He looks at the ground. “Four times wounded. Bullets, shrapnel, all this weird shit. I got a couple of metal bolts in my bones. And I tell you, it’s not like in Westerns. You hardly know you are wounded, that’s how fast it goes. Only when you look down, you realize what happened. And then you start to scream.” Joe opens a beer and gulps down a Bud. “Any more questions?”
11. SUICIDE ON CHRISTMAS EVE
It is the day before Christmas. Not a White Christmas. It is dreary, windy, gray weather in the city. Santa Clauses roam around on Broadway. They wave big bells and try to sell the last Christmas trees for special prices. Bernard and I are sitting at the fireplace, listening to the radio. Instead of good rock and Bob Grant’s right-wing talk show, his favorite station W1010 is now broadcasting non-stop Christmas carols.
“Fuck this Frosty the Fucking Snowman,” Bernard grumbles. It’s a funny American song about a merry snowman who, in fact, dies a horrible thawing death. Frosty accepts his fate courageously, actually quite cheerfully, but in a completely naïve way. We hear the song at least three times every hour. It drives us crazy. Bernard decides to go back to bed, I go to the South End to deliver my Christmas wishes.
It is not that cold, but a chilling wind blows through the wood pillars at the South End. Icicles are dripping from the ceiling. Last winter it was worse, Bernard told me. At that time there was a curtain of icicles, some up to fifteen feet long. One nearly killed him when it broke off.
At Clarence’s, a fire is burning in an empty oil drum, but there is no one in sight. Little Havana is deserted. I don’t even see any rats. Even they must have decided to stay in today. Deeper in the tunnel, a group of kids are coming towards me. Hoodlums that don’t belong in the tunnel. As they come closer, I see Ment among them. We chat a bit, but Ment is aloof. The boys look uneasily at me.
One of the guys, a Latino with a wild expression in his eyes, scratches his back and as he pushes his sweater up, I see a shiny gun next to his beeper. I don’t know if the kid showed it accidentally or as a veiled threat. I politely say goodbye and stop at Joe’s; he is sorting out cans outside. We watch the group of kids. “Friends of Ment,” Joe says indifferently. “Sometimes he hangs out with strange people.” I wish him a happy Christmas. “Fuck Christmas,” he says bitterly. “And you’re also some kinda asshole to leave your wife alone back home at the holidays and hang around here in the tunnel.”
Joe fakes indignation, and has a grin on his face for a moment. But soon he returns to his usual sad expression, the look he normally has. Joe told me last visit about his five daughters. Two were born dead. Two died as toddlers. It had to do with Agent Orange, according to Joe.
The devastating effects of the defoliation agent on human genetic material were not yet known during the Vietnam era. His oldest daughter died when she was sixteen. Joe heard too late to go to her funeral; he had already been on the streets for a few years.
Christmas night. I am having a cup of wine at Bob’s bunker and feeling sad. Every year I curse the holiday and family obligations, but Christmas underground is no fun either. Doing something with Bernard is not an option, as he remains incommunicado in his bunker.
I decide to offer Joe and Kathy the bottle of champagne a friend gave to me. The bitter way Joe said Fuck Christmas still rings in my ears. He could sure use a little present for the holidays. Also, I feel it is fitting to show the tunnel elders my respect. While I pack up my backpack, I hear a long train whistle, louder and longer than normal. Maybe the train conductor is blowing his whistle as a Christmas greeting to the tunnel people. I jump on my bike and ride with my flashlight to the South End.
After five blocks, it becomes clear something is wrong. In the slow bend of the tunnel, I can see the bright headlight of the train. It has stopped and blue flashing police lights flash along the walls. As I get closer to the 83rd Street exit, I see people walking around with powerful lanterns. I am blinded by one of their lights and stop my bike right in front of a police officer.
“Excuse me, officer,” I ask as politely as possible. “Could you please tell me what happened?” The cop is flabbergasted.
“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in this fucking tunnel?” I show my NYPD press card and explain I am working on a story about the tunnel. The press card is like a red flag to a bull.
“Git yer fuckin’ ass outta here,” he barks.
“But officer,” I try again. “TO CROSS ALL POLICE AND FIRE LINES” is printed in big bold capitals on the press card.
“Now don’t get fuckin’ smart with me…” he screams. When cops start to talk like that, you know it’s time to go. Quietly, I slip through the emergency exit. Outside is an ambulance and a few police cars. I try again with another cop. He threatens to billy club me with his enormous Maglite, handcuff me and throw me in jail. The message is clear. I leave the scene. Over the park roads, I bike to the entrance of the parking garage. There Frankie and Ment are nervously smoking cigarettes.
“What’s up, Ant,” Frankie greets me. “Did you hear what happened?” They have also been kicked out of the tunnel, but Frankie saw everything.
“Lady Bug started to bark so I took a look to see what was happening. Outside some idiot is stumbling on the tracks. I yelled at him not to walk on the goddamn tracks and went inside. That must have been the last words someone told him.” Frankie leaves a significant silence.
“Those words obviously brought him little luck,” Ment tries a joke.
“Shut up, asshole,” Frankie says angrily. He is shocked by the accident and is smoking one cigarette after the other.
“A few minutes later I hear horns, whistles, hooting, screeching brakes. I knew immediately what time it was. I tell you: it was not an accident. It was goddamn suicide.”
Frankie has seen the body. Tangled beyond recognition. P.O.—police officer—Anderson from the 20th precinct was there first, Frankie says. They know each other from the hood. “P.O. Anderson shone her flashlight on the man and asked if I knew him. I could only see he was black. Otherwise, he was ground meat. When I saw his brains dripping out of his head, I had to throw up.” Frankie puts his hands over his eyes. “P.O. Anderson told me to go home and get a drink. The other cops that arrived after kicked us out.”
We wait in the park for half an hour. Frankie tells us more about Anderson. “She’s a cool cop. She often talks with us and sometimes we get a beer. Unlike most cops who are just out to fuck you.” Ment now and then glances through the gate in the tunnel to check if the coast is clear.
Frankie and Ment have known Anderson for a few years. At one point, it started to smell terribly in the tunnel. Everybody thought it was a dead cat or rotting garbage. But Joe as a war veteran knew that it was the smell of a dead body. Ment called the police and they went on an inspection. Together they found the man somewhere hidden deep in a crevice. The body was partially eaten by animals. A rat came out of his eye socket.
“We couldn’t find any traces of violence,” Anderson said, when I interviewed her later at the precinct. “His hands were under his belly as if he were asleep. Probably he had crept into the cave to die in peace.” About Frankie and Ment, she said, motherly, “They are not bad guys.” Once she was harassed by a drunk guy from the neighborhood. Frankie and Ment had offered to “take care” of the guy. Anderson refused. “I fight my own battles. But it was a nice gesture. It was their way of saying ‘P.O., we think you are cool and we like you.’”
Ment calls when the police have gone. “It’s no good,” Frankie says once we are back in their place. “This kinda bullshit only brings trouble in the tunnel. Why this stupid nigger had to kill himself of all places in front of my home? Soon, we all will be kicked out for good.”