When Snowden arrived, Nina didn't even look up, not even to roll her eyes. There were four calls blinking on hold. The voice
mailbox was nearly full. Aside from two magazine reporters, every single one of them wanted to know about available properties,
when they could come in for a tour. Snowden handled 114 calls by noon, left the rest for her when he went to change into his
banana suit again.
A NIGHT OF designed levity, a bit of glamour to add to Harlem's luster, a moment to celebrate the unprecedented success of
the last few months. Horizon Realty's black tie celebration was conducted along the entire 400 block of West 119th; the Fruit
of Islam security force began clearing cars and sealing off the block after sunset. Dinner and dessert were to be held in
the lodge's ballroom, but to highlight what the celebration was all about, Horizon-sold brownstones along the street were
selected to host the preliminary courses.
Lester noted to the three that this location would have been impossible just two years before, but the comment was unnecessary.
The location would have been impossible only eight months ago when they got there. The single-room-occupancy on the far corner
from the lodge where the guy used to bring his TV out on the stoop attached to an extension cord - sold to a "happy face"
buyer last April. The one across from that whose residents opted for stereo speakers and stained sheets in their windows instead
of curtains now the home of a vice president at HBO whose parents uprooted from Mount Morris to Mount Vernon in 1958. Those
three vacant shells? Sold in the boom of the last three months. The one whose contractor had yet to start made an impressive
donation to the little Leaders Foundation in exchange for its art class painting images of polka-dot-curtained, flower-filled
windows over the cinder-blocked ones.
The second Mrs. Bryant began serving hors d'oeuvres before the blockades were even erected, her home the perfect starting
point, the incarnation of the brownstone dream. Bought in 1927 by the late Charles Bryant (1972) and refurbished by the first
Mrs. Bryant soon after, enjoyed by her for nearly ten years before she was hit by an errant taxi somewhere in Murray Hill.
"She had excellent tastes," said the second Mrs. Bryant, tray in hand, blooming under her guests' collective gaze.
Appetizers were up the steps of the Franklin townhouse. Joshua Franklin, two-year resident, his fiancée Regina Buder, resident
for half that time. They had the food catered from three different Harlem restaurants: Bandana (Dominican), Bamboo (Creole),
and of course M&G's Soul Food. The decor of the Franklin house could best be described as a mix between old brown wood and
old brown cultures, the African carvings blending seamlessly in with the dark Victorian fixtures.
The residence of Daniel Harper and Gil Meehan was of much lighter bent, eggshell walls serving as perfect screens for the
colorful mirages projected by outside lights through their many stained-glass windows. "All original," they assured their
visitors. Mr. Harper was a set designer, Mr. Meehan a makeup artist. Everyone found Gil a treasure, appreciated that the white
man seemed so at ease to be so outnumbered, appreciated the diversity he brought to the crowd.
Charlene and Bill Dougal were scheduled to offer coffee, tea, and cider in their living room, but the contractor had worked
late and there was so much dust that they ran his industrial extension cord out to the front stoop and served from there.
Originally excited about the idea, Charlene had called Lester Baines just that morning to try to back out, fearing that in
comparison to the others, their brownstone, which had only just begun its transformation back to a single-family-home from
a single-room-occupancy, would serve as a cautionary tale as well as an embarrassment. By nine P.M., when all participants
were called to the serving of the main course in the lodge by Ghanaian talking drums, Charlene was relieved Lester'd never
returned her call. The Dougals' home, its shredded floors, its barren caulk-filled walls had indeed seemed stark in comparison,
but the emotion it prompted in the visitors was awe, and not simply for how little they'd paid for it. Strangers openly marveled
at her strength in the face of such a momentous undertaking, the undertaking itself and goal at the end of it. The crowd grew
in what would one day be the Dougals' dining room, forsaking the more comfortable alternatives to listen to the woman as she
stood in front of the tent covered in plaster dust and nailed to the floor between the wood beams that the Dougals' were at
this stage sleeping in. Engrossed in the tales of the trials she'd already encountered, the guests eased her fears with their
own projections of how beautiful it would be when completed. They listened and believed for a moment that they too could be
pioneers up here.
