13

13

When I arrive at the dharma center on West 14th, there’s a plainclothes cop watching the entrance. Caucasian, buzz cut, I can just tell. And I don’t think he’s there waiting for a monk. It’s me they want to talk to and I haven’t been home or to the office. In my old jacket and lacking the trademark hat, I’m almost in disguise but there’s also nothing to hide my face so I duck into a corner store and buy a Yankees cap. There goes my lunch money. But with the bill pulled down, I’m able to blend in with the crowd on the street and slip up the garden path on the side of the building without getting collared.

The side entrance puts me in the lobby with its high ceiling and art gallery atmosphere. I can see the cop on the street through the glass of the main entrance, the etched eternal knot superimposed over his restless form. At the front desk, where I expect to find Norbu manning the phone, I find a skinny young monk in glasses—one I haven’t seen before. I give him my name and tell h