Bernard has now moved on to the topic of Edward Kennedy. “Ted the Swimmer,” he says bitingly, referring to the nickname Bob Grant gave him after the Chappaquiddick accident. “People were shocked when he swam away from his drowning girlfriend.” Bernard imitates a sweet childish voice. “Oh my God, did Kennedy really do that?”
“I tell you,” roars Bernard. “Roll back the tapes on them Kennedys! It’s rum-smuggling, slave-trading scumbags. And Teddy isn’t any better. It’s in his blood to be a crook.”
End to end, the circle has closed. Everybody agrees that it was the Mafia after all that took out John F. Real crooks never go to jail is the moral of the story.
“They say crime doesn’t pay. Hey, my ass! Yes, petty theft is not worth it. But the big guys, I tell you, crime is the oldest and best paid profession in the world.”
Two boys with bright colored backpacks come out of the building. These are Pedro’s kids, on their way to school. They kiss their father on the cheek and politely shake Bernard’s hand. I am surprised they don’t call him Uncle Bernie. “Study hard at school,” Bernard tells them. “Otherwise you wind up like me, collecting cans.”
It is eight o’clock now, our working day is finished and we go back to the tunnel. Pedro gives Bernard a ten-dollar tip. In total, we have collected six huge bags of empties. Some of the bags he ties to the shopping cart, the others he hangs from broomsticks that protrude from his cart like antennas. When Bernard pulls the shopping cart like a mule, he becomes invisible behind the big bulky bags that are bulging on all sides.
Back in the tunnel, he chains his cart to the fence with a lock so Burk can’t take it. “I have to give that asshole a clear sign that he has to keep his hands off,” he says sternly. We will redeem the bags later. Today is the day Tony gets his welfare check, and he owes Bernard some money.
Tony is on the premises of the Broadway Check Cashing Company. It’s only nine o’clock in the morning, but the small office is already filled with people, mostly black and Latino, who are here to collect and cash their welfare checks. Homeless people can receive these benefits, as long as they have an address. Even a P.O. Box will do.
At the door, beggars with paper cups have posted themselves strategically. They know that everybody coming out has a full wallet and a good mood. And, as experienced beggars, they also know that poor blacks give more than the white middle-class. Around the corner, crack dealers wait for their first clients, while on the other side of the street, a cop is watching the whole scene.
Bernard is well known here, and lot of people say hello and ask him for cigarettes. It is a sad parade before our eyes. A black girl in a doorway stumbles and produces irregular giggling. All her teeth have disappeared; rotten stumps remain. “The suck monster,” comments Bernard. “Sucks dicks to suck crack pipes.”
One man pushes a shopping cart while leaning heavily on it. It looks like the cart could slide out from under him at any moment, causing him to hit the pavement. A woolen cap has been drawn over his blank, dull eyes. His gray coat is covered in greasy, black stains and he has no laces in his worn sneakers. He rummages in a garbage can, finds an empty, and throws it in his car next to few other crushed cans. “No discipline. I don’t feel sorry for them,” Bernard says shaking his head. “They need crack to get the energy to collect cans all night. Once they have enough cash, they get some wine or crack again. Same happened with Burk. Used to be one hell of a big strong motherfucker. One piece of muscle. Look what remains of him now. Crack wore him down pretty quickly.”
Tony comes walking out as a slick pimp, whistling and waving a big wad of bills. Without looking and with his nose in the air, he hands one beggar a wrinkled dollar bill. Then he drags us into a tobacco shop and buys us each a pack of Marlboros. Outside, he manages his money. He owes Bernard twenty bucks, but gives him thirty so he has some savings with him. Fifteen dollars is to pay his sister’s cable. Ten goes to his little niece. That way, he keeps forty dollars for himself for the next two weeks. Tony leaves. Today, he can take a day off and will hang out on his sister’s couch watching TV.
Later we go to the supermarket to return our empties. Once inside, Bernard puts the cans in the machine. I am waiting outside with the bottles. Because we have too much for one person, Bernard introduces me as his new partner who does the plastics. The manager looks at me suspiciously, but there is nothing he can do. In front of the supermarket, a lot more can men have assembled. After an hour’s wait, the manager has time and allows me to come in.
A woman who has just exited the supermarket with her shopping curses me when I hit her by accident with my bags. The outside of the bag is covered in a sticky mix of beer, Coke, and 7-Up. I see a dirty stain on her cream-colored suede jacket, but luckily she hasn’t noticed it.
The manager doesn’t take his eye off me when I count the bottles and throw them into a big box. Inexorably, he refuses brands from a competing chain. When I make an error, he sternly corrects me. Bernard gloats as he watches me, and puts the refused bottles into another bag. “My partner is new in the business. He still makes a lot of mistakes,” he tells the manager with a smile.
When we are ready, the manager has a sour look, but still hands over twelve dollars. I thank him as politely as possible, but he looks at me as though I have tricked him. Outside, Bernard gives the remaining bottles to another homeless person with a grand gesture; he nearly falls on his knees extolling his thanks. Bernard says he has some errands to do, and I return to the tunnel.
Tired from all the work, I take a nap on Bob’s bed. After an hour, I hear Bernard return and I go to knock on his door. I know Bernard appreciates his privacy, but I am just very curious about how he lives.
“Please enter, Duke,” he says with a friendly voice. He pushes aside a brick and slides away the plywood sheet that is his door.
“I was just relaxing a bit.” His home is a cubicle eight feet high, deep, and wide. The walls are pitch black with soot; once, a tunnel dweller went berserk and set fire to Bernard’s place.
Against the back wall is a mattress with a pile of blankets. His radio and alarm clock stand on a crate that doubles as a night table. I see a big trunk and more boxes, suitcases, and clothes piled up high against the other walls. It is hard to distinguish them; the only available light, a few burning candles on the table, is sucked up by the darkness.
Bernard’s table is a square sheet of wood on a big box, scattered with empty crack vials, small plastic bags, disposable lighters, mirrors and small knives. Dirty brown crack pipes and metal sticks rest in a small flower vase. It looks like an average junkie’s den, with all helpful paraphernalia within arms reach.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Bernard says as he picks up a few pieces of crack. They look like hail stones. He carves them up with a knife into small pieces and wriggles them into a glass pipe. The flame of the lighter is at its highest possible setting as he lights his pipe. Bernard sits on a big, bamboo chair; with its huge round back it looks like a throne, giving him a regal aura. I watch him from below, sitting down on a small folding chair. The crack starts to glow red and sears with a crackling sound when he sucks his pipe. That is why they call it crack. Bernard keeps the smoke inside for half a minute, before finally exhaling in one big puff. “The chemicals make me nervous. It is garbage these days,” he says in a soft voice. “There is just too much chaos involved in the whole process. They smuggle it in vaginas, they transplant it under the skin, they swallow it and shit it out. Overall chaos.” With a lighter, he heats up a few more crumbs of crack. To burn the chemicals, he explains. A faint smell of acetone permeates the air. “Drugs cause complete satisfaction or complete frustration. There is no middle way,” he says cryptically.