The Same River Twice (6 page)

In autumn, a trucker left me in Minneapolis, a city as cold as a crowbar. At the employment office a young Chippewa offered me a place to stay. Marduk led me through glass tubes suspended over the city into a neighborhood of rickety buildings instead of the bison hide tipis I expected. Smoke signals emanated from the St. Paul factories across the river.

Daniel Boone had left civilization for a simpler life, killed his first buffalo in Kentucky, and was captured by the Shawnee. He took the name Sheltowee, which meant “Big Turtle.” Boone's rite of adoption involved the careful plucking of hair to leave a scalplock. He was then stripped and scrubbed raw at a river to take his white blood out. My friendship with Marduk began on easier footing.

He was my age, trapped between rebellion against the traditions of his people and a hatred for Scandinavian whites. He told me there were more unearthed Indians in museums than were alive in the country. His great-grandmother was on display in Chicago. Marduk's father owned a car wash and wanted him for a partner; his mother was a powwow dancer, active in tribal rights. Marduk had no interest in either way of life. He wanted someday to enter the South American jungle and be a “real Indian.” Pinched hard by both ends of his own culture, he lived among the city's newest immigrant group, the Hispanics.

Our roommates were twin brothers from Ecuador who considered Kentucky another country. We were all foreigners in the land of the free. When we drank rum, Marduk locked himself in his room to smoke dope, shouting through the door, “I will not be a drunken Indian!”

Luis and Javier were rare men who had actually achieved their childhood dream—employment as small-time gangsters. They lived better than they had at home. By North American standards, we were all poor as dirt, but the brothers desired no more than the life of a quiet desperado—a quality I envied. My ambitions were vague as mist. I spent most of my days at the museum, studying the edges of canvases, pleased to find sloppy craftsmanship. I filled my journal with opinions on art. My eventual work would show the world what was wrong with contemporary painting.

At night the three of us plunged into the icy streets, wind scything our legs and watering our eyes. We hurried from bar to bar, delivering illegal punchboards and occasionally the prize money. My presence helped when dealing with white bartenders. Given to bravado, Luis and Javier told me extravagant lies about our activities, but their tense silence informed me when we were transferring large sums. If they entered a back room, I was posted near the door as lookout. They never advised me on what to do in case of trouble.

A special mission sent us to an empty bar with few tables, more of a private club than a working saloon. The boys were delivering a payoff for the crooked punchboards, a fixed payoff in fact, a reward for someone who'd been told what number to choose, at which bar, on the specific day. It was the return of a favor. We were part of a string of cutout men, thereby making the money impossible to track.

A cop walked in and asked me where the bartender was. I shrugged, hoping the dim light would prevent his noticing the outbreak of sweat on my forehead. I began to wonder what form Luis and Javier's retribution would take if I failed to warn them.

“I'm homesick for Kentucky, buddy,” I said. “Help me on the chorus, will you.”

I began singing “My Old Kentucky Home,” loud and out of tune. The bartender hurried from the back room. The cop raised his eyebrows at me, and the bartender tapped his temple while rolling his eyes. The cop nodded. I continued to sing. The bartender passed a thick envelope to the cop, who left.

Luis and Javier were very proud of my behavior and promised to recommend me to the boss. The bartender set us up with round after round, and by evening's end, we had sung “My Old Kentucky Home” so many times that the regulars had either joined in or left for a quieter place.

We stumbled home, where the brothers found Marduk asleep in a full bathtub with a one-hit bong on the floor. They hurried to my room, whispering demands that I come and see. When I refused, they became belligerent and dragged me to the bathroom. Marduk's arms hung over the sides of the tub. His head was tipped against the back rim. Floating between his legs was the largest lingam I'd ever seen. I stared with awe, remembering that only one tenth of an iceberg is visible above the water line. Javier flicked an empty toilet paper roll into the tub. Marduk's lingam drifted like a whale in the riffle, dwarfing the cardboard tube.

Luis whispered that Marduk had never known a woman. Twice he'd tried, with disastrous results that sent the females running in fear. The twins shook their heads in disappointment over the Wasted Monster, as they called it.

