“A crew is a group of friends that have decided to do something together and who will push that,” explains Frankie. “It can be spraying graffiti or, ahem,” he says cryptically, “something deeper.”
It is nearly midnight. I go back to Bernard’s camp. “Watch out,” advises Frankie as I unlock my bike. “At night it’s dangerous in the tunnel. Especially over the weekends you have a lot of strange people hanging around. Remember, always carry a baseball bat. If you run into a stranger, hit first. Then ask questions.”
In the morning, I join Bernard at the grill and tell him about my visit to Frankie and Ment.
He gets angry. “They are bullshitters. Especially that Frankie, he is a loudmouth. If you’re a lotta talk, you ain’t but shit! Damn, I can handle that guy. He is just like… just like…” Bernard thinks and stirs up the fire. “He is just like most people on this planet. Just another asshole.”
I tell him the son of Joe and Kathy seemed like a nice guy. “Hmm, strange,” Bernard says, “I didn’t know Ment was their son. But yes, why not. But what did he say? A year and a half traveling in upstate New York?” Bernard laughs. “He was in jail all that time. Armed robbery on a clothes shop. He was boasting that they got fifty grand. At the most, it was a few thousand.”
“And of course a lot of cursing about crackheads?” Bernard continues. “Frankie is always telling negative bullshit about crackheads. But he himself smokes the stuff just as hard. Most people here never mention drugs when the crews come down. They are afraid they won’t get paid because they would buy crack.”
Bernard talks about the camera crews that come underground regularly to make documentaries about the tunnel. Most of the time, Bernard is the contact person, guide, fixer, and assistant, all at the same time. He is not only the most reliable and eloquent tunnel dweller, but has some film experience as well. His day rate is one hundred dollars. Other tunnel people get twenty dollars to tell their story in front of the camera. The difference in salary causes envy and anger.
“They are cowards and hypocrites, most of the people here,” continues Bernard. “Manny asked me last time if you knew I smoked crack. Of course, I said. And I don’t give a damn. If I have to justify myself to anyone else but myself, it is about time to leave this planet. Period! I mean, one day I saw Marcus with some chick in his cave. They were smoking crack like a bunch of old sailors. Next day I come with a journalist. She asked if he did any drugs. Man, I tell you, you should have seen the script he had ready. The slime had a three-foot-long sermon: ‘Oh no, I never touch drugs anymore since that fatal day my brother died in front of me after an overdose.’ Fuck it. But me? I am always the bad guy, because I smoke crack and don’t keep it a secret.”
6. DAILY ROUTINE
“Jesus Was Homeless Too” says a flier from the Colorado Bible Society. Tony has picked up a few of them and has put them in the hooded hair dryer that has been in his cart for more than a week but for which he has not been able to find a buyer. The laces of the Timberland shoes have gone. Tony tried to sell me the shoes several times, although I told him clearly that they were two sizes too small. Maybe Burk stole the shoelaces, although I can imagine Tony managing to sell just the laces to someone on the streets. I push his cart aside and wriggle myself between his other junk to go down the stairs. It is 6 PM and the tunnel is pitch-dark.
Bernard sits at the fire complaining about the park police. Normally, they keep themselves busy with sawing off old branches, raking fallen leaves and showing off in fancy four wheel drives. They know that people live in the tunnel but never made a big deal of it. Now suddenly they do.
“The idiots put a new lock on the gate,” he grumbles. “I immediately cut through it. Who do they think they are?”
Bernard soaks his clothes in a few buckets. It is getting cold, so it is time to get his winter clothes out. Tomorrow is laundry day, but because everything is so dirty from the soot and dirt, pre-washing is needed.
Linda, a fat black cat, jumps on his lap. Bernard strokes her neck softly. “Poor Linda,” he says to the purring cat. “All these horny cats who are chasing you. But yes, even you have to pay your dues to society. And thanks to you we don’t have any rats here anymore.”
The poor cat has already given birth five times, Bernard tells me. Now she is pregnant again. Linda is one of Bernard’s favorite cats. She is a ruthless killing machine, chewing up every rat, even ones that are bigger than she is. Sometimes in the night I hear blood-curdling screams. Then Linda is off, chasing one of her victims for blocks.
Once, Bernard locked up Linda for three days without food because he wanted to deal with a particular rat that had been bothering him for nights. “She was sitting at the trunk looking mean at me,” Bernard tells me. “I wanted to pet her, and Rang! She slashed me with her claws as sharp as knives. Pure energy! The blood was dripping from my hands.” The cat looks around proudly. She feels we are discussing her.
“Well Linda, maybe you are just a spy sent from up top, “Bernard pats the cat on its back. “Just hanging around here to create chaos.”
We go outside to get some beers. Bernard is a modest drinker, but loves an imported brew as a nightcap. Our little evening stroll up top has become a daily routine, during which we discuss the things of the day.
This evening, Bernard is in a melancholic mood and ponders the meaning of existence. “Suffering…” he whispers, “Life consists of suffering. Nobody is happy. How can mankind be happy anyway, with all the misery around him? And this country, most people don’t realize how good they have it. But the wrath of God will soon descend upon us. The signs are all over. Hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes. From one moment to the next, you lose everything.”
We are walking through the park and see the traffic jam on the West Side Highway slowly creeping ahead like a giant caterpillar. The air is filled with horns and sirens and alarms. On the other side of the Hudson is the skyline of New Jersey. Office buildings and commuter homes bake in an orange glow. In between, we see white and red lights slowly moving around. “Wait a minute. Look at the madness over there. Where are they all going, these robots? It’s madness. Just to keep the dollar going. Cars, gasoline, parking lots, garages, bridges, toll lanes, tunnels. Every year they introduce a new model car, while the latest one hasn’t sold out. And listen to the fire trucks: all cars that are on fire. It’s only plastic and electronics now. If they get stuck in a traffic jam, they heat up and combust spontaneously.” Bernard shakes his head.
Bernard is a beer connoisseur and he has trouble choosing between Beck’s, Guinness, Carlsberg, and Tuborg. He would never touch bum brands like Country Club or Ballantine’s Ale, or even worse, White Deer, malt liquors very popular among the homeless. Bernard finally settles for a Guinness. On the way back, we walk past the garbage bags at the high school on 96th Street. “My greatest source of food,” Bernard says while checking the contents. “A good harvest,” he mumbles when he finds half full bags of pretzels and chips, and a tray full of drumsticks that spoilt school children did not eat.
On a wall in the park, we drink our beers while munching damp chips and tough pretzels. Bernard is telling about the early tunnel days. The first year he was on his own. “It was a paradise of quiet and peace.” One by one, more people settled in his camp till finally there were about ten people. As the only responsible man who also managed to control his drinking and drug habits, Bernard soon became a surrogate father for a bunch of unruly and ungrateful children. Chaos had entered the tunnels. Now, after eight years, Bernard is getting tired of tunnel life. “It is no longer a challenge. It’s routine. I mastered this existence.” Bernard has passed forty and feels the cold and dampness is taking a toll on his body. “It’s time for a change. This spring I want to move out.”