So I'm on Fifth Avenue, still waiting for a taxi to take me to that thrift shop where we brought trench coats, sunglasses, etcetera...but wait one minute. That's not what Izzy meant by moo. Man, I'm such a moron. Moo is the beginning of museum. Museum, of course, there's a museum on that very street, the New York City Tenement Museum, a few blocks south of that thrift shop. I know because I was there a couple of years ago, with my sister, who fell in love with the place. It's a tenement house frozen in time circa 1900, with the apartments open to the public. Potentially interesting, but let me tell you, it was a big waste of time, plus the people that ran it were a bunch of self-righteous jerks: Sir? Please refrain from touching the artifacts. As if that tin chamber pot is going to break if I touch it. Where are those cabs, man? I've been waiting a long time. There are absolutely no cabs on the street. I haven't seen a single one since I got here. It's been...what...ten minutes at least. On Fifth Avenue for crying out tears, where you rarely see a car that isn't a cab. There's a cop. I'll ask him. He says no, there's no new rule prohibiting cabs from getting on Fifth Avenue, be patient. Patient he says. If he only knew what's been going on here, with my sister vanishing, with that boy Al croaking on me, with that Jew kicking me in the shin. Ah, there comes a cab. I hail it, it stops, I get in. To the Tenement Museum, I say, please hurry. Then I notice on the Plexiglas that separates me from the cabby: Caetano Portugal. Aha, now I'll hear the rest of his story about the flock of goats crossing the Tejo River one goat at a time. I say hey, Caetano, remember me? He looks at me through the rear view mirror. No, sir, he says. I say come on, you took me to Chelsea from 88th Street. I was with a Chinese guy, remember? I remember your story about the goats that cross the Tejo one by one. No, sir. Aren't you Caetano Portugal? No, sir, Caetano is my brother. I am Antonio. Okay, I say, but you must know the story about the goats. No, sir, I no tell estories.
Whatever. I have better things to think about. What am I thinking about? I'm thinking that maybe I'm still in shock, yes, but at least I can think. I'm thinking of Lao Tzu, of the Tao, you know, of great Emptiness, of water, of vast blank spaces. Lao tzu says that without leaving your room, you can know the way of the universe, that the farther you go the less you know, that the wise man knows without traveling, sees without looking, achieves great things without so much as lifting a finger. So why am I chasing after that silly sister of mine, after all these jerks she associates with, running from one corner of town to the other? I'm going about this the wrong way. My way of thinking is wrong, man. I've thought that before, but now I'm serious. I've got to stop traveling, start thinking. I'll tell the cabby to let me off right here. I won't go to the Tenement Museum. I won't go anywhere. That's the problem, always, we try to go places, try to get somewhere, we never get anywhere. I'll stay right where I am. I'll let things resolve themselves. There's no threat, there's no rush, there is nothing at all. I'll let her come to me, as I sit in my room, observing the ways of the universe.
Seek utmost Emptiness.
Cling only to interior peace.
While all things are stirring,
While men struggle with each other,
I alone contemplate the Return.
Let them bloom as they will,
Let everything return to its root.
To return to the root is to acquire peace,
To acquire peace is to smile at Fortune,
To smile at Fortune is to be constant,
To know the Constant is Insight.
Without knowing the Constant
You always run into calamity.
If you know the Constant
You can know all,
You can embrace all.
If you know all,
If you embrace all,
You can carry out justice.
To be just is to be king,
To be king is to be holy,
To be holy is to be one with the Tao,
To be one with the Tao is to live forever.
If this is you,
You will be safe,
You will be whole,
Even when your carcass rots.
Sir, he says, sir, you awake? We are here, Tenement Museum, 18.95 please. The meter goes click click click, he gives me a little receipt. So, we're here. Lao Tzu was right again. I give him a twenty, tell him to keep the change. The Tenement Museum is teeming with Catholic schoolboys. There's a school bus in front. Saint Pius X Elementary School For Boys. Urchins in neckties everywhere, all of them either black or Hispanic for some reason, charging at the entrance. I can barely make my way in. A lanky black boy, too tall for his age, for any age, is stepping on my foot. Hey, boy, will you look where you're stepping? Sorry, sir. I pry my way in. It's a bookstore, looks like. Urchins everywhere. I'm looking for the information booth. I'm not here to take a tour of the place. There's another thing I remember from my visit: they force you to take a tour, for which they charge you twenty bucks; then they get all self-righteous on you about the Republican Party, corporate takeovers, Wal-Mart sweatshops in Vietnam, etcetera. What a gyp. I'm not taking a tour this time. I'm here on business. Where's that information booth? You can't see a thing, just Catholic boys all over the place. Where are their teachers? Ah, that must be it, the counter that says Tours, with a clock above it. I plow through the Catholic boys. Excuse me, sorry, excuse me, guys, coming through.
Oops.