“Women are lucky,” said Luis, “the Indian has the Monster and not me. They would not be safe if it was mine.”

“You would be killed,” answered Javier. “A husband would shoot you and cut the Monster off.”

“The women would cry for a week.”

“For two weeks.”

“A month!”

A few nights later they collected fifty-five dollars from their fellow grifters and hoods against the size of Marduk's genitals. I held the money, not because they trusted me but as the mascot white boy I knew better than to make tracks with the booty. Daniel Boone the honest Quaker was proving his trust. Eight of us marched through snow to our third-floor dump, where the bettors ranged the living room like a guerrilla force.

I knocked at Marduk's door and walked in. He was asleep on his stomach.

“Wake up,” I said. “You have to meet some people.”

“Mm-uhmmm.”

I shook his shoulder but a night's worth of marijuana had sedated him. I announced that Marduk was deep in his dope sleep and nothing would wake him. Luis and Javier glanced anxiously at each other. The other men were frowning and a short powerful guy stalked to the front door. He crossed thick arms over his chest and scowled at me. In a group, the odd race out always gets the blame.

“We better do something,” I said.

“What?” said Luis.

“It must be fast,” Javier said. “What makes a man run from his bed?”

“A nightmare.”

“A rat bite.”

“A fire.”

Luis trotted to the kitchen for supplies while his brother soothed the men. The twins brewed a fire in a metal garbage can and blew the smoke through the door into Marduk's room. A styrofoam egg carton released a particularly vile smell. We heard the thump of feet hitting the floor.

Still asleep, Marduk left his room bearing an enormous urinary erection. His knee hit the garbage can and cinders scattered across the floor. The Monster steered Marduk to the bathroom like an oak bowsprit and everyone sighed, listening to the heavy blast of urine. He returned with the Monster sagged to half-mast. Marduk stepped on a hot coal and leaped howling into the smoky air. Long black hair slapped his face. His lingam waved like a palm tree in a typhoon, smacking his belly and thighs, sending everyone in a scramble of flight. As the pain faded, Marduk ceased his wild dance, and staggered into bed.

For the next half hour there was much discussion of what each man would sacrifice to acquire the Monster. Conversation built to a contest until a guy built like an outhouse said he'd give up his life to be buried with such equipment. This silenced the others since nothing could quite top death.

The Minnesota winter lingered deep into spring, encasing the sky with a sunless gray. Men stiffened at Marduk's approach as if he were a decorated colonel among fresh troops. Women were brazen with their eyelashes, or quickly turned away. Marduk saw nothing. He worked part-time at the car wash and in the afternoons made tape recordings of his mother's lessons in traditional life. The weather began to warm. Melted snow ran black along the gutters.

Luis and Javier had been promoted to money runners for a bookie, and now owned one pistol between them. It was an H&R .22 that held eight rounds. The serial number had been filed off so long ago it had blued over. They took turns carrying the gun but refused to include me in the rotation, saying that as lookout I needed to stay clean.

The bookie was a large man who ran a numbers racket, and took bets on horse races in Omaha and Chicago. Everyone called him Mister Turf. He operated from a back room in a bar. All morning four phones rang continually. I'd never seen a toupé before and his was so obvious that I inadvertently laughed the first time I saw it. Mister Turf became quite irate until learning where I was from. He assumed that he had an expert on hand, and thereafter referred to me as his Kentuckian, a term that impressed the twins.

Mister Turf was angry with the city of Minneapolis, which had betrayed him by opening construction on a racetrack in a nearby suburb. Legal gambling would ruin him. Before that occurred, he was intent on saving a stake large enough to start a female mud-wrestling club.

I trailed after Luis and Javier like a pesky younger brother, doing whatever they asked, which was mainly waiting by a pay phone to prevent anyone from using it. After two rings, I picked it up, said “Red dog” into the receiver, and hung up. If the phone rang again, I answered it and wrote down the muttered message—a string of coded numbers. One of the brothers picked up the note and carried it to Mister Turf. Since paper and pencil were required, I had freedom to write in my journal, a practice that slowly began to supersede every aspect of my life. As long as I was able to record events, my shoddy circumstances didn't matter. I began making outlandish statements to passersby simply to provoke a response worthy of logging.

