Mojo Working
Chapter 4
Ever since K. was in the sixth grade, when his grammar school put on its annual holiday sing-along, the song "Take the 'A' Train" had been his favorite. It was a chant of power, a promise that movement could lead to a place called Sugar Hill. Now, in New York, the song was no longer just a melody; it called him. He couldn't wait to catch the actual A train of the song's lyrics, to ride the famous route uptown and take a look around Harlem.
As he descended into the subway station, the lyrics ran through his head, syncing with the thrum of the packed subway car.
You must take the "A" train
To go to Sugar Hill way up in Harlem
If you miss the "A" train
You'll find you've missed the quickest way to Harlem
The train arrived with a flurry of passengers getting on and off. K. boarded, finding a seat that wobbled with the motion. The car was a spray can mural of sleeping faces and glazed eyes, moving in a state of suspended animation between stops. When he finally stepped off at 125th Street, running up the stairs two-at-a-time, the air was different; closer, muggy, thick with a past he couldn't quite place.
This was Harlem. K's first impression was a letdown. The street looked like any Main Street in America, a nondescript row of brick storefronts and parked cars. He stood still, as if having forgotten the song that brought him here. The only unusual sight was a pair of elderly gentlemen playing chess on an improvised table and chairs set up on the sidewalk. They moved their pieces with a slow, deliberate seriousness, not looking up, as if the game would determine the fate of the world.
Halfway up the street, strolling toward the next avenue, K. saw the first sign of what might be called a landmark: the Apollo Theater. The marquee was dark, its lights unlit on a weekday in the middle of the day. K. stood wondering if he should come back on a Saturday night for a show. He needed to feel the rhythm of the place when it was alive. But the theater was heavy with sleep, now, and it would take all week to rise again in song.
His attention drifted to a storefront that wasn't quite the traditional African-style clothing boutique he had expected, but it would do for a souvenir, he thought. It looked like an obvious tourist trap, bright and garish, but he went in anyway. The air inside smelled of unfamiliar scents, pungent, and earthy. Checking the price tags on the fashions, he knew he was right: he couldn't wear these colorful outfits anyway. They were costumes for a life that wasn't his.
After he had time to look around, the sales clerk approached. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice sharp.
K. hesitated, shy. "I need something for good luck."
The clerk smiled, a wide, knowing smile. "Everything in this store is lucky," she said. She picked up a rattle and started shaking it. Shake-shake-shake. "Bad luck be gone, bad luck be gone," she intoned.
She looked at K. He looked back, amazed by the intensity of her performance. The sound of the rattle seemed to tickle his scalp. Just as he was about to leave, he noticed a basket on the sales counter marked $10. That was within his price range. The basket was full of large, wide, brown seed pods. They looked well-worn, polished by much handling.
"What are these?" he asked.
"Seeds from Africa," the clerk said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Don't try to cook them."
"I'll take one," K. said. He picked one up. The seed pod gave him a good feeling immediately. It was very smooth and polished, flat on one side, and on the other side almost as flat, but with a bump. It resembled nothing so much as a big, brown breast aureole, and nipple. It was almost impossible not to rub it between his thumb and forefinger, physical confirmation of its attraction.
"Do you want a receipt for that?" the clerk asked.
"No, thanks," K. said. "I won't need to return it."
He left the store, shoving the seed pod into his pants pocket, with a pat. He felt filled with power. A secret talisman was pressed tightly against his thigh.
Satisfied that he'd answered his lifelong ambition to take the A train, he returned to the subway station, boarding the next train downtown. His mind was lost in thought, the seed pod a constant tug in his pocket, the lyrics of the song still resonating in his mind, becoming more distant.
He wasn't paying attention when he missed his stop.
He got off at the next station, ran up the stairs, and looked around. The street was a maze of sidewalk and street signs. Which way? He headed in the direction he thought would return him to his neighborhood, hiking up one of the side streets below Houston, around Delancey and Essex.
And then he saw it: a For Rent sign taped to a window.
"No way it's still available," K. thought. But he took a chance and called the number.
"I'll be right down," the landlord answered.
The apartment was a sitting room with privileges, just what K. hoped to find. The landlord, a man with the bearing of a Holocaust survivor, looked him up and down. "You better believe I know it's hard to find a place around here," he said. "But, I should let you know that the previous tenant just died. He lived in it before even I can recall. Does that bother you?"
K. didn't hesitate. "Not at all; that recommends it."
They agreed to a one-year lease. K. returned to his hotel, grabbed his bag and backpack, and checked out. On the way out, a young man stopped him.
"God bless you. God bless you."
K. was caught off guard. "For what?"
"Because they told me the hotel had no vacancies," the young man said, "and I can see you are checking out —just in time." The young man turned to the hotel registrar. "Isn't that right? Now you have a vacancy."
The registrar glowered, a silent acknowledgment of the city's cruel math. K. realized a situation was developing, a trap closing, and he slipped away.
Occupying his new flat for the first time, K. realized he would be sleeping on the floor until he could get the household items he needed from a department store. "No problem," he mumbled. He had been camping, roughing it, and he was pleased with the great find. The room was small, but cozy. The walls were in need of paint, and the room smelled musty—the lingering presence of the dead tenant—but nothing a few sticks of incense wouldn't fix.
That night, he had a dream.
In the dream, he saw an old-fashioned computer hard drive, the kind that looks like a miniature record turntable with a tone arm. The platter spun with a slow, uneven turn. He looked closer. It wasn't just a piece of discarded hardware; it was an anthill. Ants had made it their home, a long line of them coming and going, like a two-way street, endlessly. They marched over the spinning platter, carrying crumbs of data, tiny fragments of memory, their bodies a fuzz of black against the silver disk. The pickup waved with the rhythm of the song the ants were singing, but the music was silent, a frequency only the ants could hear.
K. reached out to touch the spinning disk, but the ants swarmed his hand, tickling his skin, their bodies a living circuit. He woke with a start, the sound of the A train's refrain in his mind's ear.