The Same River Twice Read Online Free

themselves, I listened carefully, trying to isolate a word or phrase, but they spoke too fast for me to follow. They moved to their own chores without looking at me, as if embarrassed by their benevolence. I approached the nearest woman and thanked her. She nodded.
    â€œI’m from Kentucky,” I said. “It’s not like New York.”
    â€œNothing is.”
    â€œHow did you learn to fold clothes so well?”
    â€œMy mother taught me.”
    â€œIn Harlem?”
    Her eyes widened and her lips drew tight across her teeth, I realized the stupidity of assuming that all blacks grew up in Harlem, like thinking all Kentuckians came from Lexington or Louisville. She bent to her work, her face furious.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe not Harlem.”
    â€œNo! Not Harlem.”
    â€œWhere, then?”
    â€œPuerto Rico. I am Puerto Rico!” She lifted her arms to include everyone in the laundromat. “Puerto Rico!”
    â€œPuerto Rico,” I said.
    â€œSí.”
    I leaned against the table, absolutely clobbered by an awareness that they’d been speaking Spanish, During the next few days, I wandered the blocks near my building. It was not a black neighborhood as I’d previously thought. Everyone was of Hispanic descent, but I felt more comfortable here than among the white people. My culture had much in common with the Latin—loyalty to a family that was often large, respect for the elderly and for children, a sharp delineation between genders. The men were governed by a sense of machismo similar to that which ruled in the hills. There was one quite obvious drawback—to them I was just another white man.
    The random progress of a nose-down dog dropped me into a job on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Belched from the subway each morning, I strolled the Bowery past dozens of men dirty as miners. Many could not speak. Each payday, I gave away two packs’ worth of cigarettes, one at a time.
    For six months I worked at a warehouse in the neighborhood, the first full-time job of my life. I collected clothing orders for a professional shipping clerk with forty years’ experience. His passive numbness frightened me. I was a gatherer of shirts and slacks; he was a hunter of numbers. The day’s highlight was staring at a Polaroid of a nude woman I’d found on the street. Ancient priests of South America used fake knives and animal blood to save the sacrificial virgins for themselves. Up north I just wanted a goddess to worship.
    After work, I saw a tall woman with a huge jaw being harassed by a junkie. I chased the junkie away. The woman smiled and led me to an abandoned subway station with a boarded entrance. A pink dress hung loose on her lanky frame. She pried three planks free and slipped in, motioning down the steps to a bare mattress. She wasn’t attractive, but no one else had shown me the least bit of attention. I followed her. A musty breeze from the bowels of the earth fluttered trash along the floor. I felt snug and primal in the dank urban temple. I would become an albino, a blind white harlot in service to Ishtar.
    She asked for a match. When I lit her cigarette, she caressed my face and grabbed my crotch, lashing my tongue with hers. I slid my hand down her stomach and between her legs. My fingers hit something hard tucked low against her abdomen. I was accustomed to people carrying guns and it seemed natural for a woman alone in the city to be armed. The only feasible option was to gain control of the pistol.
    I ran my hand up her dress, wrapped my fingers around the barrel, and gave a quick tug. She moaned low and very deep. I pulled again and suddenly realized the gun was made of flesh. My entire body trembled in a fury of incomprehension. I stood, unable to speak. She threw her purse at me and laughed a taunting cackle that echoed in the tunnel. I ran up the stairs, plunged through the opening, and fell on the sidewalk. Two men