neat piles of notes with him. Laughter could be heard coming from off camera as well, both before and after this minor accident. As the light dimmed on the set, Snowden could see the outline of the four who remained seated, their heads bowed, their backs bouncing, each to the rhythm of their own hilarity.

For Snowden, it didn't get old either: that sinking feeling it evoked, the way it made his nipples poke firm and the top of his lip sweat though no other part of him did. The growing certainty that he would spend the rest of his days in prison and then in hell if the Christians were right about the afterlife. In Snowden's imagination Lester mouthed "loose lips sink ships" as he "accidentally" pushed Snowden over his own building's banister.

"Look, I don't see what you're getting yourself worked up about. It's not like this is going to ruin the market up here," Bobby offered. "It sure as hell doesn't help, Snowden my man. People already have enough little horrid fantasies about Harlem, but it's not like everything is over. It's just an anomaly, there're tons of old folks and users up here messing up the curve. Look at it this way, with the housing situation as tight as it is, the more of them that knock off, the more places we got to move people in. By 'any means necessary'"

"You know what? That's a cliche."

"No it's not, it's a quote. I am a literary writer, Snowden. I don't deal in cliches," Bobby dismissed.

Snowden ignored Bobby Finley, kept drinking. He'd started at two in lieu of pizza but threw up after the first telecast so felt he had some making up to do.

"I wish I was Catholic," Snowden confessed. This time it was his turn to be ignored as Bobby desperately surfed channels for something as absurd as Horus to keep his good mood going. Snowden wished he was Catholic because he wanted to do some talking. He gave himself a count of sixty during which he would tell Bobby about his side project, about Jifar's dad and his final song, even how he'd messed around with Piper and told her about it, that she'd blown the whistle and they were all surely doomed now, them, the little Leaders, even Harlem. Bobby lay on his couch atop a layer of rejected pages of The Tome. Their sense of housekeeping — yet another thing Bobby and his soul mate had in common.

"I slept with her," Snowden offered. It was meant as an opening toward much greater revelation, a warmup. I am a sinner, he heard himself saying. The engravings, the monks' self-mutilation and torture, Snowden understood them now. Catholics could drink as much as they wanted too, the religion was made for him, he could only hope he'd remember his conversion tomorrow.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bobby asked, but there was already pain there. There was already a mental image because, even though he wanted it to be different, at the vague reference "her" it was Piper Goines he thought of.

For Snowden's part, it was simply stunning how quickly his desire for self-flagellation and revelation abandoned him. In the moment between when punishment was instigated and the blows were to come, it had absconded, leaving a flow of dread to fill out the cavern burned by desire. "Oh shit" once again emerged as Snowden's mantra.

"Look, I mean, you were right about the whore thing. Totally. She was just not your 'one.' I think this just proves that more than anything."

"You fucked her." Bobby had picked up his lighter, was practicing opening the lid and lighting it at the same time with just a snap of his fingers. Perfect every time. Snap and then whoosh and then there was this flame as long as an erection, blue and narrow, lighting up Bobby's face and the room beyond it. The sight turned the remaining waste in Snowden's bowels to liquid. Hearing his intestines gurgle like a novelty straw, it was with some awe that Snowden noted, Wow, I'm so scared I'm about to poop myself. Lying seemed a better alternative.

"Yo, my man, it was after, after you said you wouldn't have anything to do with her. Days past, you already made it clear you wasn't interested, that she was not the one. I ran into her at a bar, we got drunk, it was awful. An awful, skanky thing. I was immediately ashamed of myself. I just tell you this to, you know, confess my sin to you. I am so, so sorry. And you were right, she's a bad, bad person. And she hurt me, she hurt me too. I got seduced, then she used me, and it hurts, man. It really does. I just wanted you to know that you were right all along. She's evil. I just should have listened."

Bobby said nothing, his face boiled featureless. Snowden hung, waiting to be cut down with a response. After a few more snaps of the lighter, Bobby finally put it away, leaving his arms dead at his sides. Snowden attacked his forty. It was full, but he would empty it, use it as a polite excuse to call an end to the night instead of simply sprinting out the door like he wanted to. Bobby stood staring at him, his arms not even swaying at his sides, as Snowden's bottle went straight up in the air like he was balancing it on his lips.

"She just wasn't the one," Bobby repeated back to him, minus all intonation. "I was clearly mistaken."

Snowden didn't even bother mumbling out a response. Bobby's words seemed the kind of thing someone says aloud just to hear the truth resonate.

The ache in his eyes was the only thing that got Bobby to start blinking again. His body, tired of waiting for its orders, took over. Bobby suddenly became animated and stepped toward him. In response, Snowden took the proactive measure of bracing for the blow. When Bobby merely grabbed Snowden's empty bottle and headed for the kitchen, Snowden didn't abandon his expectation or stance: arms wrapped around his head's top and bottom, both knees pulled up to protect his chest and abs. I am not a coward, I am Armadillo Man, Snowden told himself. Waiting for the pitch and the forty bottle to come flying, Snowden watched through the gap between his elbows as Bobby placed the empty in the trash, pulled a full bottle from the refrigerator, opened it with that rubber thing by the sink before walking back to him. Snowden's muscles relaxed and fell to the floor like dead rose petals, his smile of appreciation just that much wider because the gesture was unexpected.