Mary Brosnahan is also mentioned in the Times article. In the media, she is a well-known homeless expert who regularly gives her radical opinion. Not surprisingly, Mary is very critical. She calls Cisneros’ program ineffective in the direct quote from the Times: “If the same secretary who’s trying this bold move is willing to give us a hundred- or a thousandfold this number of Section 8 vouchers, that will make a difference. But this demonstration program will not.”
It’s a piece of cake to make an appointment with the directors of Housing Works, and within a few hours of my first phone call I am already sitting—with a big press kit—at a table with the helpful vice director Keith Cylar. While Cylar only has a few meetings a month with the housing secretary, they know each other very well. “After Cisneros read a few articles about tunnel people, he asked me for a tour,” explains Cylar, an unusual step for the secretary. “Up until now, only a few tunnel people have taken advantage of the special offer. The problem is that a lot of the homeless can’t just go move into an apartment. We have to offer them a complete package of mental help, health care, and rehab. It takes time to make the people housing ready. Cisneros overlooked this in his enthusiasm.”
Cylar tells me that for many people who wind up at Housing Works it is already too late. “Only when they get the first symptoms of AIDS and are getting really sick, they come up. Housing then can’t help them anymore.”
The budget cuts in social programs are another big problem. On all levels of government, conservative Republicans are in power: George Pataki as senator of New York State; Rudy Giuliani as mayor of New York; and the Republican majority in congress headed by the right winger Newt Gingrich. All have little patience with expensive programs that don’t result in immediate economic profit. “A cold wind blows over this country,” concludes Cylar somberly.
13. LITTLE HAVANA
“This crazy-ass bitch Combs… She fucked me with no grease…” Bernard is still raving mad at the Captain and curses her to hell while we try to saw through the chain at Marcus’ fence. Drop of sweat form on his forehead while I try to hold the chain that keeps slipping away under the saw. Up top we have bought the best saw and the heaviest lock. We intend to put our lock on the chain while we leave the Amtrak lock there as well so everybody will be happy: they can enter with their key, we with ours.
Sitting on the stairs, Marcus watches our work with great interest. Last winter it did not work out for him to go to Florida. Now Marcus wants to go to New Mexico. In a few weeks the annual meeting of the Rainbow People is happening there. Do I have a car and am I planning by any chance to go that way? I have to disappoint him.
Marcus jumps from one subject to another, and now starts to talk about the South African photojournalist Kevin Carter who won the Pulitzer Prize, and Primo Levi with his Nobel Prize. Both committed suicide. “I don’t understand,” Marcus says. “These people had fame and money and still were not happy.” From one of his archival poopy bags he pulls out an article from the Village Voice about the tragic end of the photographer. Carter achieved world fame with his image of the starving African child and the vulture. “Gimme chicks and beer, I’m happy…” ponders Marcus.
Marcus’ non-stop waffling drives Bernard crazy. “Stop talking and help me sawing, will you? Why am I always the only one doing all the work?” Guiltily, Marcus starts to saw while Bernard lights a cigarette. But Marcus is clumsy and the saw goes in all directions except through the chain. Impatiently, Bernard takes over and one hour later we have cut it.
“S’il vous plaît, Monsieur Marcus. You are welcome.” With an exaggeratedly polite gesture, Bernard opens the gate for Marcus who trudges outside with his plastic bags. “Incredible,” mumbles Bernard. “Didn’t do a thing and yet the first to use the gate.”
As we walk back to board up Bob’s bunker, Bernard starts up again about Captain Combs. She had the audacity to come down a few days ago in the middle of the night with a film crew from Amtrak. Before evicting everybody, they obviously want to document life underground. Combs even brought a delegation from the Russian Railways with her, all curious to see the problems of their American colleagues. Predictably, Bernard had become furious. “I called her a bitch in front of everybody,” Bernard recounts. “Can’t you be a bit nicer?” the captain had answered.
“The bitch has a lotta nerve,” Bernard continues. “First she steals my key, then she disturbs my sleep in the middle of the night. And then she expects me to be nice and polite? What was I supposed to call her? A butterfly?” The biting way Bernard pronounces “butterfly” sounds even more of a curse than “bitch.” Angrily, he is driving the nails extra hard with the hammer into the window frames of Bob’s bunker.
“The bitch. How dare she. But her terror game with me won’t last long.” Bernard tells me about the Coalition’s court case against Amtrak. Videotapes have emerged that clearly show Amtrak officers abusing homeless people in Penn Station. “I tell you, Turn, she’s on her way out…”
I clean up Bob’s bunker, empty the ashtrays, put new candles in the whiskey flasks, and wipe down the table and chairs with window cleaner and kitchen paper. The wads of paper are pitch black and it takes lots of Windex to clean the table to an acceptable level. I make a special corner for my toiletries and hang the towel high to keep it away from rats.
I even dare to touch a few of the piss bottles and throw them away, wrapped in three layers of newspaper and left on the pile of garbage six blocks down. When the candles are burning and the radio is playing, I light a cigarette and pour myself a cup of hot, fresh coffee from the thermos. I am a lucky bastard. A heat wave is hitting New York and the temperature in my room in Brooklyn is in the hundreds. Beneath my window there, young black guys are hanging out all night drinking beer, while yelling “Yo, brother, chill out…” and “Hey man, how’s ma nigger doin’…” They slam car doors and play hardcore rap on their ghetto blasters full volume. Here in the tunnel it is cool and peaceful.
Later on that day I go to the South End. Halfway there I meet Joe and Kathy who are putting cans in a shopping cart. They look good. Joe’s wrinkled parchment-like skin has become a bit smoother and more tanned. Kathy has glowing cheeks and proudly shows me their new litter of kittens. Friendly, Joe inquires about my wife and family back home. We chat a bit about all sorts of things, but soon get to the upcoming eviction. “It is because of the apartment buildings of Trump,” Joe says. “People who buy a place for one million don’t want to look at homeless. But they will never kick me out,” he says rebelliously. “I wrote that bitch Combs a letter that I would never leave. Over my dead body!”
So Joe and Kathy have also been visited by the evil captain. Joe doesn’t trust her for a dime. I try to put him at ease. “If it really gets serious, we’ll make a couple of calls and in no time all the networks will be down here,” I say confidently. Joe is pessimistic. “Okay, man, that won’t help anything. You know what happened on 13th Street? They sent in the tanks.” Joe mentions a recent eviction of a squat on the Lower East Side. The squatters had sued the city but had lost the case. They refused, however, to vacate the building voluntarily. The police had arrived with special anti-terrorist units who, backed up by armed personnel carriers, had stormed the building. Journalists had to stay fenced in, five blocks away in a so-called press box. Anyone who ventured outside the box to catch a glimpse of the eviction had his press card confiscated or was beaten up and arrested. Joe looks at me with a serious face.