Snowden watched the man's ring as he lectured. It was as thick as a chestnut, gold dark enough that it held a red hue. Every
time he made a point he felt particularly important, Marks had the habit of slamming that ring into the nearest hard service
available, the clang reinforcing his punctuation.
"You, my handpicked warriors, are needed. Harlem is more than a place, it's a symbol. It's our Mecca, it is our Jerusalem,
the historic cradle of our culture, the ark of our covenant as Africans in this Western world. It must be protected, by any
means necessary," Marks declared, ring banging. "This is our last chance. If we don't get this place together, attract our
own people to come back and make it vital once more, history will repeat itself. Gentlemen, we at Horizon Realty are not going
to stand by and let them push us out this time. So it stops here!"
"It stops here!" Lester repeated, nodding, smiling. A gust of wind sent the balloon dipping sharply to the right, but Lester
merely gripped a cable with both hands and kept grinning, undaunted.
"It stops now!" Marks called, this time all but Snowden loudly responding, Snowden himself having only just enough sense to
mouth the words.
"This is where we make our last stand, great black warriors of the new millennium! Together, and with the help of all the
people we'll recruit to stand among us, we'll bring back the renaissance that once defined this place. We shall not be moved!"
"We shall not be moved!" repeated the chorus.
"Harlem is ours!" Marks yelled, spittle shooting forward, tears dripping straight down.
"Harlem is ours!" the others responded. Snowden closed his eyes, unsure if Harlem was his, or if it was if he really wanted
it, and began praying aloud for a safe landing. Cursing aloud that this was his last chance at something better. Nobody noticed,
though, with all the clapping.
IN THE WEEKS of moving Horizon's clients into their newly acquired homes, Bobby made a practice of going to the back of the
truck and selecting the biggest, heaviest beasts — things Snowden spent the morning looking at and thinking,
If I can just get through this
day without lifting that, I just might make it
—
and trying to lift them, carry them down the little ramp and into the property all by himself. Bobby Finley looked like a
skeleton dipped in chocolate; his strongman spectacle was intensely unnerving to watch. Snowden would be standing behind him
cringing, offering unaccepted help, sure the skinny man's arms would simply distend from the strain, that his femurs would
snap in two from the struggle.
The most disturbing thing about Bobby's behavior, in Snowden's opinion, was that he wasn't even doing it to win the house
or job at all, that there was no spur of competition driving him. Bobby didn't care about the brownstone, never brought it
up. His only comment if someone else did was, "Fate will decide who's best suited to lead us." Bobby didn't care because Bobby
actually believed in what Lester and the congressman were telling him, bought into all of it from the start. Horus was the
same way, never questioning, never complaining, but Snowden found this far less remarkable. Having seen Horus eat, Snowden
doubted the man questioned what he consumed at all.
Originally, Snowden assumed Bobby's faith was nothing more than a clever ploy, a work of performance art meant to create the
impression that he was the most committed of the three of them, but after weeks of testing this facade with conspiratorial
cynicism, Snowden conceded defeat just to get him to shut up. Bobby used the slightest doubtful whisper as an excuse to spew
Horizon propaganda back. Fevered, ecclesiastic ramblings that could often be interrupted only by running away from him, which
on two occasions Snowden had literally been forced to do. Bobby Finley could spin firm logic from the mist of romance. Both
times Snowden had chosen to run were because Bobby was starting to make sense to him.
Bobby was good with words. He was a writer. Not a very successful one even by his own admission, but a published one nonetheless,
a novel he'd called
The Great Work.
One of these copies Bobby Finley presented to Snowden, who out of a sense of grudging obligation tried to read it, and after
several motivated assaults did manage to push through to the third page. This fact irritated Snowden, as it was his habit
to take pride in his assertion that he loved reading everything: romance, mystery, science fiction, sometimes even the newspaper.
Not only did Snowden fail to get beyond the very opening of
The
Great Work,
he also realized — as he struggled for some polite compliment to offer Bobby afterward — that he had no idea what he'd read.
The book's sentences seemed to make sense individually. They had verbs and adjectives and nouns, but reading one after another
only compounded his confusion. The sole blurb to grace the back cover said " . . . creates an emotional response . . . ,"
which Snowden had to agree with, as his emotional response had been to scream and want to hurl it across his apartment. Instead,
upon reuniting with Bobby, Snowden smiled and said, "I've never read anything like it!" to which Bobby's response was to snatch
the book out of Snowden's hands and start frantically wiping away imaginary fingerprints from its cover.
