They walked into a basic college apartment of makeshift furniture, a large-screen TV, video games, and schoolbooks before they led Ivan into a darker, secluded family room. In the darker family room, they had three LCD screens, several computer towers, scanners, a color printer, a fax machine, CDs, DVDs, several office chairs, eccentric posters all over the walls, and plenty of gadgets, artwork, and books all littered around the room.

“And this is our lab, where all of our creativity comes out,” Jeff told him.

Their work space was five times more cluttered than what Ivan liked for his personal taste, but he wasn’t a graphic designer or webmaster. So whatever worked for them, worked for them.

Ivan smiled and said, “It’s amazing how different cultures can be so…” He searched for a word to use. “Different,” he said with a chuckle.

Jeff jumped in and said, “Hey, man, it’s all gonna come together one day,” and he locked the fingers of his two hands together.

Paul agreed with a nod. “Like The Matrix,” he commented.

Ivan grinned and held back his laugh. As long as they do what I need them to do, it don’t matter much to me, he told himself. They can talk about The Matrix all they want.

IVAN STILL HAD TO BRAINSTORM what his first party would be. So he called some friends who were members of the San Diego Urban League to meet up with him for lunch.

They met at Carol’s Soul Food Restaurant, a new establishment in Old Town, off of Interstate 5. The place was only a few exits south from where Ivan worked in North Clairemont.

“Now, when are you gonna stop messing around and join the Urban League, Ivan?” Thomas Jones asked him. He was an older black man in his fifties, with the enthusiastic energy of a thirty-year-old. He didn’t let the gray hairs of wisdom slow him down. He was a tireless believer in the old-time religion of black solidarity. Thomas wasn’t known to hold his tongue, either. He said what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. So Ivan realized he wouldn’t be able to get around an Urban League membership.

He sat at a window-view table, enjoying barbecued ribs with Thomas and Henry Morgan. Henry was in his midthirties. He and Thomas worked for the same real estate firm. In fact, Thomas had recruited Henry a few months before attempting to recruit Ivan.

“How much is the membership again?” Ivan asked them.

“Fifty dollars to become a Young Urban Professional,” Henry answered.

“And what are my duties?”

“You don’t have any duties unless you want to become an officer, Ivan,” Thomas told him. “All we ask for you to do is come to the monthly meetings and participate in some of the community events that we organize.”