Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

"Bobby, you idiot, you're about to kill yourself for the biggest cliche there is."

"Yes, Snowden, but then considering my life, that's an irony, which makes it all better."

Bobby was right about one thing, Snowden concurred, getting Jifar to the ground was effortless. The boy floated below them screaming in glee the whole way, his blood replaced long ago by adrenaline. When Jifar got to the ground a female cop ran forward from the barricade to get him, and as soon as he was detached Jifar ran away from her as fast as he could, through the crowd and down the hill back toward the lodge because he was a good kid and followed his instructions. Once he was out of sight, Bobby pulled a box cutter from his pocket and handed it to Snowden, then pointed to a tarp hiding something the size of a car at the far wall of the plateau, behind the crowd.

"You're a goddamn fool," Snowden told Bobby before starting to climb down again.

"Just go open those boxes, first thing," the fool said, dripping.

When Snowden reached the ground safely, the crowd couldn't help but show its disappointment. This was supposed to be a news event. Without a hostage, the man on the fire tower was just another crazy nigger in Harlem. It was five fifty-five P.M., there were cameras here ready to go live, if the nut was going to call in this whole thing to 911 and drag an audience out here, the least he could do was keep the show going another five minutes for the six o'clock lead-in. As Snowden was ushered through the mob, reporters pushed their mikes past his police guardians. "Who is he?" and "What does he want?" they were all asking. As if on cue, and possibly so since the lunatic was looking at his watch right before he said it, the man above announced that he had something to say, and that at 6:01 he would deliver it, which all the telecasters greatly appreciated.

Snowden was led away to the open ambulance before the cops returned to the front. He could still smell the gas all the way back there, even with the wind blowing in the other direction.

"People of Harlem, people of New York, people of the world. My name is Robert M. Finley," Bobby began, yelling into his megaphone. Yelling even louder at Snowden at that exact same moment was the congressman, with Lester and Wendell beside him looking equally grave. "He obviously orchestrated this entire scenario!" Marks was saying. "Tell me what the hell he's planning on saying!" Over his balding head, Snowden saw the tarp only a few yards away. It was green, heavy canvas, probably military surplus. Looking at it, Snowden thought Bomb! and jumped off the gurney past his employers in its direction.

"I'm here to tell you about a woman, the love of my life, even though we got to share so little of it together," Bobby's amplified voice said. A crowd of reporters thought at the exact same time, Everybody loves a love story. Snowden reached the mass, yanked off the tarp to reveal at least twenty boxes.

"Her name was Piper and she was beautiful and fate stole her from me. Piper Goines was robbed of a life of promise, a life of love, a life of accomplishment," Bobby continued. His overexuberance with the gasoline had left his cue cards blurred, but this speech he felt etched inside of him. Far below him, Bobby Finley could see Cedric Snowden opening the first box. "She deserved more, she deserved the chance to live a full life, the kind I, a humble novelist, once imagined for her. I am here today to bestow that imagined existence unto you, the blessed readers, so that through your hearts and minds Piper Goines might in some way continue living. Please take a copy of my manuscript, The Orphean Daze, with you on the way out, they're available from that gentleman there in the back," Bobby said, pointing at Snowden. It was like his finger had reached out and turned every member of the crowd's head simultaneously. Even the television cameras turned, and they were broadcasting live.

"Thank you for giving Piper Goines, and our love, a chance to live eternally. I couldn't afford to print that many, so you might have to share. If there are any pages missing, contact the Kinko's on 111th Street. Thanks again for coming," Bobby concluded, putting the bullhorn down politely before snapping on his lighter and holding it to his chest, igniting everything.

Snowden stood looking at the blaze, knowing that it was coming having failed to prepare him. The tower was like one massive match, the inferno a thick ball at the top of it. There was so much movement on the surface of the flame it was impossible to see what was happening inside of it. Fire was so beautiful even as it was horrific, Snowden could see why Bobby had always liked it. Snowden was so captivated by the sight, the way it swayed, the black smoke trailing above as a beacon to millions, that he failed to notice the mob stampeding toward him until it was too late to avoid being knocked to the ground. Stomping across Snowden's screaming body, it clawed and it tugged, it yanked and it pulled, all in its ravenous frenzy to get its hands on the hot new novel by one Robert M. Finley.

WHEN OLTHIDIUS COLE Sr. finally announced to Olthidius Cole Jr. that he was retiring and leaving the New Holland Herald in his son's complete control, Olthidius Cole Jr. thought that was a really good thing, because if that had not happened soon there was a good chance he would have come into work one day, taken off all his clothes, and started screaming. Still, neither he nor any of his employees truly believed the old man would let the mande be pried from anything but his dead, cold hands until that last box was packed and Olthidius Cole Sr. was walking down the staircase with it, weeping and wheezing in equal measure.

The celebration began immediately. Tears continued for the rest of the evening, mostly of joy this time. The ones that weren't were confessional, cathartic, were tinged by the context of victory. Raises were announced, the Web site revealed, the new computers finally carted up from their hiding place in shipping. A real design team would be hired immediately. Freelancers would be paid the living wage of a dollar a word instead of forty bucks an article. The paper would go double-size biweekly to provide the opportunity for work to be properly matured and edited. Predictions of future victory were declared by all in attendance, a dawn of new quality was heralded, Harlem was entering a new era and its favorite periodical was going with it! The keg was tapped at about nine-thirty, but it was midnight before the headquarters of the New Holland Herald was emptied.

By eleven-fifteen the following morning, it was officially the same shit all over again. Only half the workers showed back up at their desks; the rest were late. Olthidius Cole, the sole one by that name in the office anymore, had to listen to three people he'd personally seen stumble into a cab and tell the driver, "Sugar Shack!" call in and claim "flulike symptoms" with utter earnestness. The first submissions on his desk that day consisted of three film reviews from the New Holland Heralds senior entertainment editor, all of which began, "This movie is really good. It shows a lot of positive images of black people. You should go see it." The next piece the new editor in chief braced himself to read was an article by a regular freelancer on an altercation outside the Harlem Heat nightclub. The first sentence was, "Renton Johnson got shot, in front of the tittle bar at night." Olthidius Cole read no further. He was too stunned to continue. His head hurt too much, and it was his turn for crying. All these years he'd assumed that the poor grammar, bad writing, and spelling errors the staff of the New Holland Herald produced so consistently were because of the low pay, deplorable working conditions and, of course, the fact that they hated his father as much as he did, and all this time they really were as incompetent as the old man said.