39
M
e had arrived in the darkness of the night. He stood in the middle of the exhibition room at The Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture, on 135
th
Street and Lenox Avenue.
It was right across the street from where Randi Burlingame had taken his final tumble on the concrete sidewalk in Harlem. He looked on with disgust at the Harlem Renaissance authors whose portraits were proudly displayed on the walls. He snorted, and someone sneezed.
He knew them. Oh, yeah. He had known them all at one time or another. He'd known what their mission was, their slim visions of grandeur in the architecture of words.
But he had made sure, as they had drawn their wordy landscapes over the seasons of time, that not one of them had truly captured or been able to divulge the truth. They had not possessed the underlying foundation that could piece it all together.
Oh, they had tried. Many of them had been extremely gifted, and skilled at their crafts. But the written legacies they had created were missing the essentials. They had not truly understood the full scope of things at all.
Nor would they have believed the sheer incredibleness of the raw truth. He knew that their basic natures would not allow them to accept something that had been staring them in the face since the beginning of time. Not these people. They had been stripped from the first stage play.
But he had to acknowledge that as separate entities they had managed to carve out tidbits. They had strewn them around like pieces of a puzzle, in many cases around the world. And if a person had the vision, the dawning realization could have grave consequences.
That he could not allow. That was why many of their spirits were sequestered, the gifted ones. Yet he was lucky, as there was not one yet who truly knew how to string together the tidbits to make up the whole.
Me scowled with scorn at the small wooden stage platform in the exhibition room. The Harlem Writers' Guild, he knew, took great pride in holding their meetings in this particular room, where they felt that their ancestors and predecessors had laid a foundation of future success for them. They clung to these relics like drowning rats. Me laughed. He loved it when he had time to reflect on the well-placed stumbling blocks that had been placed in front of these people.
He hated these people. He specifically hated writers, those crafters of words, trying with all their might to be like their maker.
His utter destruction over time, as well as his deep hatred of them and his role in their pain and suffering, should have been enough. But it wasn't. So on that night he decided to leave them something else to remember.
He had already been to the Manuscripts, Archives and Rare Books division in the research center. This precious division held personal papers, records of organizations and institutions, subject or thematic collections, literary and scholarly typescripts and playscripts, sheet music, broadsides, programs and playbills, ephemera, and rare books.
It held the history, literature, politics, and culture of peoples of African descent, or it had before Me's visit tonight. After his visit, it just held many thousands of sheets of paper. Blank paper.
It served them right, Me decided. This center was the pride and joy of Harlem. What a shallow people they were. Me snorted. Tracie Burlingame's future contribution would never be seen here, that was for sure.
As Me looked on with scorn, the rage welling and swelling inside him, Rashod Burlingame stared in rapt fascination and vivid horror as the implications of what this bald bodybuilding monster had been doing began to take shape in his mind.
From his place in Me's biceps Rashod struggled to see through Me's eyes. His gift was becoming stronger. When he had lived in his body on earth, his gifts, he realized, had been limited due to the abuses he heaped on himself on a day in, day out basis.
But having shed the restraints of his body, his spirit was somehow growing stronger. Along with it, his view and his ability to manuever were somehow gaining strength, credence, and power as well.
Soon he hoped to figure out how to speak to Ms. Virginia. He knew she was here. He had heard the familiar voice not long after his arrival, but he had not known quite how to communicate with her. He'd heard about her death shortly before his own.
The woman had been a mainstay in the Harlem literary scene since before he was born. She had probably educated more black babies than Harlem's entire school system combined. Her store, Visionaries, had been a much beloved home and icon in Harlem. Like a favorite pair of old, comfortable slippers, always there for you.
Although he had never had any aspirations other than getting high and sketching when he was living, Ms. Virginia used to hire him. She'd give him a little change to run errands and move boxes of books and stuff for her. The fact that he was a junkie had never stopped her from doing it when she felt he was in need. Or when she wanted to give him what she called “productive work.” She was one of his mother's oldest salon customers.
He needed to talk to her. He just had to concentrate hard and figure out how he could do it. The space in which they were contained was like a vast vacuum with invisible walls. They were invisible but extremely solid.
He wondered briefly if he had enough strength to prevent Me from totally destroying this section of the Schomberg Center, because that was exactly what Me intended to do.
He had run up on the fact that Me's destroying the Schomberg Center was a personal vendetta. In truth it was only a distraction from the true events that would take place.
