Our Man in the Dark by Rashad Harrison Read Free Book Online

kind of power and sway that I want. Being Gant’s apprentice for three years won’t get me that.
    It was hard for me to trust him from the beginning. When he interviewed me for my position, every question he asked me felt probing, no matter how innocent. My hobbies, my family life, he wanted to know it all, as if he didn’t know me.
    Soon after hiring me, Gant’s habit of embarrassing me in front of Martin began. Martin had just been named
Time
’s Man of the Year and, with Gant by his side, received many congratulations. Gant called me over to introduce me to King. To say that I was thrilled would be an understatement. I walked over to them, trying to hide my limp—I wanted Martin’s respect, not his pity.
    â€œMartin,” Gant said. “This is my new assistant, John Estem.”
    â€œA pleasure,” Martin said.
    Before I could respond, Gant entered the realm of inappropriateness. “You know something, Martin . . . Estem here struggled with polio as a child. Still wears a leg brace because of it. Didn’t you have a relative withpolio?”
    â€œYes, a cousin.” Even Martin was uncomfortable.
    â€œHe’s rough around the edges,” Gant continued, “but we’ll whip him into shape.”
    â€œWell, don’t whip him too hard, this is an organization of
nonviolent
protest.” The two of them laughed and Gant looked right at me.
    I wish that photo were in my possession then. Right at the height, the peak of his sycophantic laughter, I would show it to him. Then I’d watch. I’d watch his face contort as he first sees humor in the photo but then makes a quick leap to sheer horror when he realizes that it’s his own hand on that man’s chest.
    But for now, I’ll watch him drink his coffee and talk with other staff members, scribble a note, or make a call. I’ll stick close . . . a limping shadow. Although, he might grow suspicious as I hang on his every word and movement.
    I see Gant talking to Abernathy and Young. I try to listen, hovering around them even though I have no reason to do so. I stand with my hands in my pockets as if I am waiting for Gant to finish. Young stops talking but continues to look at Gant as if silently urging him to do something about his assistant. Gant looks at me and raises his eyebrows. When I don’t respond or react, he motions with his eyes for me to exit.
    Two days have passed, and my efforts to discredit Gant are appearing to be unfruitful—nothing but tidbits of office gossip. My rendezvous with the agents is fast approaching. Subtlety is not working.
    I tell everyone to have a nice night as they leave the office for their homes.
Oh, don’t worry about me. I have a lot of work to do. Numbers and such. I’ll be working late, burning the midnight oil. See you tomorrow.
    When everyone leaves, I go into Gant’s office. Since we are a harmless group of women, preachers, and cripples, he rarely locks his door. At night, his office seems spare and practical, like a cave dwelling. The fluorescence bleeds in from the hallway, casting thin shadows over the space like an opium den. There are pictures all around of Gant with prominent leaders. They are all powerful men, and they truly seem to be friends ofhis. There are no stiff handshakes for the camera, just arms draped casually around shoulders, a punch or two thrown playfully at each other, and candid shots of a shared laugh at a secret joke.
    I’ve never taken pictures like these. I’ve always felt like an outsider peering at life from the shadows, and my arrangement with the agents has caused me to realize the permanence of my position. I have chosen a life that will forever render me a nonparticipant observer. The people I encounter will receive the kind of scrutiny reserved for subjects in an anthropological study. I will never truly belong.
    Gant, at some point, must have felt this way, but he has played his hand better. A