The brothers and I drank every night, and enjoyed free meals in a variety of bars. I ate tongue, dog, horse, and millions of black beans. We planned another
fiesta del monstruo,
but our pleasant life was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Luis and Javier's cousin María.

She was eighteen, lacked legal papers, and was staying with their aunt across town. Aunt Tiamat had been a successful prostitute in the Ecuadorian capital of Quito but was shrewd enough to retire early. Since emigrating to America, she'd helped family members follow, The twins owed her their current bandit status. They, along with others she'd brought to America, gave her a percentage of their income.

The brothers were determined that I should marry Maria. My shocked refusal meant nothing. They assured me that she was a virgin. At night they plied me with a higher grade of liquor. Hadn't they taken me in like a brother? Wasn't I at this moment drinking their rum?

I explained my devotion to Jennipher in Kentucky, They didn't believe me and made veiled suggestions about my secret racism. I hauled out the wrinkled photo of Jennipher as proof. It was from the sixth grade, when we passed notes reading, “Do You Like Me? Check Yes or No.” Her apparent youth upped my waning masculine status. They were stymied until Luis grinned and smacked his brother out of his chair. He spoke rapidly in Spanish, then switched to English.

“That is not here, Kentucky! You can be married in this country and that is one thing. You can have a wife in another country and that is another thing!”

“No, Luis,” I said. “Kentucky is in the U.S.”

“Now you are lying, Chrissie. You have told us the stories of your country. It is warm and in the mountains. It is far away. The people go in the dirt and make coal.”

“We understand that you are nervous,” Javier said. “A man is always nervous before his wedding.”

“Tomorrow Chrissie will meet María,” Luis said to his brother, helping him stand. “Tonight we drink!”

The next morning I awoke hung over and filled with dread. The boys briefed me on Ecuadorian etiquette, which I was determined to violate, thereby dodging matrimony by sheer rudeness. Near dusk we walked the several blocks to Aunt Tiamat's house. Luis and Javier were edgy, intimidated by the prospect of visiting their infamous aunt. I felt calm, knowing that my sojourn in Minneapolis was nearly over.

Aunt Tiamat was tall and elegant and moved with a predatory grace. She was heavy but well proportioned, carrying her weight with the nobility of a veteran wearing medals. She dressed with bold sensuality while obeying the confines of decorum. Cleavage was a reminder, not an invitation. Everyone chatted in Spanish and I nodded like an imbecile. Aunt Tiamat bowed to me and left the room.

“Now you will meet Maria,” Luis whispered.

“She is our cousin.”

“Aunt Tiamat is our aunt.”

“You are stupid!” Javier said. “Chrissie is not stupid. He knows who is who.”

Outside, a freight train moved through town, its whistle a sound of mourning. I was trapped without a Cumberland Gap in sight, stuck like Boone with a local squaw.

Aunt Tiamat glided regally into the room and presented Maria like a valuable flintlock in red high heels. She was petite and brown with a breast-tilt that defied gravity. Each ankle was thin as a worry line. María was at her maiden's peak and I knew how Daniel had felt when he saw the purity of untouched land.

Luis and Javier stood stiff-backed as southern gentlemen until Aunt Tiamat dismissed them with a slight gesture of her wrist. They sidled out the door, winking at me. She led Maria away and returned to pour two brandies. After a sip, she spoke.

“María says she is in love with you.”

“What!”

“Because you will marry her.”

“I won't.”

“You must.”

“Why?”

“Because she is in love with you.”

For a few minutes I pondered the idea, thinking of those red high heels. I could pass her off as Shawnee in Kentucky and we'd live on rice and beans. My family would understand. We're flexible in the hills. One of Rebecca Boone's babies was fathered by Daniel's brother, the penalty for her husband's wandering.

Aunt Tiamat refilled our glasses. Regardless of Maria's beauty, I didn't want a wife of convenience. As businessmen, Luis and Javier could understand my refusal, but they'd consider it a betrayal of their aunt's decree, a stake higher than their own honor. It was time to use the lessons they'd taught me.