Another terrorist threat caused the New York City police department to close 8th Avenue in front of Port Authority early this morning. Several army soldiers were standing in the middle of traffic chaos with machine guns pointed up in the air. Pedestrians were prohibited from walking along the two- block stretch of sidewalk in front of the New York Times building. I casually strutted within the lines of pedestrians filing out of the busy bus depot, going against the flow of traffic, determined not to walk an entire city block just to make it to 40th Street. One of the soldiers holding a gun spotted me as I entered the sea of commuters. He waved his hand at me, as if to scold me and instruct me to turn around, but I simply waved at him, pretending to be confused and lost.
Living in Jersey among so many Spanish people, I find myself longing for Manhattan. I want to be among individuals with my skin color, and blacks and Asians as well. There was no real cause for my journey through the Lincoln Tunnel during rush hour today, other than the fact that I feel so different than everyone who lives around me. I was terrified to see traffic at a standstill. I wondered if I would be able to make it back home.
Rather than waste time waiting for another false terrorist alert to be reviled, I dashed into one of the many porn stores in that neighborhood. I made my way to the “private” viewing booths in the rear of the store, hoping to take advantage of the glory hole action that is so common in these types of businesses. In the early 1990’s, porn stores were packed on Friday mornings. There was dick for days back then and often we fought for space inside the coveted booths. Due to the recession, the porn store along 8th Avenue was almost empty. Sadness swept over me and my dick went limp. The old Times Square is dead. I even missed the female prostitutes and junkies who were once so common along this famous stretch of road.
A Latino man, at least ten years younger than I, followed me to the peep show booths. I didn’t bother putting a dollar into the machine. I waited to see how big it was, and like everyone else in New York, I’m fucking cheap, and planned on just a quickie.
The middle-eastern man who supervises the place and offers change to patrons pounded on the door of my buddy booth–
“What wrong? No money? Put in check,” he said, “Put in check,” he said again, yelling at me as if I were a child.
“What did you just say? Put in check? I don’t have a check, you dumb fuck. If you want to do business in America, at least learn our language,” I screamed back, as I quickly made my way towards the front door and onto a bus, and back to Jersey where I do not speak the language.