TUNNEL VISION
Gerald E. Sheagren
I hit the D.C. beltway, squeezing my old clunker into the onrush of cars. A Mercedes made a point of cutting me off, a hand shooting from the driver’s window to flash me the bird. Cursing, I returned the greeting, stomping on the accelerator until my front end was only inches from the luxury car’s rear bumper. What a frigging jerk – probably some Congressional cretin running late for a joint meeting. If I had to deal with traffic like this on a daily basis, I’d be a blithering idiot – quite possibly an inmate on death row.
Two to four times a year, I made this pain-in-the-neck trip to Washington D.C. to spend some quality time with my brother, Ernie. Ernie was the oldest of my siblings – next came Estelle, Eunice, Enid and Elaine. I was the youngest, the baby of the brood. When Ernie was drafted a year out of high school, whisked through basic training and sent to Vietnam, I was still playing cowboys and Indians with my friends.
Being a mere five-foot-five and one-thirty soaking wet, Ernie was elected for one of the dirtiest jobs of all – a tunnel rat. Time after time, armed with nothing but a flashlight and a .45 automatic, he was attached to a rope and lowered into a tunnel complex to flush out any VC that might have been hiding out there. Considering the spiders and snakes, trip wires and pungi sticks, the VC weren’t half the problem. If the tunnel was large enough, he’d be part of a team, but more often than not, he had to go it alone. After six harrowing months – with his nerves in shambles – he was mustered out and sent home with a medical discharge. Thanks a heap for your sacrifices, sucker; now get on with your life.
I can still remember his less-than-glorious homecoming – as he shambled into the house with sunken eyes, a week’s growth of beard and his breath reeking of alcohol. His dress uniform – stained with food and drink – was about as wrinkled as a piece of crumpled tissue paper. Two of his brass buttons were missing and his shoes looked as though they had been shined with an electric sander. Not to mention a purple mouse and a split lip from some barroom brawl in Los Angeles. He was a shadow of his former fun-loving self, not speaking much and jumping at the slightest of noises. Nearly every night, he would awake us with his shrieking, and, hurrying into his room, we would find him sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wild, his body drenched in a cold sweat. To make matters even worse, there was the claustrophobia, the arachnophobia and a half dozen other phobias.
Our father had been a gung-ho Marine in the South pacific and was head of the local VFW, his many medals and ribbons and war souvenirs adorning the walls of his very private study. Oh yes, indeed – he was John Wayne, Audie Murphy and Sergeant York all wrapped up into one. Despite witnessing three years of vicious warfare, he prided himself on coming home “sound of body, mind and soul.” Not a day passed without him and Ernie squaring off in an argument, Dad calling him a “wimp” or a “sissy” or a classic example of the new “weak-kneed generation.” After each ruckus, Ernie would rush off to one of the neighborhood bars for some liquid consolation. Being that he was her first born, Mom would try to shield him from Dad’s patriotic tirades and cook him his favorites meals – meals that Ernie poked over with his fork and left largely uneaten.
Three months after returning home, Ernie notified everyone at the supper table that he was heading off for Washington D.C. – where he had landed a job with some unspecified government institution. Leaving our questions unanswered, he packed the very next day and bid us a hasty farewell, flatly refusing Dad’s offer of a ride as he hustled out the door. Embracing our tearful mother halfway across the front lawn, he promised to write every chance that he got – a promise, by the way, which he has never kept.
It wasn’t long before we learned what Ernie’s new job was; a homeless person, languishing on the Washington Mall and living of the charity and goodwill of others. And he was far from being alone, for Washington, it seemed, had more beggars than the city of Calcutta – fifteen thousand at last count, a good many of them Vietnam vets. I couldn’t help but wondering – why Washington? I guess it was the best place in which to make a point. An ongoing protest you might say. Hey Jack and Jill tourist – look what Uncle Sam went and did to us.
