1988 - Goodbye Harlem
1988 - Goodbye Harlem
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
An NYNEZ employee handed over the phone and a few sheets of paper with a smile.
"......Thanks for your hard work."
I took the phone, inwardly surprised.
As a StarTAC generation kid, I'd never used the brick phone called the 8500C.
"It's pretty heavy, huh."
"You think so?"
A phone weighing almost 1kg.
Size-wise, it felt like stacking about seven Osung Galaxy Ultras.
No wonder it got treated like a weapon.
"Four thousand dollars. And this is the rate guide."
A high-end luxury suit set cost less than three thousand, but the phone plus deposit was four grand.
The top-tier fine dining from the other day was seventy bucks.
Yet this weapon cost four thousand.
Not even in the same league as Alpha's Alphaphone.
I knew it from my knowledge, sure.
But feeling it like this? It was absurd.
I wrote a check, handed it over, and took the price list.
'......Incoming call charges?'
You pay to receive calls too?
Separate outgoing fees, separate incoming fees?
What kind of billing is this bullshit.
Plus rates vary by time of day, and out-of-New-York is long-distance charges.
'The world really changed a ton.'
Base fee fifty bucks (no free minutes).
My assets could handle it no problem, but still...
'Feels like paying hundreds of thousands of won for kimbap.'
Like a menu with sundubu jjigae at a million won, kimbap at three hundred thousand.
Even if Korean food's pricey in America, thirty grand per kimbap roll? Weird as hell.
"If anything comes up, come by anytime!"
"Will do."
I took the elevator back up to my place on the 45th floor.
Had to drop off the phone before heading to Harlem.
Bought a phone and can't take it outside? What the fuck kind of rule is that.
No choice, though.
Bring this to Harlem and I'd get treated like a raid mob for sure.
"Hey! Kim!"
"Hello."
"What'll it be?"
"How many pies do I need to fill up those guys outside?"
"Congrats! What place? No, don't tell me! I shouldn't have asked."
"Not the lottery. Got my paycheck."
Do It Pizza near my Harlem place.
Came here a lot when I lived around.
Taste is average, price is rock-bottom.
Perfect fit for Harlem.
"Add pepperoni and just do one pie each. Leftovers for tomorrow or whatever."
"Gonna need about twenty pies baked. Alright! Sixty bucks!"
"Thanks, but no. I got it."
One pie's six bucks.
Toppings make it six-fifty.
Twenty pies for sixty? Doesn't even cover ingredients.
Straight-up selling at a loss.
"Customers don't set the price! It's sixty bucks."
"......Jesus."
Sometimes I just don't get the black folks in this neighborhood.
They'd kill over pocket change, explode over petty beef.
But once they latch onto something, losses don't matter.
Then a few days later, broke as hell and scrambling...
No idea if it's hopeless or just simple.
Not stupid, though.
They got their own way of life, I guess.
Life smarts and all.
I just don't get it.
"Here, three hundred bucks. Bake the rest for tomorrow and the day after. Change is tip."
"Lord almighty! No! Kim!"
"What."
"Oh, God. Kim, don't even think like that! Let's go to church. Pastor'll hear you out!"
"......."
Don't even try to understand.
Harlem's always been like this.
Guy suddenly flashing big cash? One of two things.
Drug dealer.
Or someone tying up loose ends.
"It's my paycheck, I said. Leaving soon, so last gift for those guys outside."
"You're moving out?"
"Yeah."
"Three hundred received. Twenty pies reserved?"
"......."
Hate to love 'em, love to hate 'em—these people, this hood.
"Old man! You there?"
I knocked on landlord Hank's door.
"Who is it?"
He's home.
"Arthur."
Click!
Door cracks open, chain still on.
"Alone?"
"Yup."
Door swings wide, Hank visible hiding a pistol behind his back.
"What brings you?"
"Huh? Kim!"
Jessie's here too.
"Got something to say, and a gift."
I lifted the shopping bag to show.
"Come in."
Set the bag on the table, plopped on the sofa.
"Rent issues? Should've invested more carefully."
"Nah."
"Then?"
"Moving out."
"Where to."
"Downtown."
Hank's eyes went wide.
Crossing below 96th is every Harlem resident's dream.
"Congrats! Good for you!"
"Kim...... Congrats."
Hank beamed, Jessie looked bittersweet as they congratulated me.
"Thanks. Oh, gifts first."
Whiskey for Hank, Hooches for Jessie.
Owed them big time.
Most think Harlem's just drug-dealing scum or starving poor, but nah—not all.
Landlords.
Also called Slumlords.
Not your typical landlords.
Rich folks trying to evict tenants, empty buildings for rebuilds or remodels.
That's how you make it happen.
Guys like Hank renting out and maintaining? Rare as hell.
