Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

THREE EX–CONS CAME to Harlem looking to become something more.

Bobby Finley drove up in a rented truck from New Carrollton, Maryland, his boxes of books stacked to the ceiling in the back, what few other possessions he had riding in the passenger seat next to him. Cedric Snowden took the train north from Philadelphia with just a backpack and a boom box, figuring if this turned out to be a scam he could grab both and just as quickly head back toward the Schuylkill. Horus Manley was going to take the plane from Chicago but then realized he could pocket the majority of his travel allowance and bring his guns if he took the bus instead.

These were the men recruited by Horizon Realty for their Second Chance Program, selected for the opportunity to rebuild their lives in a neighborhood trying to do the same. Regardless of mode of travel or point of origin, all three new interns soon found themselves in the same basement classroom in the city they would be asked to call home, identical orientation packets on their child-sized desks and looks of confusion as they tried to make sense of the man standing behind the podium before them.

"You have yet to realize the creative brilliance of this path Horizon's founder Congressman Cyrus Marks has blazed for you," their host informed them. "You know this is an internship program, that you'll be provided with real estate training and opportunities for advancement, but gentlemen, you don't yet know the majesty of this venture. The Second Chance Program isn't simply about acquiring job skills; this isn't the Learning Annex. This is about you receiving your destiny!"

The man speaking was Horizon's manager of operations, Lester Baines, a name and tide the three recruits recognized from their correspondence. It was everything else about the man they found decidedly alien: the lunar pockmarks of his face, the greased tidal wave breaking perpetually inches above his brow, that there was such a thing as pink corduroy, and that a sane man would actually wear a three-piece suit of the fabric. They were expecting Cyrus Marks, the owner, the man Lester insisted everyone refer to as "the congressman" even though it had been years since he'd left the office.

At Lester's feet, an odd, off-breed dog barked its approval. The mutt's jaw was heavy and wide and clashed with its long dachshund body, giving the impression that some sadist god had grabbed its head in one hand and ass in the other and yanked the beast like taffy.

"The congressman, he contains multitudes," Lester continued. "You may have wondered why your applications had to come through parole officers. The congressman was once a PO. He was mine, actually. Oh yes, this was quite a long time ago, but he molded me into a man, as he will you," he told them, glancing at each member of his audience individually in search of appreciation for this proposed manipulation.

"I assure you, there will also be other, more material benefits awaiting you. As you know from our promotional materials, the person who most impresses us during this inaugural year will be chosen to oversee the Second Chance Program for the years to follow, promoted to the public as the symbol of Harlem's phoenixlike spirit, and of course get a brownstone townhouse of his very own as a bonus. Know, however, that you will all be transformed by this experience. The congressman will see to that."

Lester leaned forward across the podium like he had a secret and was going to tell it. "Our greatest ambitions, our loftiest goals that's just where the congressman begins. I'm sure you know about his glorious tenure representing the Fifteenth District, of course, most do, but then to start over as a businessman and in a mere twelve years create this empire? Last year, I had a dark time, I lost someone I loved. I thought life was over, I really did, but he gave me an even higher purpose. That's part of why you're here. I ask you, how do you not bow to such a man?"

Firm the muscles in your lower back and remain vertical Snowden thought, but grumbled monosyllabic declarations of awe with the rest of them. Looking to his side for sympathetic cynicism, Snowden examined his fellow intern Bobby Finley, the long, emaciated man whose limbs shined black and thin like licorice. Bobby was actually squinting at the front of the room like there was something to see, had already filled one long page on his yellow notepad as if there was something specific being said to remember.

For these first days before their formal initiation into the Horizon fold, the three recruits of the Second Chance Program's sole assignment would be to walk every street of Harlem twice, one time for each side of the street. Special attention was to be paid to the Mount Morris Historic District, which they were in, as this would be the center of Horizon's activities. To this end, the three men were handed maps, along with the caveat that it was unwise to be seen using them on the street, particularly in areas marked in red, such as the Polo Grounds.

After this week of casing out the neighborhood, the recruits of the Second Chance Program would start their internship as moving men for the company's relocation service, helping new buyers move in to their new homes. It was not simply manual labor, it was a chance to begin learning the business from its most basic vantage. The recruits of the Second Chance Program would proudly wear the neon yellow workmen's coveralls with Horizon's logo on the back while on duty, a conspicuous symbol to all that a new day for Harlem had arrived. The recruits of the Second Chance Program would have to get over the fact that their uniforms looked just like the ones they wore in prison.

"Hold on there, let me get this straight," the recruit introduced as Horus Manley interrupted. Horus's thick, muscle-swelled body leaned back so far in the little elementary school chair that he was nearly horizontal. He sat in the row behind the other two contestants, one foot sprawled out under each of their seats. Horus Manley reminded Snowden of a guard dog, the kind whose grizzled snout poked out of junkyard fences or who barked unseen from ghetto basements, beasts bred for irrational violence and fed hot sauce and cayenne pepper until they instilled fear even in the brutes who owned them.

"You say we ain't going to meet the boss man himself or get started till the end of the week?" Horus questioned with disbelief. "I'm saying, how you going to let a resource like me go to waste all that time? My man, I could be out there hustling for you now. Come on. Don't you got some houses for me to sell? Or maybe you got something heavy you need lifting." The man seemed genuinely confused when Lester told him his services were not yet needed.

"Excuse me." Bobby Finley waved his notepad to attract Lester's stare, the ink-scarred pages crinkling over his head. "In honor of our generous benefactor, I've composed a salutary poem focusing on this neighborhood the congressman has selected us to serve. Just a little memento, if you would be so kind to give this to him for me. It's a ceremonial piece, really, with references to great Harlem artists, as well as a salute to the bright flit — "

When Snowden first heard the sound, saw the movement as Bobby Finley went crashing to the linoleum, he thought the man's chair had simply broken. Then he noticed that Horus Manley's foot was still tangled in the chair's wire undercarriage, and that the instigator was smiling.

"My bad. You all right, chief? Good." Horus answered himself before waiting for one. As Bobby attempted to get off the floor, Horus chuckled, shook his head from side to side. "Y'all got to admit that shit was a little funny."