Bobby Finley was a passionate man, obsessive, covetous. The most absurd proof of this, in Snowden's opinion, was Bobby's take
on love and women, or rather
the
woman. The one: the mythical creature that was Bobby's other favorite obsession, his imagined soul mate. Snowden discovered
this particular delusion while the two were stuck in traffic on the BQE and he asked the skinny man, "Have you ever been in
love?" It was a question simply meant to throw Bobby off guard, to get him to stop quoting from the Horizon-recommended
Social Construction of Community
just long enough to let the ringing that had started to vibrate in Snowden's skull subside into a light hum. The question
was fortuitous, fateful even. It revealed the only subject guaranteed to distract him.
At some point in his lonely life, fermented by years of awkwardness, rejection, socially and governmentally enforced isolation,
Bobby Finley had decided that the reason things between him and every woman he'd ever been interested in had gone horribly
wrong was that he was destined for one perfectly matched mate and no other. Bobby shared this with Snowden like it was simple
fact, swatting it away as if it was merely one more annoyance fate had burdened him with. Despite the casual manner of his
revelation, it was quite a while before Bobby himself changed the subject again. About two weeks. Sometimes even tempting
Snowden over to his apartment with promises of free beer just so he could continue his monologue.
In that time, exhausted but amused, Snowden had actually grown attached to the emaciated man, and having shared the company
of several women and fallen in love with something about each one, tried in moments of sympathy to dissuade him. "Promiscuity
is good," Snowden explained to his surely less experienced compatriot. "Variety isn't just the spice of life, it's the point
of it." It was an argument destined for the disproportionately large yet deaf ears of Bobby Finley.
"Complementary, you see? We'll be like one of those gold necklace sets in the Penney catalog, the ones shaped like two jagged
sides of a broken heart." Bobby was thirty-four years old and usually wearing a banana-colored work suit when he said things
like this. Snowden was so embarrassed for the man he wished it were true.
Snowden spent the morning getting his physical at the company doctor's office up on Striver's Row, didn't get out until half
past noon and only went straight back to work because that's what the other two guys had done when they went for theirs in
the weeks before. He found the Horizon truck at the address given, already returned from picking up the day's customer from
Connecticut, its back gate open and a quarter of the haul already removed. Walking up its narrow metal ramp to get inside,
Snowden found Bobby, too, nearly obscured in the rear among the shadows of boxes and dressers.
"She's here. Piper Goines, our client, the lady we're moving. She's
her.
She's
the one."
Bobby was talking in near whispers. Until he stepped farther out of his hiding space, Snowden wasn't certain Bobby had even
been talking to him, nor was he entirely sure after. Bobby's usual plum skin seemed drained, ashen. There was a cigarette
in his fingers that he dragged on, then shook his head like someone had just defecated on his tongue.
"Then why do you smoke?" Snowden asked him.
"It's the only thing I'm allowed to light on fire anymore."
This was not the first time that Bobby had suspected he'd found "the one," not even in the few weeks since he'd revealed his
mythology. There'd been the woman Bobby'd been in line behind at the Jamaican take-out place on 125th, the one he'd followed
for four blocks before realizing she couldn't possibly be "the one" from the vagaries of her gate. There'd been the woman
glimpsed momentarily standing at the 79th Street station platform as Bobby'd whisked by on the 2 express downtown. By the
time he'd taken the local train back up, she was gone. This had provided conversational fodder for days. These past events,
however, had always left Bobby in a cheerful mood, elated, prone to say really pathetic things like, "It must mean I'm getting
closer," or to go into his theory that the reason he had never met her before was that he was destined to come to New York
City to do so.
In response to Snowden's glare, Bobby said, "I'm not hiding, I'm preparing. First impressions are of extreme import. Being
characterized negatively, or incorrectly, could have devastating results down the line. I am trying to avoid a tragedy here."
Snowden noticed the yellow notepad sitting on the chest-high pile of boxes as Bobby put his cigarette back in the side of
his mouth and lifted a pen from behind his ear.
Snowden climbed aboard, looked for something to carry, even considered grabbing a good-sized television for the chance to
peek at what Bobby was writing before choosing a large teddy bear instead and just asking.
"Notes. I'm writing out possible conversation directions so that I'm prepared with something that demonstrates my capacity
for witty banter."
"Why not just be yourself?" Snowden smiled, shrugged to him.
"Because that is a cliché," Bobby sighed. "Look, this is no . . . 'round-the-way-girl whose affections can be bought with
a
howyadoin'
and a Pepsi. Piper Goines is clearly a person of refinement. A woman of sophistication and substantial beauty," Bobby said
back to him.