Having one's waitstaff dressed in Harlem Renaissance period clothes was so overdone, it was decided to have them dress up
in traditional African garb instead. Ibos served entrees, Ashanti warriors handed out bottles of Star Beer while struggling
to keep their kente wraps on with their left hands. Masai stood on one foot, aperitif trays attached to the ends of their
staffs. Roles were assigned based on ethnic resemblance. Handing out the costumes, Horus joked that Bobby, by that logic,
should be forced to "hold one of them spear trays as well," which was funny the first time, but Horus just kept saying it.
Horus's date was not a stripper. Horus's date was not a stripper. If Horus's date was not a stripper, then why was he smiling
like that, repeatedly pulling Snowden to the side to deny something she was never accused of? Why was she wearing shoes with
glass heels the size of hot dogs? Why was she handing out his business card? What other possible explanation could there be?
Snowden was dateless. Piper was there but had come on an invitation to the staff of the
New Holland Herald,
and that relationship was dying down anyway. With Snowden extremely careful about what he said to her, they had run out of
things to talk about, or rather, after two months of little more than polite banter, they had become embarrassed that they'd
found no shared interest to elevate the dialogue. They'd found a few things to argue about, but since the relationship had
yet to develop enough animosity to need an outlet for it, those topics felt pointless as well. mostly they had sex, and mostly
to cover up the silences, and not even that often anymore.
Snowden had never had a relationship that lasted longer than five months. Once one was started, he'd begin immediately asking
himself how it would end. When would be the last kiss? Would the relationship explode in a heated exchange over some perceived
insult, or would it simply dissipate into nothingness, a phone call never returned or followed up? With Piper, even ignoring
the inherent danger of her inquisitive nature, they were so ill matched. Snowden had begun hoping that their end would come
quickly and quietly, but was willing to risk a violent confrontation if she took offense at him trying to meet a new, better-suited
partner among the night's attendees.
Aside from the minor distraction of Piper, the evening marked the return of the upbeat Snowden (it had been so long). This
mental state was due largely to the fact that in all this time no more accidents had even been mentioned by the senior men
of Horizon. Snowden had begun to strongly suspect that after the success of the
Times
article the tactic was deemed no longer necessary. This seemed possible, logical even. Cut your losses — made perfect sense.
Snowden adored this suspicion, took comfort in the idea that he could just do his best to take care of Jifar and forget the
rest.
The lodge was crowded with the beautiful women of New York City, glowing princesses emigrated from smaller towns and uglier
cities, drained of aloofness by the humbling proximity of so many others. Bobby Finley, two cocktails in hand as he circled
the room, trying once again to identify his romantic counterpart, his one, past failures far behind him. If she was here,
Bobby would go to her and raise the extra glass to ask, "Martini?" and that simply his destined love affair would begin.
The Great Work
laid as bait back at an apartment somewhat cleaned for the occasion.
The three in immaculate tuxedos, good shoes, even their socks matched. The three affording this because of two months of actually
showing clients around, the Second Chance stipend being increased, and Metzer's Formal Wear's buy-two-get-one-free sale. The
deal was only for wedding parties, so Horus played the groomsman. Temps had been hired to lift boxes into the homes they'd
helped sell, taking the job now beneath them. The three looked so respectable even they could believe they were.
Most of the attendees had never spent much time in Harlem before. (Sharing the dining room of Sylvia's with busloads of German
tourists didn't count.) Snowden had seen the guest list, typed out the envelopes himself, had gathered enough from Lester's
comments to know who many of them were, even the ones whose faces he didn't recognize. The majority were the highest-ranking
black employees of New York's most respected industries, male and female. The rest were cops and parole officers.
