The Nobody People by Bob Proehl (manga ereader TXT) 📕

She tries to make sense of her distorted reflection in the silver sculpture on Kimani’s end table. “We’re going to show up at Senator Smith’s house, and the FBI will be there waiting for us.”

“It’s Senator Lowery,” says Kimani. “And it’ll be Homeland Security.” She pauses the movie. “Also, it’s not a trap. I’ve met Jim Lowery. I brought him to the school a half dozen times. He’s concerned about the state of things, same as we are. He wants to help.”

“Or he says he wants to help and it’s a fucking trap.”

“He’s been working to set this up for months,” Kimani says.

“He’s playing the long game.”

“Stop being paranoid,” Bishop says as he steps through the door. He’s dressed in a gray flannel suit that fit him perfectly once. Now he looks like he’s slowly shrinking inside it. “James is a good man and sympathetic. He’s the highest-ranking ally we have right now. So be nice.”

“If you want nice, bring Sarah,” Fahima says.

“I’m bringing you,” Bishop says, attempting to end the discussion.

“Senator Lowery is allergic to dogs,” Kimani says.

Fahima glares at Bishop. “I am going to invent tiny itchy bugs and let them loose in your bed,” she says. “Microlice. Nanoscabies.”

“Fahima, please,” says Bishop. “There are things at stake here. No more mention of roboscabies.”

“Roboscabies is better,” Kimani says.

“I don’t like either of you,” Fahima says, hiding her smile. None of them get to joke anymore. She has to hold on to moments like this to remember what the fuck they’re even fighting for. For stupid jokes and the right to pay too much for a pretty hijab. To feel like a person and not a point of contention, all day, her whole life.

Kimani opens the door into Senator James Lowery’s foyer. It’s one of those high-ceilinged rooms you find in DC brownstones so deep that they can afford to waste vertical space. Senator Lowery, a handsome young black man, rushes in from the next room in a flurry of handshakes and greetings.

“I’m so glad we put this together,” he says. “So glad. I’ve been on Capitol Hill two years now, and you know what I miss? Dialogue. People talking to people. Did you know the Democrats and the Republicans have separate commissaries? That, to me, is Armageddon. That’s the point where you say no, it’s broken. It’s busted. When you can’t break bread and engage in civil discourse, it’s all over.”

He takes a deep breath, about to start another conversational sprint, when the doorbell rings. “Our other guest,” he says. “Right on time. Not as punctual as you but not bad for traveling by conventional means.”

“Other guest?” Bishop asks. But Lowery has already opened the door. The other guest is stocky, a guy who used to be fat and may end up fat again but has committed to the advice of some stern taskmaster of a trainer. He offers Lowery a bottle of red wine with a nondescript label that means it’s either very expensive or very cheap.

“Senator, I can’t thank you enough for inviting me into your remarkable home,” he says. The voice is familiar, silky and practiced, an accent that pivots from down home to genteel on a dime.

“Kevin Bishop, Fahima Deeb,” says Lowery, “I’d like you to meet Jefferson Hargrave.”

“It’s a fucking trap,” Fahima mutters.

—

Fahima’s no psychic, but she can see through the senator’s thinking. It’s a standard ally line of thought: Have the homophobe and the queer sit down for a cup of coffee together! Get the Klansman and the Black Lives Matter activist to go out for a beer! Heal the world one conversation at a time. It ignores a major inequality. The queer person doesn’t walk into the coffee shop wishing the homophobe would die. The Black Lives Matter activist may hate the beliefs, the actions of the Klansman, but she doesn’t threaten his right to exist as an individual. Come on, the ally says to the oppressed person. Show him you’re human. Convince him you deserve to live and we can make everything better. The ally assumes these are viewpoints, meeting on equal ground. No. One person is right, one is wrong. One person wants to be, one wishes the other was dead.

“Isn’t this great?” Senator Lowery says despite the situation’s obvious not-greatness. A servant of some kind pours wine, and each time she says no, thank you, Fahima dies a little inside. “I think conversation is so important. It’s a lost art.”

Fahima eyes her butter knife, determining that it’s insufficient to cut Hargrave’s throat.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t sit down at a proper restaurant like normal people,” says Lowery. Hargrave snorts. “The rumor mill in this town. If I was seen with either of you, the Post’d have a field day. And both? Hoo boy.”

He doesn’t bother to mention Fahima. She isn’t present any more than the guy pouring the wine or the woman making dinner in the kitchen. Kimani’s right: Bishop is building up an entourage, a crew of invisibles to float behind him, indicating status, strength. Fahima is less than a pawn; she’s a prop.

“I’ve been trying to arrange a sitdown with Kevin for ages,” Hargrave says. The sound of Bishop’s first name in the man’s mouth makes Fahima reach for her butter knife. “I’ve invited him on the show a dozen times with no response.”

“You threaten and terrorize my people,” Bishop says. He sounds calm, as if he’s talking about Hargrave’s prize hydrangeas. “I’m not going to sit down and chat with you about it on air.”

Hargrave laughs. “I have never terrorized anyone in my life.” He puts air quotes around the word with his thick sausage fingers. “You’ll be surprised to hear it, but my employers at the Kindred Network keep me on a fairly tight leash. FCC regulations and such.”

“Stochastic terrorism,” Bishop says. “Someone in a position of power or authority dehumanizes another, casts them as a danger in such a way that an impressionable member of their audience decides violence against that other is both