Logs:On My Block

On My Block
Dramatis Personae Sam, Steve
In Absentia	2020-03-31 "It's -- a kind of colonization, really."
Location <PRV> Sam and Steve's Apartment - Harlem
This is a third-story walkup in an aging historic building which, while not entirely crumbling, has a certain worn and shabby look, its plumbing and fixtures often in need of repair. The apartment has two small bedrooms, but makes up for it with capacious common areas. A single long space serves as living room and dining room combined, is semi-open to the kitchen, and has a surprisingly large bathroom with an antique claw-footed tub. Tall, drafty windows let out onto the fire escape from the living room and both bedrooms, and let in excellent light from the southern exposure. The sleek art deco motif that runs through the living room furniture, while not strictly matching, has clearly been worked to coordinate. The dining set, coffee and end tables have been crafted with complementary geometric patterning, ebony accents providing a dark contrast to the warmer swirls of maple burl that feature most prominently. The sofa, love seat, and chair fill out the rest of the living room, a matching set upholstered in plush burgundy. The numerous lamps do not all match, some of them clearly temporary supplement for the inadequate overhead lighting. It's a damp, miserable day outside, clouds hanging low over the city, even if it is not raining at this particular moment. Wearing a black t-shirt and comfortable blue jeans, Steve has been trying, for the last hour and a half, to cook mac and cheese. His labor have indeed yielded cheesy noodles, but also an outsized mess that he is presently trying clumsily to clean up. His right hand looks much more dramatically deformed without a bandage on, and his frustration with his constant reflexive attempts to make the hand do things it can no longer do is evident. Sam's door has been closed for a time, and though he makes a concerted effort to keep his voice measured the apartment walls don't serve as a great barrier, drifts and snatches of conversation with his latest client occasionally audible in the kitchen. He emerges now, rubbing at his eyes; his crisp black dress shirt and yellow cravat are paired incongruously with fluffy red pajama pants that drag over his heels. He wanders into the kitchen, skirting around Steve to refill his glass of water and only then taking stock of the mess. "Can they do anything 'bout that? Did they say?" Steve shakes his head. "Don't know." Curtly. Then, maybe a bit sheepishly, "Consultation got postponed, which -- is completely reasonable." His right hand starts to curl reflexively, but he winces and relaxes it again. "Sorry about the mess, but ah, help yourself to mac and cheese if you like. Not my best showing to date, but there are three whole cheeses in it." "Shit. Life's all kinds of upside down, now. Still rough." Sam eyes the pot of noodles on the stove, then eyes Steve. Eyes the pot of noodles again. "Just to be clear, man, this ain't about the hand, it's cuz you white," he prefaces, before clapping a hand to Steve's shoulders and looking him in the eye to say, very solemnly: "I'm ordering my dinner." Steve nods. Then stops, blinking at Sam. "I haven't got any illusions about my cooking skills -- they're not that great whether I have one hand or two -- and I definitely don't begrudge you ordering out!" He seems more bemused than upset as he falls to wiping the countertop again. "But what has it got to do with my being white?" Sam huffs out a laugh, leaning back against the wall and out of Steve's way while he cleans. "Lord, where do I start with that one," is not exactly under his breath but it's not quite to Steve, either. "Aright, it's like, historically, there's been things that people of the paler complexion have been real skilled at, you know?" He's ticking them off on his fingers. "Gentrification, stealing other people's cultures and passing it off as their own, letting dogs kiss 'em in the mouths." He shrugs, lifts a shoulder. "But even though y'all pillaged half the planet for spices, cooking? Not high on the list. When it comes to soul food, I'mm'a stick with the same spot down Malcolm X that my mama always took us to for Sunday dinner if we got good grades." His lips twist, brief. "If it ain't been driven to close by now." Steve blushes, his gaze dropping -- quite unnecessarily -- to his work. "Kind of tended to think of cooking skill as an individual, or at least cultural thing, more so than a racial thing." But he says it with a shrug, noncommittal. "I can't say as my people are renowed even among white folk for our cuisine. And, maybe proving your point -- there's not actually any spices in that." He nods at the pot, blushing faintly. For a moment it seems like he might just go back to cleaning, but then he straightens up. "'Gentrification'. I've heard this word kicked around a lot, and I always think I know what it means, but..." He starts to run his hand through his hair -- the right hand -- but then drops it again, tucking it beneath his opposite arm. "How do you mean it? If you feel up to the explanation." The amusement that had lingered in Sam's eyes melts away into a thoughtful frown. He slumps back with a small huff of breath, lifting his water and taking a long drink. "Well," he replies, finally, slow, "time I was growing up, just down the way from here. Sundays the whole neighborhood was full of music, morning to night, everybody's church choirs going into a million family cookouts, impromptu jam sessions, whatever. Knew everybody around and your cousins were close by. Could spend all day in the neighborhood and not see a single white person come through." His eyes lower, one leg crossing loosely over the other. "Now -- now..." He draws a breath back in, slowly. "Now the newcomers call the cops if you sing too loud and there's cute hipster bars named after some of the Black people that come outta here and most of the people I grew up with can't afford the rent. I don't know, man. What gentrification is. It's saying you're saving a neighborhood by killing all the people in it." Steve listens, quiet and attentive, his right hand clasping his left elbow. His soft smile at the description of the Harlem of Sam's fades slowly and at last he nods. "It's -- a kind of colonization, really." He frowns. "I suppose...I had thought it was little different here than what I'd seen happening in Red Hook, but..." His head gives a small shake. "Even if it's still poor folks getting displaced, white folks taking from black folks will always been its own, particular thing." "Yeah. Always has been." Sam crosses an arm tight around his chest. "This place is home -- always gonna be home. But it's hard -- it's real hard. More rich white people move in, push us out. It's not just that it don't feel like the place I grew up -- things are always gonna change, that's just how time works. But -- watching my folks get thrown out their neighborhoods, their homes, and have that cheered as progress. It's its own kind of tough." Steve's brows wrinkle. "I'm sorry. I can't really know how this must be for you, but I can appreciate it hurts." He bows his head. "I also appreciate it may have been been something more of a compliment than I thought, that you accepted me as a roommate at all. And it may have been a complicated choice all the same." His mouth pulls to one side. "Thank you." "Like to tell you you're just great, it was easy, but --" Sam's shoulder lifts, his shrug slow and heavy. "World's full of complicated choices." He pulls himself away from the wall, gulping down another swallow of his water. Slipping in past Steve, he rolls his sleeves up, starting in on some of the dishes still left. "Glad you don't make me regret it, though."