The parole officers could be easily identified by their cheap shoes, but Snowden didn't need that marker. Even in the context
of these festivities, they stood out to him. They looked like people who spent all day being lied to. They were what happened
when the secular, unblinded by faith, spent their lives dealing with humanity's worst at their worst. Worn, mundane, bitter
— they were like office coffee left to burn on the plate for days. Snowden hugged walls, kept his nose in his drink, assumed
they too could identify him at a glance. They were nothing like the congressman who greeted newcomers at the front door, transcending
his bestial frame with elegance, success, and by standing at the top of steep steps. It was obvious to Snowden that the homicidal
hedgehog was their hero. His rise from their ranks to become the president of the Parole Division Union, to Congress, to wealth
back in the place he served as a public servant was legendary. Tens of them, dusty, smiling creatures, walking around the
lodge like they owned it as much as he did.
No cameras, aside from private ones. Regardless of the many media folks in attendance, no press reports were to be written
about the event at all, as per the invitation's request. A large but private function. A moment for black America's best and
brightest to enjoy Harlem's renewal, take note that its time had returned, sample its possibilities, and maybe take a Horizon
card from the discreet stand by the door on the way to their cab back downtown. No party worth attending was publicly reported
on.
The upper tenth of the Tenth. Most seemed to at least recognize each other, or pretend not to, or assume they were being recognized
themselves, their private motions a dramatic interpretation of ease.
A lack of notable weather patterns raised the prominence of housing as a casual discussion topic, a New York City favorite
made that much more appropriate by the occasion. Where do you live, what part, what size, how much? In New York, the questions
were not considered rude or intrusive, because there was no way you could answer wrong. If you paid a lot it was a tribute
to your wealth, bonding ground for the overpaying majority. If you paid barely anything at all it was a testament to your
good fortune and ingenuity. Residence in the best neighborhoods was a source of pride, but residency in the worst even more
so. It meant you were a visionary pioneer, braving the urban elements to bet on the next slum to become the next Utopia.
Not used to free food or drink, Snowden was both full and drunk by the time he'd arrived at the lodge for his entree. The
rest of the guests weren't far behind him. This was when he noticed the first accident talk. Someone walking up the lodge's
front steps slipped, sent a hand shooting for purchase on the wide stone banister. A voice in the crowd behind said, "Careful
there, hold on tight! You don't want to be another clumsy Negro at the morgue!" Snowden, who always clenched the railing for
that very reason, at first thought the warning was directed at him, then loosened his grip ever so slightly.
Inside and warmed, that incident had already been drained of reality for him, a moment of paranoia, vestiges of guilt he knew
he was still susceptible to. Then came a guest's joke announcement warning the crowd to be "extremely careful" with their
leftover appetizer toothpicks. Followed by a yell from across the room to be wary of the electric sockets, followed by another's
calm reassurance that with nearly 200 folks in attendance, statistics said at least 190 had absolutely nothing to worry about.
Greater laughter greeted everyone. All the fear returned, Snowden moved quickly away from the sound, was the first to find
his place card at a table and sit down. From behind him, a man in the crowd claimed to have dressed as the Chupacabra for
Halloween as well. Together, he and his companions threw out conjectures about what one might look like. Snowden tried to
hum them out, still heard pieces of the man's story, something about sewing on dried pig snouts from the pet store.
"A morbid bunch, aren't they?" The other man had a place card in his hand, picked up two more to read before selecting the
seat next to Snowden. He looked boring and the kind of person who enjoys sharing his gift of boredom with others. Snowden
nodded, wished there was something at the table he could pretend to be preoccupied with.
"Well, it's nuts, the way everybody's bugging out. I guess they don't really believe it. Because it's not true," Snowden offered,
began busying himself with the pockets inside of his coat as if there was something in them.
"They don't believe it can happen to them. They're not poor, uneducated. Plus," the other turned smiling, "who doesn't love
an urban legend? Especially black folks."
"Menthol cigarettes were genetically engineered to be especially addictive to blacks."
"Right, I remember that one. Tropical Fantasy soda was produced by the Klan to make us sterile."
"And the Klan makes all those crown air fresheners too, and Snapple, that's why they have little
k's
on every bottle," Snowden told him.
"The government tracks us by giving us an even fifth digit number on our Social Security numbers, and whites get an odd number,"
the man said.