In a fit of rage, Dad sped down to D.C. to confront his “no account son” and they fell to fisticuffs, right there, beneath the marble gaze of good old Honest Abe. Lucky for them that the first cop along was a Korean vet ,who, after taking both sides of the argument into consideration, had let them both off with nothing more than a warning. Unfazed by Mom’s sorrowful pleas, dear old Dad had laid down the law – under no circumstances was Ernie to be allowed home again. Not even for his funeral.
Parking, I locked up my junk-box and walked six blocks to the Mall. I had no idea where to start my search – for every time that I had come to visit Ernie, he had claimed yet another spot to call his own.
Spotting two homeless guys parked on a bench, I decided to wander over – a bit uneasy with their unwelcoming stares. One was a huge black dude, clad in a knit watch cap and ankle-length wool coat, despite a temperature hovering around ninety-degrees. The other was a sallow, reed-thin guy, his spindly arms festooned with tattoos from his shoulders clear down to his wrists. I knew immediately from his inflamed nostrils and constant snorting that he was an addict. If looks could have killed, I would have died a thousand painful deaths.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. Can either of you tell me where I can find Ernie Prescott?”
Overcoat affixed me with a jaundiced eye, finally looking to his partner with a barking laugh. “Did you hear that? This guy called us ‘gentlemen.’”
“Jesus H.!” Tattoos glanced worriedly around. “I hope to shit that no one heard him. It would play hell with our reputations.”
I hesitated, not certain on how to proceed.
“Why you looking for Ernie Prescott?” asked Overcoat. “You a cop?”
“Naw,” laughed Tattoos. “He looks to wimpy-ass to be a cop.”
“You better watch your ass with Prescott.” Overcoat snatched a butt from the ground and straightened it between thumb and forefinger, checking to see whether there was enough to smoke. “That mother is one crazy dude. He nearly bit my ear clean off a while back. Yup – he is one crazy, psychotic dude.”
“Uh — Ernie’s my brother. I’m here to pay him a visit.”
Tattoos looked me over, squinting and nodding his head. “Yeah – now that I look, I can see the resemblance. Ugliness must run in the family.”
“All I want to do is find Ernie and spend some time with him. I’m not looking for any trouble, here.”
“We ain’t gonna give you any trouble,” Overcoat reassured me, holding out his massive hands, palms up. “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra some, would’ja?”
“Sure,” I replied, digging into my pocket and tossing him a nearly full pack of Marlboros. “Keep the whole thing.”
“Hey, thanks, man!” Smiling from ear-to-ear, Overcoat jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Ernie has a bench that he calls ‘home’ on the other side of the Reflecting Pool. It’s just up from the Korean War Memorial. You know – for being that psycho’s brother, you ain’t such a bad guy.”
“Thanks. You gents have a nice day.”
I followed a path that led me past the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, its black granite twinkling in the sunlight. A group of Japanese tourists – appearing as clones in their black suits and white shirts – were jabbering excitedly and snapping pictures of everyone and everything in their circumference of vision. Two little girls were dangling their feet in the Reflecting Pool, as they tossed scraps of bread to a flotilla of squawking ducks. A jet roared overhead, leaving a long white vapor trail in its wake.
I located Ernie surprisingly fast – stretched out on a bench with his legs crossed at the ankles and his fingers clasped prayer-like on his chest. Looking as serene as a corpse stretched out in its coffin, I was almost sorry that I had to wake him. I stood there for a minute, taking in his greasy, shoulder-length hair; his thin, weather-beaten face; the scruffy beard, flecked with gray and clotted with bits of dried-up food. The crescent-shaped scar, which he had received in a bicycle mishap when he was a kid, was stark white against the chestnut-brown of his skin. He was clad in camouflage fatigues – wrinkled and soiled – an olive-green bush hat, and a pair of dirty, scuffed-up combat boots. Why in hell – if these poor souls wanted to forget about Vietnam – did they choose to dress as if they were still there? Near the bench rested an old, olive-drab duffel bag, stenciled with the faded black letters U.S.A..
“Hey, Ernie! Yooo!”
Not a muscle moved.
“Ernest! Hey, Ern!”
An eye popped open, considering for a moment, then snapped shut, followed by a long, phlegmy groan. “Ah, Jesus, kid – you screwed up my nap.”
