Tony ignores the murder plans. “The Kid is afraid of something,” he says understandingly. “Just a hunted-down animal. Goes from place to place. Never sleeps in the same spot.”
Nobody knows where the Kid comes from. He is the silent type and hardly speaks English. Tony spoke with him a few times in Spanish, but hardly learnt anything new. A few weeks ago, he suddenly turned up. Since then, he comes at irregular intervals, sometimes walking from the south, sometimes from the north. Somehow, he has chosen Bernard’s place as base camp.
Tony leaves for his shack with his plate of food. “I tell you, the guy is really sick,” Bernard gossips. “I think he got the virus. That’s what you get if you do tricks with kids that let themselves be fucked up their ass for a few crumbs of crack and then proceed to spread the virus all over town.” Bernard is getting tired of his problem-child Tony. He receives welfare but blows his money the same day betting on horses. “Sometimes he wins, but then he continues till he has lost everything,” Bernard shakes his head. “You’re better off doing crack. At least you see your money go up in smoke in front of your eyes.”
Tony’s dream is to become a millionaire by winning on the horses, Bernard tells me with a sigh. Then he will rent a nice apartment, send his lover Jeff to rehab, and live long and happy with him forever.
Bernard suspects that Tony has AIDS, or the first symptoms of Alzheimer’s. He is suffering from amnesia and hears the strangest things. He’s totally convinced that the weird whizzing sound we sometimes hear is an enormous bat flying through the tunnel with the speed of sound. And not just a normal bat, but a bat with leather wings. The eerie sound is actually caused when cars with wet tires drive at high speed over road marks on the West Side Highway. Add the resonations from the steel columns and beams in the tunnel, a few echoes, maybe a bit of Doppler effect, and you have a ZOOVE! sound that even scares the cats.
Professor Williams had explained that audiovisual hallucinations are completely normal in the tunnel, like fata morganas in the desert. They are caused by physical, psychological, and chemical factors. First, the strange architectonic construction of the tunnel causes extraordinary acoustic and visual effects. In addition, a lot of tunnel people are mentally unstable and are haunted by panic attacks, visions, delusions, and flashbacks. Alcohol and drug abuse on top of that cause the proverbial pink elephants to appear.
Still, some unexplainable things are happening in the tunnel. Bernard and Bob once saw a ghost. “We were sitting one night at the fire,” Bernard tells me. “From the corner of my eye I saw near The Third of May trails of fog that slowly transformed into a person. I said, ‘Bob, do you see what I see, or am I getting goddamn crazy.’ Bob was sitting petrified on his chair. ‘Bernard,’ he trembled, ‘I just wanted to ask you the same thing.’”
The next morning, Bernard is serving grits with salmon burgers, an old family recipe Bernard learnt from his mother in the Deep South. They are amazing, and Bernard is proud when I jot down the recipe. Contrary to habit, Tony doesn’t show up. “He told me he is not feeling well. You see, it’s the virus. The idiot is crazy. No way will I serve him breakfast in bed.”
Today is Bernard’s big laundry day. He’s saved everything up and now has more than four garbage bags full.
Outside on the playground, the park police are driving around. “There are those assholes again,” Bernard says agitated. “Bunch of losers, thinking they’re big shots ‘cause they cruise around in big cars, picking their noses while making fifty grand a year.”
They approach us and open their window. A fat guy with a mustache asks what happened to the new lock they installed. Bernard tells them politely he has cut through the chain, but that he has kept the lock and can even return it if they want. “You don’t have the right to lock our gates,” he says confidently. “Amtrak is okay that we live down here. The whole world has seen it prime time on CNN.”
The fat guy is not impressed. “Sorry, guys, but I have my orders,” he replies. “We get complaints about the mess.” The ranger is not just mentioning all the stuff in the emergency exits, but all the crack vials, empty cans, old blankets, and cardboard boxes that are scattered around the park. The corner near the Northern Gate is a favorite spot for crackheads and there are always street people sleeping on the playground benches in the evening. Bernard remains polite and explains that the mess outside is not from the tunnel people, but that he will make sure the exits are kept clean.
The fat ranger is not convinced. “I’m sorry, guys. It is really getting out of hand. I’m gonna put an elephant lock on the gate. Impossible to cut through. Only with a diamond saw.”
Bernard is tired of the discussion and leaves with his dirty laundry. The ranger shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know why you guys are down there,” he says. “We can bring you to a shelter, free food, medical care, everything you need.” I thank the ranger for his thoughtfulness and say it is pretty okay down there. He shakes his head and drives away.
Bernard is mad as hell. “Goddammit, that mess is not my responsibility,” he raves. “And I told everybody to keep it clean inside. Fuck the guys. I have been their spokesman for too long. Now you see what happens. And fuck that diamond saw. We can break any lock. Worst case with nitro or dynamite. Holy shit! The idiot really should not think he can kick us out that easily. We’ll just get some TV-crews here and gonna make a big show.”
Bernard is not exaggerating. He learnt a few things the last time the tunnel people were threatened with eviction. He has the phone numbers of Professor Williams, Chris Pape, and Margaret, a conceptual photographer who has been working for years on a project about the tunnel people. He’s also kept all the business cards from the CNN, ABC, NBC, and CBS crews that have ever visited the tunnel. If necessary, he can mobilize the New York media with a couple of phone calls. The networks would love a juicy story like tunnel dwellers being evicted from their underground homes.
Bernard takes his laundry very seriously and it takes a few hours. He meticulously sorts out everything into white, colored, and delicate laundry. He applies Ring Around the Collar on the deepest stains. He fills up five machines and doesn’t even forget to add perfumed fabric softener on the last wash.
Outside, we meet Manny. He is a small sleaze-ball with shiny, ratty eyes and a nasty boil on his cheek that changes with the weather from deep purple to a yellowish green. Sometimes I see Manny at the Northern Gate as he enters the tunnel through Marcus’ rabbit hole. This is a little tunnel dug by Marcus to an exit in the park, and named after Alice in Wonderland. But usually Manny doesn’t want to dirty his clothes and waits at the gate till Bernard or I open it. Most of the time, it is to smoke some crack with Bernard. I noticed that he only shows up on days he knows Bernard has money.
Last time, the creep wanted to know how much I paid Bernard. I told Manny I just got groceries instead of giving money that might be spent on drugs. Later Bernard asked me indignantly if I really had told Manny that he was a junkie. The little scumbag had twisted my words around.
Manny shows us a golden ring with a diamond he is off to sell. Found honestly on the streets. I don’t believe it. “Everything is possible,” Bernard says. “The greatest treasures are lying amidst the garbage.” Manny promised to give Bernard a share. Later on we see him again, telling us he only got five dollars for the ring. Too bad, nothing for Bernard, he says, walking away with a smooth pace.