“So, what do you like about canning?” I hear when I return fifteen minutes later. The moviemaker has forgotten to switch on the audio button and has to start all over. Like an experienced anchorman doing a stand-up in a far away country, Bernard poses once again between the garbage bags and repeats the philosophy behind canning patiently for the fourth or fifth time.
“The asshole was a fucking faggot,” Bernard swears after we walk back, delayed for a full hour by the filming. “I tell you, Tut, you could smell it from half a mile. Rude motherfucker. The way he told the supers to shut up. The nerve. How the fuck he dares. And then he invites me back home to watch the footage. Fuckin’ dirty-ass faggot. Really thinks I am crazy.”
Since the summer, “faggot” and, when referring to females, “bitch,” are Bernard’s most favored expletives. For extreme cases, he uses the even more offending “closet faggot.” Bob is a faggot; Tony, of course, is also one and the same for the sleazy Manny. The two-for-oner Pier John is a closet faggot, although Bernard does not really mean that in too negative of a way because the two have become good friends. They work together a lot, and Bernard is even thinking of becoming a full-time business partner with John.
Bernard also suspects Harvey is a closet faggot. Marcus and Frankie might not be faggots, but at least they are morons of the first class. A moron is bit more stupid than an idiot. And because faggots and morons are subcategories of idiots, according to Bernard nearly the whole world’s population consists of idiots. I once asked him about the often-mentioned brotherhood in the tunnel, while he consistently referred to all his fellow tunnel dwellers as assholes, idiots, morons, scumbags, and dickheads.
“Look around and think!” he answered sternly. “Do you know a better word for them?” I thought of all the tricks pulled by Tony, Burk, Marcus, and Frankie and could not come up with a better word.
Later that morning, Bernard is relaxing in one of the waiting-room chairs near the tracks. The sunlight falls gently through the grate, and Bernard enjoys the warm rays while drinking a cup of tea. The radio softly plays “LA Woman” by the Doors, and up top in the park, the birds are singing their songs. Bernard is in a good mood, and offers the thermos of fresh coffee he made for me. I ask him about the sensitive subject of brotherhood.
“Well, brotherhood and sense of community,” Bernard muses. “I never considered this a real community. Everybody contributed something to the welfare of others, but that was about it. We had our fights and disputes, but we tried to dismiss them and then moved on.” Bernard is talking in the past tense about the time when most of the bunkers were inhabited. He realizes that soon tunnel life will be finished for him as for them. “Well, brotherhood, yes, in a way there was. We live in the most racist city in the world, but nobody down here ever got any preferential treatment because of his race or color. One time Willy and Sheila had an argument with Bob.”
Willy and Sheila were a black couple, explains Bernard. Willy was addicted to crack; Sheila also smoked, but was more of an alcoholic. Three years ago, they left the tunnel. Willy soon developed the first symptoms of AIDS and had died in the meantime. Sheila went on to live together with a three-hundred-pound lesbian in a shelter in the Bronx.
“Sheila once called Bob ‘white trash,’” Bernard continues. “I said: ‘Sheila, you don’t know nothing! Later when the snowflakes come down through the grate, we all depend on each other.’ It is sad,” Bernard sighs. “A lot of people down here started to cultivate their pettiness. A bunch of lying, cheating assholes. They had nothing to hold onto. They had crawled down here out of shame. They jumped on every distraction, they grabbed every chance to get high. And in the end, all had to prove they could leave the tunnel faster than me. To go where? I tell you, rushing to their downfall.” Bernard speaks with a bitter tone in his voice. “They did not master the existence down here, let alone life up top. Basically there is only more chaos there.”
“Victims of society? Fuck it! They’re no more victims than anyone else. Their existence down here was their own choice. But they never could accept that. They never appreciated the lessons of the tunnel. And most insulting: They never realized who they really were. But basically, they were the truly chosen.”
Bernard talks softly, but with conviction. Disappointment rumbles in his voice. “All creatures on earth are here to express a certain aspect of the mystery of life. But they never understood that. They sidetracked and got lost.”
“Look around you, Duke, and feel the vibes. Peace, tranquility, quiet. Everything in the universe consists basically of vibrations. And if you know anything about religion, it is telling that all prophets secluded themselves in the desert or wilderness. There was a reason for it. No, don’t worry, I don’t consider myself a prophet. I make no claim to uniqueness. But tell me honest, Dune, even you sleep better here than in Brooklyn?”
I can’t deny it. Bernard is right.
17. FRANKIE’S ADVENTURES, PART 2: FRANKIE CHECKS OUT ASSES
“Hmmm, nice fat ass,” Frankie audibly growls when a fat Puerto Rican lady in fluorescent pink spandex pants walks by. “I like ‘em big and fat.”
I am canning with Frankie and we take a break having just collected and redeemed four bags of empties. Frankie knows good garbage addresses with cans in abundance, so we filled up our bags in no time.
We are sitting on the sidewalk, drinking coffee, eating burgers, and watching girls. “You see that girl on the other side of the street? Vanessa has the same kind of tits.” Hawk-eyed Frankie has spotted a girl two hundred feet away, and I have to look very hard to find her. Frankie loves big-breasted girls with large behinds. A beautiful slender girl walks by in a tight leather miniskirt. I point her out to Frankie, who is taking a bite out of his Big Mac.
“Naw. Too skinny. They gotta have some meat around their bones,” he says and wipes a blob of mayonnaise from his mouth. In the meantime, he has commented on a dozen girls and compared their body parts with those of Vanessa. “See that girl? Just my girl. Same hair. Only Vanessa has shorter legs. And that one over there? Vanessa’s ass is just as wide. Only more rounded.” He sighs deeply. “I swear to God, she has an ass like this.” With both hands, he indicates her measurements below the belt, with the same gestures a fisherman uses to indicate the size of the giant pike he caught.
Slowly, I start to make a composite image of Vanessa as a short-legged, big-breasted vamp with a huge bottom. On the other side a flashy girl walks by, with heavy make-up and layers of fat rolling over jean shorts that are way too tight. “Does she look like that?” I inquire carefully.
“That’s a dirty skeezer, idiot,” Frankie says, offended. I look at him puzzled. “A skeezer is when, ahem,” Frankie thinks, “um, look, when a lady offers certain sexual services in exchange for monetary means, you understand?”
I am not used to such diplomatic language, and Frankie sees it in my surprised face. “It’s like, like, if this bitch sucked my dick for three bucks, then it’s a fuckin’ skeezer,” he corrects himself.
Frankie counts his money. In half a day, we made over sixty dollars and he has enough for the present he wants to buy for Vanessa. Her birthday is in a few days, and he wants to send her a big teddy bear. The bear has a birthday card in its claws. If you open the card, red lights in the shape of a heart will light up. “She loves bears,” he sighs.
18. KICKED OUT OF THE TUNNEL