Queen of Harlem

1 I'd been staying at Jim's East Village apartment for two weeks, but as we sat in his favorite bar on East Fourth Street downing dollar drafts, the air was let out of the keg. "Listen, Mason, it's been cool having you crash, but if you wanna keep kicking it in New York you're gonna need to find your own place." Jim was your average hipster whose claim to fame was that he was the first white guy, that he knew, to have dreadlocks. All summer I had been twisting my hair, trying to attach myself to something associated with black heritage. "I know. I've been looking," I said. "I've checked the ads every day." "Fuck the ads," said Jim, holding up his empty mug to the tattooed bartender. "Just tell everybody you meet that you're looking. It's the only way. That's how I found my place." The "place" was a railroad flat. At least that's what they're called in New York. In the South it's called a shotgun house. But at that moment it was more than I had. I'd crossed out all the possible ads but one remained: HOUSEMATE WANTED TO SHARE TOWN HOUSE 450/month. Rarely home No. 20 W. 120th St. Appt. 4-4:15, 15 October I'd circled it as a lark. Sure, I was going to go to Harlem, at some point, to check it out, but I'd never really considered living there. "Please be sure to take all of your belongings when leaving the train. And be mindful of your wallets, for the hand in your pocket may not be your own." Voice over the intercom of the 6 train, tunneling through Manhattan's East Side. I got out of the subway at 125th Street, and the rush of color, fabric as well as skin, filled me like a Jamaican patty. The air was different, alive. Incense filled my nose, and the different languages and accents felt good in my ears. Harlem. "Dreads?" said the West African woman, stepping up to me. "You want dreads? Twist?" "No, thank you," I said with a smile as I walked on, avoiding the rolling tumbleweeds of hair that hadn't made it onto someone's head. "Yo. Yo, playa. Wassup?" said a voice. I turned around as he stood on a stoop. His three friends stayed on the steps, sipping Forties and sporting their latest bubble coats. "You I-ight? You need something?" "Nah, man. I'm cool. Thanks," I said, stopping, hoping to strike up a conversation. Bond with the brothers. " 'I'm cool. Thanks,' " he said, not at all trying to cover his mocking tone. His friends started laughing like Richard Pryor was doing a show. "Yeah, I see. You one of them uppity niggas. Probably get your shit delivered. Look at this motherfucker," he said, turning back to the peanut gallery. "He look like one of them niggas they always have in an ad, peeping out from behind the white boys. Like he don't care they got his ass stuck in the back. 'Just so happy to be here, massa.' Black boy blending." I smiled, trying to brush off the situation. That I was used to, but not this. "Your name's probably Theo. You a Huxtable?" "Nah, man. It's not like that," I said, trying to change my voice, deepen it. "My name's Mason." " 'No. My name's Mason.' " "Malik," said one of the guys on the stoop. I glanced over at the guy, happy for the interruption. "Give the brother a break." "Brother? This nigga ain't no brother. You ain't from up here, are you?" asked Malik. I wanted to just walk away but I didn't want to turn my back on him. "No," I said. "But I'm checking out a place, though." " 'I'm checking . . .' Nigga, you better head on back downtown. Harlem ain't for you. You too soft." He pushed me hard in the chest and I stumbled back. I couldn't smile anymJackson, Brian Keith is the author of 'Queen of Harlem' with ISBN 9780385502955 and ISBN 0385502958.