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."