“Well, that’s some howdy-do.”
“I’m nursing a major hangover, here.” Ernie smacked his mouth, wincing at the taste of his saliva. “Christ, my tongue feels like a bloated sausage, resting on a bed of cotton. Cheap wine will do it to you every time.”
“Do you have some room for me to sit down?’
Groaning, Ernie swung his legs off the bench and sat up, burying his face in his hands.
I plopped down, sniffed the air and quickly moved to the far end of the bench. God, he smelled something awful – like an outhouse simmering under a hundred-degree sun!
“What’sa matter, kid? You don’t like my aroma?”
“When’s the last time you took a shower?”
“Maybe two weeks ago - in the White House. The Pres let me use his private bath.”
“Then, I just bet that the two of you sat down and discussed the fate of the free world.”
“Yeah, sure. He consults with old war horses, like me, all the time. It gives him a better perspective on things.”
A homeless person shuffled along the walk – an old man with a mop of snow-white hair with a matching walrus-type moustache. He reminded me of a down-and-out Colonel Sanders. Stopping, he held out a bag in Ernie’s direction. “I got some day-old doughnuts from Starbucks. You want one?”
“Jesus, yeah, Ruben – it’s just what I need.” Ernie shot a hand into the bag and pulled out a jelly doughnut, wolfing it down in two bites. “Wish you had a black coffee to go along with it.”
“The waitress isn’t that generous.”
“Ruben, this is my brother, Elliot. Elliot, this is Ruben.”
I accepted the old man’s hand which felt as curled and hard as the talon of a hawk. He smelled bad, but not nearly as bad as Ernie.
Ruben arched a busy white brow. “I can tell that you two are brothers just by looking at’cha.” With that, he offered a small salute and hobbled off in the direction of the Washington Monument.
“You’re not going to believe this,” said Ernie, following the old man’s departure. “Ruben, there, use to be a hotshot broker on Wall Street. He had a loving wife, three college-grad kids, a twenty-room mansion, Mercedes, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, tennis courts, the whole frigging enchilada.”
“C’mon! You’re kidding me, right?”
“As God is my witness.”
“What in the hell happened to him?”
“The rat race burned him out. He’s actually happier, now, than he was back then.”
“Man-oh-man, that is totally hard to believe.” I plopped the bag that I was holding into Ernie’s lap. “That’s a little care package from Mom – a pack of underwear, another of socks, plus some toothpaste, mouth wash and dental floss.”
Ernie shoved the supplies into his duffel bag without checking them out. “Christ, she should have been a dentist. How’s she doing, anyways?”
“She thinks about you all the time, man. You know – you should move back to New Jersey and make her last years happier ones.”
“Jersey, eeeccchhh! I’d as soon be back in Nam, burning leeches from my flesh.” Ernie scrubbed his face with his hands, sighing. “How’s the old man, just like I give two shits.”
“High blood pressure, diabetes, rheumatoid arthritis, you name it.”
“The indefatigable old war horse is finally going lame, huh? Does he still hate me?”
“He doesn’t hate you, Ern. He just hates the way you’ve chosen to live.”
“Christ, he would have been proud as punch if I’d been blown to smithereens in Nam.”
“C’mon, let’s take a walk. It’ll help sober you up.”
We headed in the direction of the Washington Monument, Ernie in the lead – moving along in his peculiar penguin-like strut, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The bright sun was playing havoc with his hangover, and, every so often, he would let out a wounded groan, his free hand massaging his temple.
I looked over to see Overcoat and Tattoos watching us from the other side of the Reflecting Pool. Tattoos raised a middle finger in our direction, pumping it high in the air. “Hey, Ernie, you know those two losers over there?”
“Oh, yeah, they’re a real sweet pair. Tyrone, the black dude, was in the First Cavalry, Quang Tri, nineteen sixty-eight. Rumors are he got a dishonorable discharge for one reason or another. His pal, Lester, is nothing but a worthless junkie. I’m the Duke of Earl compared to those two.”