Rashod was beginning to peer insideâjust brief glimpses of pictures, really, were being transmitted to him from Me's mind, and he didn't like the portraits he was seeing. Whether he could do anything about them was a different story. But he would try because he wasn't going to let this bald monster take out his home ground like that. Me was an evil incarnate.
He kept seeing pictures of Tracie. Rashod didn't like it one bit that his mother was residing in this monster's mind. He didn't have the full picture, but he was not going to let this beast hurt his mother if he could help it.
He hoped Michael would gain some understanding from what had happened in his studio. They needed to put a plan in effect to take this bastard down.
But he had a feeling that Michael had fallen for Me's little mind game. Michael actually thought Rashod had been suffocated and swallowed up by the snake and that he couldn't communicate with him anymore.
It wasn't true; all Me had done was put forth a grand illusion before Michael, so that he could back him off and scare him. He'd wanted to create doubt.
But, that was all right, Rashod decided, because what went around came around. He would find a way to defuse this demon.
Me approached his first portrait. He had never before stolen pictures. He did not intend to do so now, so he quickly swallowed the names and dates of birth and death of the immortalized authors. He found this a bit unsatisfying. He needed to defile the faces of his enemies. So he generated a heat that caused the images to melt.
Rashod fought, but he was unable to get the right foothold he needed to defuse Me. Frustrated by his futile attempts, he banged against the invisible walls. They shook and trembled but did not move an inch.
Rashod felt Me turn away from his point of focus as another presence entered the room. Rashod peered through the layers. He spotted the uniformed security guard. Good, maybe he would put a stop to Me. But before the thought could get a purchase in his mind, Rashod already knew he was wrong.
“Who the hell are you?” the security guard spoke menancingly to Me. “There isn't supposed to be anyone on these premises at this time of night.”
Me stared. “I am Me.”
“Listen, fellow, don't get smart with me. You have no business being in here.”
Me's bald head glistened under the hot lights.
The security guard, upon his entrance, had flicked on the overhead lights. They were beaming on Me's bald scalp. Me hated the feeling that was raining down on him from the lights, like hot lava being poured on his head.
“I have business,” Me said.
“What business?”
Like a lightning strike, Me struck the security guard with one deft blow. His feet left the floor; his body went airborne. He crashed into the wall outside, beyond the small gallery. The security guard lay with his neck twisted at an odd angle. His chest was still.
Me knelt down, feeling for a pulse, although he knew there wasn't one. Me stood over him momentarily. He didn't want his spiritâthe man had no gift; he was just a plain old human, and Me did not want to taste his spirit on his lips.
“Not for Me,” he said as he stared down at the prone, twisted body on the floor.
“You punk!” Rashod shouted out loud enough for Me to hear. Me cringed at the sound of Rashod's voice. The boy's voice grated on his inner nerves. Me looked at his biceps, found Rashod's place, and whacked him back and forth until Rashod's head spun.
But Rashod had discovered a secret. The only thing Me was seeing was his image where he usually resided. Rashod had managed to hide the substance of his spirit and project his image, which was really only a shell.
He had moved back into a corner of the vacuum where Me couldn't see him. When Me grunted in satisfaction after whacking Rashod, his satisfaction was brief, because Rashod loomed up in front of him. His stance was menacing. “Back off, you bastard!” Rashod told him.
Me reached for Rashod, but before Me could grab him, he was back in his corner of the vacuum.
Me let out an animal-like roar in his anger. He reached inside his pant leg and pulled out the large, shiny knife. He then proceeded to slash the walls of the Schomberg Center to smithereens. It was a totally human act, one he did not usually engage in, but he was seeking relief from his anger at Rashod.
The last thing he did before he left was to cut off the head of the bust of Othello that was residing in the lobby of the Schomberg Center. Othello's head crashed to the floor, breaking up into hundreds of tiny pieces.
Me never noticed the tiny black charcoal scroll lying among the ruins of Othello's head, but Rashod did. He scooped it up. Unknowingly, he now held the key to many things.
40
H
e was absolutely delirious with joy. He was bathing in plasma, blood plasma. His supply would be sufficient for a long time to come. The blood he was bathing in was of a recognized breed. It was high-pedigree. It felt thick, like gooey molasses against his skin.
The bodies that had been emptied of these precious fluids most likely wouldn't be discovered until morning. When they were found, a cry would go out throughout Harlem, such as hadn't been heard since Rachel had cried for the slaughtering of her children during the time of the birth of Jesus Christ.