Sorry about that. Is it okay? It's not broken, is it? This one boy, he was playing on his PlayStation Portable, in his own universe, oblivious to this mob, so naturally, someone's going to knock it off. He's crying you broke it, you broke it, you fat jerk! Relax, I say, it's not broken. It is broken! Waa! Waa! You broke my PSP, I'll never be able to fix it, it's never going to work again! It cost me a fortune! A fortune? I say, how much? He names an astronomical price. Bullshit, I say, you can get one of those for a quarter of that. I know because I have one myself. Cost me 99.95. You broke it, he says, waa waa! Let me take a look, I say. Well, the screen is full of little cracks, but it may still work. I try to turn it on. Hm. It won't turn on. I check to see if the batteries are in place. They are. Oh well, I'm sure you can return it, if you kept the warranty. The boy's still crying. Some of his classmates are trying to console him. Others are making fun of him for being a crybaby. He is inconsolable. He's bawling all over the place. I'm sure he expects me to buy him a new one, but you saw it: it was as much his fault as it was mine. Anyway, who taught him to play that silly game in a museum? He's here to learn stuff, not to play jerk-off games. Where are his teachers? A guy approaches, seems to be in charge. Museum security? He says what seems to be the matter? You okay, boy? That fat fart broke my PlayStation, waa, waa! The security guy gives me a nasty look, like I'm some pervert out to rape little boys. Not on purpose, I say, it's as much his fault as mine. The security guy looks at the boy, shrugs, shows him his palms: c'est la vie.
Now I notice the name tag on the guy's shirt pocket: Jim. Huh. Can be anyone, yes, but wasn't there a Jim in that list my sister gave me? I take out the list, I take a look, I say excuse me but is this your telephone number? He takes a look, says it is, yes. I say Jim, we have to talk. He raises an eyebrow, tells me to follow him. We plow through the mob of Catholic boys to the back of the store. He pulls open a thick canvas curtain, ushering me into a little office. Take a seat, he says. I tell him I have no time for seat-taking. I tell him about my sister. I say have you seen her? He says no, not for some time, she hasn't been to work in weeks, is she okay? Weeks? I say. Is that right? Turns out my little sister is in charge of restoration in this museum. What the hell. She knows nothing about restoration, as far as I know... but wait, now that I think of it... the forgeries, the stolen art, right... I'm putting it together. Is she okay? he says again. I ask him if he knows my sister well. Obviously, yes, he says, very well. He goes into a long, very thorough account of their acquaintance, where they met, how they met, Chinatown, college, the people they knew in college, Ian, Ira, Morris, Arielle, Michael, Ruth, I'm losing track, but then he mentions the little girl, the little girl that took my wig for her hairless puppet, the little girl that got in my way just now, on 47th Street, on account of whom I now have a broken front tooth, the Jew's little girl. What is this guy saying? My sister? That girl's mother? The Jew's wife? Are we talking about the same little girl? The same sister? The same Jew? We are, apparently. Holy crap! I'm totally in shock now. My sister is a mother, Jesus Christ. But I keep my cool. I say listen, Jim, I'm here on business. On business? he says. I say my sister sent me to work on a restoration project in one of the apartments. I'm a carpenter. Jim is happy to hear that she's okay. He opens a metal cabinet, takes out a key, gives it to me. The restoration workshop, he says, this is the key. You've got to jiggle it a little, a tricky lock, a blunt key, make sure you hear a click. It's in the cellar. As you walk into the house, you go straight to the back, not up the stairs; there you'll see an iron gate with a sign that says cellar, keep out. Open it with this key, remember to jiggle it a little. That's the staircase to the cellar.
I've got the key. I walk across the street to the tenement house. Tours of ten or so Catholic boys are ravaging the place. No one sees me. I pause at the staircase. I hear strange snippets of instructional museum talk: many Italians remain in Asia Minor... most immigrants receive immunization against measles.... I walk past the staircase to the back of the house. I see the iron gate, the sign that says keep out, cellar. I put the key in the lock, I make it jiggle. It gives. I open the gate. There's a staircase. I take it, stepping cautiously. I continue slowly, it's unlit, the light growing weaker, weaker, pitch black now, to the cellar. It smells of a century of moss, urine, rat shit, etcetera. I grope the wall, feel a switch. But wait. Who's there? I shout. I hear breathing. Hello, I say, anyone here? No answer. One minute. What exactly am I looking for? I grope the wall, searching for a switch. Ah, here we go. A switch. A weak light bulb goes on.
Holy crap!
Joe is here with Bill. They're pointing their guns at me, smiling at me. A trap. Holy crap, I say. Relax, says Joe, we won't hurt you. But then I feel something on the nape of my neck, a soft palm, then breath, someone breathing on my neck, a woman? She is whispering something, some nonsense, I can't quite make it out... many Italians remain in Asia Minor... most immigrants receive immunization against measles.... What in heaven's name is that? I'm too horror-stricken to look back, to see who it is. I see Joe's gun, I see Bill's gun. I feel her lips, I feel her tongue, I feel her breath, I feel her teeth on my neck. I'm blacking out, blacking out.