Back then, Harlem got hit from inside and out.
Asians surviving intact? Thanks to landlords like him.
Plus, pre-regression, he invested in my fund and stressed out, so no debt feels weirder.
"So anyway. Old man, wanna do business with me?"
"......Business?"
Landlord doing business? But Hank pulls maybe two, three grand a month.
Middle-class America level.
Rich in Harlem? Just average nationwide.
Real Harlem tycoons own multiple buildings, sure.
"This punk trying to scam me?"
"No! Got the item, investment cash, just no manager."
"What item."
"Cup sleeve."
"......?"
Tell 'em now, they won't get it.
Explain, and they'll wonder why.
Takeout coffee too hot to hold? Stack cups then!
That's the current era.
Cup sleeves—shells to grip hot cups—invented in '93.
Five years off still.
No fancy tech needed, easy to manage.
Patent? Starting with corrugated cardboard, not embossed.
"I'm busy, no time for company ops. I'll hook you up with item, cash, patent. You handle management and sales."
"......Tch. You little shit, peddling some weird cult shit......."
"No!"
"Sounds like it."
"Old man. You planning to live in Harlem forever?"
"......."
He's forty.
Twenty years on me.
Still call him old man 'cause black guys in this shithole hood average forty-five lifespan.
Math says Hank's got five years left.
Five years to live? Old man fits.
"What about Jessie? Leaving her in Harlem forever?"
"Business ain't just cash, can't do it solo."
Hank did real business young.
Not drugs—legit stuff.
That's how he became a landlord.
"Gotta think of the grandkid."
"......Grandkid?"
"......Oh!"
Shit.
Haven't told her yet?
"......Jessie?"
"Huh? Me? Why?"
"Arthur?"
"No! Not me! Put the gun away! No, seriously not!"
Baby growing in Jessie's belly.
Looks like she doesn't know.
Obviously not mine.
Boyfriend's high schooler too......
Eh.
Harlem average.
"You fucker! Grandkid?! Spill straight or you ain't leaving alive!"
"......Ow, fuck, seriously. Not me!"
"Baby......? Me......?"
Ehehe, fucked up.
I bolted outside fast.
"Old man! That kid's name's Brandon! Sorry Jessie! Apologize later!"
Gotta let 'em cool off, talk after.
Nothing to grab from the Harlem place.
Only been in Manhattan half a year anyway.
Only worth taking: cash stacks.
Clothes? Buy new.
"Where to?"
"......."
"Sir?"
"11th Avenue, 64th Street."
"Got it."
Made bank at Sterling Drugs this time—coins felt way more crucial than I thought.
Even just picking stocks is something.
Memory Palace is total cheat key.
When, how much to invest for profits? My skill.
But earning coins means spending that much.
Spending cuts investment cash.
Dilemma.
Balance it per situation, I guess.
"We're here."
"Keep the change."
Handed a twenty, got out.
Ahead: luxury condo.
Looks like rich normies' apartment, but this building hides deep history and secrets.
Cash-heavy spot, no questions.
No spending records.
Perfect to launder loot into coins.
Main goal wasn't coins, though.
"Welcome. Resident?"
"No. Business on the top floor."
"I see. Have a good day."
Past the guard, elevator to B7.
Ding-!
Doors open: thick door, two guards.
"Reservation?"
"No."
"Wrong way maybe?"
"Right place. First time."
"Please wait a moment."
Found this place around 2020?
Sixty-ish, learned from investors.
Realized how much I didn't know.
"Hello, sir."
Waiting at the door, a black-haired beauty peeked out and greeted.
"Hello."
"What brings you?"
Her eyes scanned me top to bottom.
"Here for the latest issue."
"......Please wait."
Passed round one, looks like.
She nodded slightly, went back in.
Two, three minutes later.
"Address and phone, please?"
"Of course."
Fancy magazine in hand, she offered paper.
Wrote phone and Trump Tower address, handed back—her brows relaxed.
"Ten thousand dollars."
She passed the mag, I took it and a ten-k stack.
Spent ten grand, earned ten thousand coins.
Spend twenty more grand, next hint unlocks.
Coins skip financial ID checks, thank fuck.
"We'll confirm and contact you."
"I'll wait."
Dipped out no regrets, read while walking.
Regular mag with models of all jobs.
Interviews packed next to pics.
Anyone'd think basic men's mag.
'Sheena Brown? She worked here?'
Among the women: era's top singer.
'Even this time's got prime goods.'
Call 'em, get coins.
Pre-regression, mostly stress relief.
Now? They'll bankroll me big.
Whole process like perpetual motion?
Waiting for a cab, I looked up at clear sky.
Not a cloud, blazing bright and blue.
'That sky'll stretch through spring, summer too.'
Crops wither, farmers scream.
Scream volume matches my account climbing.