First Avenue by Lowen Clausen Read Free Book Online Page A

drunk in front of Pennyland had also disappeared.
    There were rumors that Pennyland was going to shut down, that the whole block was to become rehabilitated, like the drunks they picked up there and sent to the detoxification center. He heard that Pennyland was supposed to become a fancy hotel.
Sam
couldn’t imagine that.
    His education of First Avenue had begun at Pennyland. He and a friend, both eighteen and about to leave for Alaska for their first year of fishing, had taken a bus downtown to First Avenue. They walked the street, pretending to be men, and ended up in Pennyland. Even then, there was nothing to buy for a penny. They played pool for a quarter a game and eventually crept into the peep booths in the back room. Sam had never seen anything like them.
    There were signs on every booth then, just as there were now, prohibiting more than one person to enter, but he and his friend ignored the signs and stood in the booths together—curious, embarrassed children. They didn’t know that by feeding more dimes into one machine the scratchy movie on the smudged little screen would progress considerably beyond the single woman undressing. He knew that now, which explained as well as anything the nature of his continued education.
    Would rich people stay in a hotel that used to be Pennyland? He couldn’t believe it. He realized, however, that it didn’t matter what he believed because money was coming to First Avenue .
    Rehabilitation had gone first to the old buildings south of Yesler Street . There had been a lot of publicity about it in the tourist magazines. They called it Pioneer Square now instead of Skid Road. Then a new condominium development was built north of the Market with a view of the harbor and the latest in security locks. And now this in the center. A few banks had already arrived. He guessed that more would follow the new money like pawnshops followed the down-and-out taverns.
    At eighteen he was quite certain he would do something important, something that would take him far from First Avenue . Now twice that age, he wondered if he would ever leave. If the rumors were true, he would outlast Pennyland. Was it possible that he would outlast First Avenue , the street he knew, or would First Avenue only fade into hidden recesses and wait to be forgotten like old storybooks in an abandoned cellar?
    Sam turned west on Madison Street, leaving First Avenue behind, and drove downhill a block toward Elliott Bay. On Western Avenue he turned north again. Above him the Viaduct passed through downtown on concrete stilts. Where the north end of the Market met Western Avenue ,
Sam
reversed his direction, shut off the headlights of his patrol car, and drove into Pike Place against the one-way signs. From his open window, he heard the popping sound of his tires crossing the rough cobblestones. He parked when he was even with the eye of the “City Fish” sign and pushed a button to eject the portable radio from its console.
    A shadow moved beneath the roof overhang of the fish stalls.
Sam
stood beside his car and watched. He heard the clang of metal as the shadow dropped a garbage can lid. One of the regulars was looking for food before the garbage trucks arrived. It was too late for the good stuff.
    Silve’s kitchen stood out like a beacon among the dark shuttered businesses, and
Sam
walked down the concrete ramp that led to it. He tapped on the door window. Silve walked quickly to the door, wiping his hands on his apron as he approached. The smile from the old man was a morning gift.
    “Good morning, sir,” Silve said as he unlocked the door. He had a rich accent he still carried from his home in the Philippines .
    “Good morning, my friend,”
Sam
replied—his accent from
Seattle
.
    Silve’s faded orange chef’s coat and hat were too big for him, but there were probably none smaller. The hat had a way of dropping over his eyes whenever he spoke with feeling, and Silve had many strong feelings.
Sam
wondered