"The boy's right, Snowball. You should see the ass on this bitch," Horus declared coming up from behind. Snowden turned to
catch Bobby's reaction, but the skinny man had disappeared deeper into the truck behind the stacks of furniture.
"Straight up dog, I'm about to get me some of that!" Horus continued. "I'm going to be all up in that booty, you watch me.
I'm going to bang it
hard.
I'm going to bang it
greasy?
Horus crinkled his nose above his smile as if even he was somewhat disgusted by the image. After he'd hoisted a bookshelf
onto his back, Horus trudged off again, cursing in delight with every step. Snowden turned around and grabbed the teddy bear
with the intention of following him into the house, and Bobby was standing exactly where he was before, same footing and everything.
"Dear God you have to stop him." Bobby's face had lost so much blood Snowden imagined it tingled.
"Me? What's this got to do with me?"
"If that animal goes in there and starts slobbering over her, he won't just ruin my chances, he'll disgrace the honor of Horizon
Realty itself! Besides, he'll listen to you. He respects you more than he respects me," Bobby insisted.
"Now why the hell would you think that?" Snowden asked incredulously.
"You know. Because you killed someone."
Piper Goines was moving into the condo on the third floor of the brownstone. The couple who owned the rest of the townhouse
stood on the main floor guarding their domain, entwined at the bottom of the steps like dried vines, wearing matching sweatshirts
and overalls as if they were doing the lifting. Behind them this place, Snowden walked slowly just to get a better look at
it. Most of the brownstones they refilled were shells, houses scraped out and abandoned, cut into single-room-occupancy flophouses
decades ago. Places of construction, dust and drywall, their architectural details hidden or stolen or replaced with modern
finishings by the returning middle class. But this townhouse was how they all were supposed to be: intricate woodwork angling
through the double doors, spinning lattice icicles above the archways, fireplaces snug in tile, cake-tin moldings along the
ceiling above, the stained-glass mosaic of the back window, and all of it original. Snowden the agnostic saw it and couldn't
help but think for a second of God. That God had made them build mansions for millionaires who never came, so that there was
no one but their slaves to fill them. That this was his reparation. That Harlem was God's gift to black people.
Snowden walked up the ornate stairway with the stuffed bear in both hands, Bobby straining behind him with his arms wrapped
around a narrow armoire. The wall going up was lined with paintings and Snowden was admiring them when he heard their owners
yelling up from below.
"They're originals. Including the frames. Why don't I just get those out of your way." The brown and blessed, moneyed and
mobile, Snowden couldn't remember if he'd moved this couple in or just so many of their type he could no longer see individuals.
The female of the breed sprang into the narrow space alongside him, started taking the artwork off the wall before they could
even get by.
"Negroes get a couple Henry Ossawa Tanners, think they running the Met," Bobby offered when they finally made it to the apartment,
closed the door behind them. This was Bobby Finley: If the people they were moving had more blue-collar tastes, Bobby would
make fun of their prints and assembly line African sculptures. If their possessions were more sophisticated, Bobby would attack
them for their bourgeois pretensions. Bobby was militant about being middle of the road. "She probably thinks Monet is 'the
root of all evil.'"
"First of all, that's my big sister you're dogging," a woman's voice responded, its owner following it out of the kitchen.
"Second, even if I agreed with you - which I do - it wouldn't be right for me to say so since she's also flipping your bill.
If it was up to me, I would have just got some bums off the corner to do the job for beer and pizza." The comments came coated
in good humor, but Snowden could still see Bobby acting shaken, his lips fluttering before his words started bouncing through.
Standing before Bobby Finley, Piper Goines seemed like a separate species: better bred, better fed, better raised. Apparently
taller than Bobby (he stooped so much, it was hard to tell even with him coiled next to her), Piper was round in face and
arms, making her look both soft and strong at the same time. The curves below her waist that Horus coveted were lost in the
folds of Piper's mud-cloth skirt, material as thick and wrinkled as elephant skin. Her beauty was in her face, the nose that
dripped down into a smile of bright teeth and dark gums, but her strength shone all over her.
It seemed obvious to Snowden that Bobby Finley, who fit in his uniform like one french fry in a potato sack, was not in the
same league as Piper Goines. Literally, figuratively, she seemed too much for him. If this was Bobby's ideal partner, Snowden
deduced his concept of the perfect human relationship must be based on the model set by the praying mantis.
"Hey, don't worry about it, my sister's a freaking Republican," Bobby responded. This might have been a good return, had Bobby
not nearly said "fucking" and only caught himself after the first syllable, or had a sister at all. The last bit was immediately
revealed as false when Piper asked, "Oh yeah? Is she older or younger?" and Bobby answered, "Medium."