“Tyrone said that you nearly bit off his ear.”
Ernie barked a laugh. “He tried to steal my duffel bag. Next time, I’ll bite off his dick.” A serious look crossed Ernie’s face as he leaned closer to me. “Let tell you, kid – if you show the least sign of weakness around here, you’re dead meat. It’s a jungle and you have to stay in that top realm of predators.”
We walked past the Washington Monument, Ernie informing me that the difference in colors, maybe midway up, was where the construction resumed after the project had remained dormant during the Civil War. Upon spotting my brother, a number of tourists frowned and gave him a wide berth as we drew near. If Ernie noticed it, which I’m sure he did, it appeared not to bother him any. After being down for so long, pride and dignity were probably as foreign to him as a bubble bath or a meal at a four-star restaurant. As we approached the Capitol, about a half hour later, he screwed up his face as though he had taken a bite of some spoiled meat.
“Well, there it is, kid – the marble mausoleum – the home of the walking dead.”
“You really believe that, huh?”
“Shit, yeah, I do. There’s not a person in there that gives a rat’s ass about you or me or anyone else. That goes for us Vietnam vets and it’ll go for the troops in Iraq as well. All they care about is lining their own pockets and a good pair of shoes so they can balance themselves on their pedestals.”
“There must a few good ones.”
“At first, maybe, but a good apple can’t survive in a basket of bad apples.” Ernie chuckled, pointing to a marble walkway that was lined with flowers. “A few months back, I took a whiz right over there. I spent the night in jail for that little transgression. It wasn’t bad though – at least I got a square meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and broccoli.”
“You are really something, Ern. Say, talking about food – what say I treat you to a nice breakfast.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. There’s not a restaurant in this whole city that would let me past its gilded doors. But it just so happens that I know a place where the food is top notch. C’mon, follow me.”
We headed up New Jersey Avenue, heading for Old Downtown. The sky had darkened, portending a late morning rainstorm. Off in the distance, there came a crackle of thunder. Three blocks up, Ernie came to a stop before an old brick building, its windows boarded up with sections of plywood. Over the door there was a sign reading SOUP KITCHEN, OPEN SIX-TO-SIX.
“You’re taking me to a soup kitchen?”
“Best food in town, kid, or pretty damn near it. The place is run by the Reverend Alonzo Biggs of the Emmanuel Baptist Church.”
Before I could argue the point, Ernie opened the door and shoved me inside. Two steps and I was greeted by a crazy hodgepodge of smells – body odor, boozy breath and stale sweat mixed with the tantalizing aroma of bacon and eggs, melting butter and fresh-brewed coffee. Maybe two dozen picnic tables had been set up and there didn’t appear to be a place left in which to sit. Scruffy, ill-clad men of just about every ethnic group lined the benches, wolfing down platefuls of food and conversing in raucous tones. There were even a few women – grubby and disheveled and clad in the weirdest ensembles I had ever seen. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, as thick as a fog bank off Puget Sound.
A huge, broad-shouldered black man, wrapped in a food-stained apron, ambled over to Ernie, his sleeves rolled up, displaying arms as big as tree trunks. When he smiled, the overhead lights twinkled off a gold tooth, front and center.
“Ernest, my man – happy you could drop by.”
They shook hands, performing a little ghetto how-de-do.
“How’s it going, Rev? This, here, is my baby brother, Elliot. El, this is the Reverend Alonzo Biggs.”
He grabbed my hand, squeezing until I winced. “Ernest has told me quite a bit about you – how the two of you are the last surviving members of the Prescott clan.”
I glanced at Ernie, crinkling my brow. “He said that, huh?”
“I’m happy you took the time to come down to visit your brother.”
“It’s the least I could do for — uh — for my only kin.”
“Well, the two of you eat hearty.” The Reverend headed back to the serving table, glancing over his shoulder. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”
I looked at my brother, trying to find some humor in it all. “Well, I guess we’re the last of the Prescotts.”
“Well, yeah, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“C’mon, man – it gains me a little more sympathy. Let’s eat.”