There would be many Rachels in the morning. He loved it when he pulled the same scam throughout different times in history, and the current generation fell for it as well. He was on a high. In any case, Tracie Burlingame would no longer be a lone ranger. There would be plenty of weeping on the streets of Harlem when the sun came up.
He lifted a plastic cup to his lips and took a long, hearty swallow. The blood dripped along the sides of his mouth. He swiped at it with his back hand and then leaned back in the tub, relaxing. He loved the pungent smell of it in his nostrils.
“It's all in a night's work,” he spoke aloud. Soon he would need to talk to Me. But for now he was saturated.
He stretched. He had no idea which gift he would use, or when. He certainly had his choice of them now. During the course of the night, he had gathered unto himself artists, musicians, poets, journalists, athletes, authorsâhell, he even acquired a young concert pianist, as well as several brilliant minds that would have grown in the elite worlds of medicine, science, and technology, making new discoveries and casting African-Americans in a new light.
Would have.
Oh, they were just mere seedlings, not developed of their future potential, and that was the point. He had snuffed them out before any of that crap could begin. But there would be great suffering, because all had been aware and had seen the potential of their gifts for the future.
And he had managed to throw a nice curveball to the police by having that sap who was sniffing after Tracie Burlingame murder her sons. The police were fully concentrated on those murders. Then he had switched gears, duplicating the murders at a much deeper level. Fantastic. He was almost in awe of himself, such was the cleverness of his plan. But then, he had created clever.
Hadn't he?
He sighed. Anyway, once the little seedlings he had killed matured, they would have wanted to grow and manifest, planting their brilliant, gifted seeds in the generations to come. Hell, no.
Yeah. On this night he'd left a mark to remember. He climbed out of the tub, not bothering to dry himself off, and walked into the living room, which was covered with sneakers, one of each pair. Pure joy shot through his body.
He got on his knees and crawled over to the sneaker collection. He sniffed the lingering scent left behind by the boy it used to belong to. A bunch of damn fools these kids were. They actually worshipped these damned rubber shoes, and because they did, unknowingly they had turned sneakers into an idol.
It had been so easy. All he'd had to do was have the heads of America's hungering corporations put them in a suitcase, light them from the bottom, tag on the word “air,” pump them up with some star athletes, and suddenly there was an entire generation panting for them, robbing for them, and killing for them. And the corporations? Well, they were drowning in the glitz of the almighty dollar, worshipping him, too. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.
These kids were so shallow, he would have felt remorse at the easy pickings if he were capable of it. But he wasn't.
You could find the poorest kid in Harlem wearing a pair of one-hundred-dollar to one-hundred-fifty-dollar sneakers. Their bellies might rumble with hunger; their pockets might be empty; but shining on their feet were a brand new pair of the latest sneakers.
And he loved it because when they worshipped sneakers or other such material things, they worshipped him. Him and his many faces. This generation was the worst type of idolaters. They were the worst that had been seen in centuries. Every time they knelt before the coveted rubber beings, they knelt at his table.
And, their God was mad. No. Mad was too light a term. He was fuming at their ignorance and lack of respect. Apparently, none of them had read the Book of Jeremiah. He laughed. If only they knew. It was a good thing for him that they didn't.
He was the idol of idols in all his many forms. He preened at the actual brilliance of his idea with mere sneakers. In one smooth stroke, he had reached out and cast his net on those little seedlings, and now, through their yearnings, he had captured them.
Them and their gifts that would have been.
It was too bad he would have to trash this body soon. It had proved to be very useful since as far back as before the thumb-sucking stage, when it had reached out and touched the red, slippery substance.
The child had fragmented and splintered into many emotional pieces upon touching the substance and witnessing the violence of death. That was when he had stepped in to rear the child, raise him in his own right. But soon he would trash him and be done with him.
Who the hell cared anyway?
He sat back as if on his haunches, though in reality he was sitting on human legs, still admiring the sneakers and the brilliant brand of destruction they represented. He could hear their spirits, still crying out after having been body-snatched from the little rubber demons.
Tomorrow. Alas, tomorrow Alexandra Kennedy would be busy with the new shipment of sneakers that had been dispatched to her office that night. She'd be busy with that and with matching up all those boys' bodies to all those missing sneakers. What a chore. The thought bored him.
He headed back to the tub. “It's all in a night's work,” he sang.
And a very good night for him it was. It was almost time to put the ultimate plan into effect and pay a visit to Ms. Tracie Burlingame . . . the host mother.