After one of the best breakfasts I had ever eaten, we headed back toward the Mall, Ernie looking eagerly around as if he had been gone for two years instead of two hours. Before I knew it, we were strolling along the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, its black granite reflecting the sky, the trees, and the mournful faces of those searching for names. Tourists were taking pictures and a young woman was lifting a name with a pencil and tracing paper. At the foot of the memorial, loved ones had left such things as letters and flowers and photos, even a baseball glove and a can of Coke.
“You know, kid – all these offerings aren’t thrown away. They’re collected by the National Park Service and stored away in a warehouse in Lanham, Maryland.” Ernie winked. “Uncle Sam does have a heart at times.”
“More than you might think, Ern. More than you might think.”
Suddenly, Ernie stopped, gently rubbing his fingers over a name. I leaned in closer and saw that it was a soldier by the name of Arthur Wynoski.
“Did you know him, Ern?”
“Yes, yes I did. He was a little eighteen-year-old farm boy from somewhere in Iowa. Near Davenport, I think. He was a tunnel rat, just like me.”
“He was killed, huh?”
“We hooked him to a rope and lowered him into a tunnel near Cu Chi. There were a lot of tunnels in that area. He hadn’t been in that tunnel thirty seconds when we heard this loud explosion. When we pulled him up, all what we got were his legs.”
“Ah, Christ, Ernie.”
“He was a real sweet kid,” said Ernie, still fingering the name. “Little, Artie,” he added in a strangled whisper.
I grabbed my brother’s arm and led him off a distance. “You know, Ern – you have to stop doing this to yourself.”
“Doing what?”
“Reliving that damn war, over and over and over again.”
“Let me tell you something,” he snapped, anger burning in his eyes. “This is my family, all fifty-eight thousand of them. They walked the walk and talked the talk.”
“You’ve got a family in Jersey.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Not one of them gives a shit about me, excepting Ma. Dad would have been prouder of me if I had been in that tunnel instead of Arthur Wynoski. As for my dear sisters – they couldn’t care less if I was dead or alive.”
“Maybe if they saw you more often. Come back to Jersey with me.”
“Bullshit! They’d still treat me like the plague. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
We headed back to Ernie’s bench and he suddenly took a step back, his distressed eyes growing as big as saucers. In seconds, he had turned ten shades paler.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“There! Look, look! The damn thing is right on my bench!”
I looked down to see a daddy longlegs and couldn’t help a laugh. A harmless spider, yes – but to Ernie it was a red-eyed, fire-breathing tunnel spider, waiting to suck the juices of life from his very body.
“Get rid of it, kid! Get it out of here, now!”
I gently picked up the spider and placed it in my cupped hand. Walking off a distance, I deposited it onto the grass and watched it scamper away. If Tyrone and Lester could have just seen Ernie, I thought to myself, my brother would no longer be in that top realm of jungle predators.
“God, kid, I hate those damn things. They’re worse than snakes, worse than tunnel rats, worse than those zombies in the Capitol.”
Still chuckling to myself, I looked up to see that the sky had turned the color of a fresh bruise, with angry gray clouds trooping along the horizon like circus elephants on parade. The rain would come soon and plenty of it.
“Hey, Ern – where do you go when it rains?”
“If it’s hot, like now, I just sit here and get drenched. It’s the closest thing I got to a shower.” He gave a gritty laugh. “When it gets colder, I head over to the White House and the First Lady fixes me up with the Lincoln bedroom. Well, kiddo, I guess it’s adios.”
“Yeah, I guess. I’ll try to make it back down in a couple of months.”
Ernie wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close and I didn’t even try to move away from his smell. “I love ya, kid,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.
“I — uh — I love you too.”
“Bring Mom down with you next time.”
“I’ll try. It’s tough - you know- with Dad and all.”
With that, Ernie sprawled out on his bench, crossing his legs and pulling his bush hat over his eyes. He gave a long, comforting sigh and wiggled his fingers in a goodbye.
As I headed back to my car, passing wordlessly past Tyrone and Lester, a thick drop of rain plopped against my head.
