A little later, we sit in the offices of WeCan. With a holier-than-thou face, Frankie fills in a job application form. WeCan doesn’t have a very stable work force, so they are always looking for people. It is not a problem that Frankie has a criminal past and has lost his social security card.
“We don’t discriminate,” a WeCan staff member reassures Frankie. Frankie is now on the waiting list; I promise to write him a reference letter. If he doesn’t get his job as a bike carrier, he can always work at WeCan.
We made eighty dollars today, and it is time to go grocery shopping. Bags of chips, three-dozen hot dogs, and big bottles of beer. I buy Frankie a huge pack of dog food. Ever since all his friends moved in, Frankie has started to neglect his dogs and I have noticed how skinny they are becoming. Lady Bug survived the operation from last Christmas, but is skin and bones. Frankie thinks she’s got a tapeworm.
Back in the tunnel, the starving animals jump at the food. Frankie has listened to Kathy’s advice and made a fence around the roof with chicken wire so the dogs have their own cage. The ten-pound bag of dog food is wolfed down in a few minutes by the slobbering animals.
Inside, it’s fun-time again when Frankie unpacks the beer and chips. Maria and Fatima dance to their favorite song, “I Wanna Gangsta Bitch.” It is a rap song about a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde who hang out with Mac-10’s and Berettas during the day, robbing banks or snuffing crack dealers, and at night make love till the crack of dawn.
Ment is feeding Jazzy orange juice from a baby bottle. He has added just a tiny bit of beer, and Jazzy starts to have difficulties crawling. “August 24th, ′95. Jazzy Had Her First Beer,” Ment writes on one of the few empty spots on the walls, most of them filled with graffiti and tags of their buddies. Jazzy stumbles through the space and tries to stick her hands in the unprotected fan. Just in time, Fatima jumps on Jazzy and prevents her from losing a few fingers.
“It is not an ideal environment for a baby,” Fatima admits when it is quiet for a moment. Frankie and Ment are out to get some more beer and the music has been turned down. Fatima is nervous, because if child protection finds out there is a baby in the tunnel, Jazzy will be immediately taken away. Fatima is thinking of leaving the baby with an aunt in New Jersey until she and Ment have found a good alternative.
Fatima and her baby stayed awhile in Covenant House, a shelter for runaways and homeless teenagers, but they treated her like a little kid and she left within a week. Back home is not an option. She is the oldest of seven kids, and always in trouble with the police for small offenses. Once, she blew up and assaulted a female police officer. She was wrestled down by other officers and was locked up for a few days. When Fatima got little Jazzy, the situation became unbearable. She had arguments with her hysterical mother every day. “The bitch is fucked up,” Fatima sums up the situation. Most of the time, the arguments degenerated into fistfights during which mother and daughter were rolling on the floor, pulling each others’ hair. “Now, I’m up shit creek,” Fatima says. She has a lot of money in the bank, she says, an inheritance from her rich grandma. But her mother has blocked the money because she is still a minor. She is contacting a lawyer now.
Frankie and Ment return screaming with joy. They have been away for an hour, Ment on his rollerblades, Frankie on my bike. They went all over town, and finished a couple of beers as well. Full of enthusiasm, they recount the countless traffic accidents they nearly had.
Frankie takes me upstairs to his bedroom, and shows me a Chinese porn magazine. He points at a girl lying on her back with her legs spread wide open, smiling at the camera. “Believe it or not, Ant, this horny-ass bitch is also an ex of mine,” he says proudly. He hides the magazine again, because Maria is not supposed to know. Frankie asks with an excited look if I can make a photo series of Vanessa. She will be back next week. In sexy lingerie, of course. A beaver shot included. Frankie’s cheeks start to glow at this naughty idea.
“Yo, everybody,” Frankie screams wildly after we have descended the rickety ladder. “Next week, everybody has to leave for one night. Our boy Ant needs to work undisturbed.”
25. HOUSING AHEAD
Today is the big day for little Havana. Things have moved quickly, and the Section 8 vouchers that secretary Cisneros promised to the tunnel people are finally materializing, sooner than expected. Dov and Vincent, two staff members from Project Renewal, have visited the tunnel together with people from the Coalition. They spoke with most of the inhabitants, left their names and numbers, and made appointments for the first intake sessions. Little Havana is expected this morning at 9:30 in the downtown offices of Project Renewal. Everybody is excited when I enter the tunnel at eight with coffee and donuts.
“Wow, this time they really gonna help us,” Julio say enthusiastically. He has put on his cleanest clothes, shaved himself, and smells of cheap aftershave. Poncho, Getulio, and Hugo also did their best, combing their hair and putting on their whitest T-shirts. Only Estoban did not manage to wash away the dirt that seems to be permanently etched onto his face and arms.
“Oh shit,’” Julio says, disappointed as I hand out the coffee and donuts and he notices there is no beer for him. “You didn’t bring breakfast for me?” On our way to the subway, I get him a big can of Bud that he finishes in half a block. Getulio buys tokens and hands them out like a father to his children. We are on location thirty minutes early. Julio manages to bum another Bud from me and drinks it with a straw, happy as a child. Poncho reads the New York Post while Hugo asks me about the exact procedures regarding the vouchers.
When Julio has finished his beer, we take a shiny elevator upstairs and enter the fancy waiting room of Project Renewal. Unlike the Coalition’s run-down offices, Project Renewal has obviously employed a good interior designer. The receptionist is both polite and charming, and invites us to please sit down. Julio and Estoban feel ill at ease on the expensive leather couches and leaf through the glossy magazines on the coffee table. Getulio and Hugo pace across the shag carpet.
Poncho is now reading the sports section of the Post, a story about Yankees pitcher Daryl Strawberry who was caught using coke. “Yeah,” Poncho laughs. “He’s our favorite crackhead.” Poncho hardly uses coke or crack, but loves to provoke. Once, a photographer had entered the tunnel and set up his camera and tripod facing towards Poncho, who was just sitting and watching TV. “If you don’t watch out, we steal your equipment and sell it for crack.” The guy didn’t know how to run fast enough out of the tunnel, Poncho later told me and laughed heartily.
In Castro’s Cuba, Poncho was already a happy-go-lucky type. Once, he broke into a cafeteria. He only got a lousy carton of cigarettes and a pack of coffee, but wound up in jail for a few years after being caught. He became quite a successful Marielito, eventually working in the Bronx as an independent truck driver. Poncho says it was New York’s parking regulations that caused his downfall. Being quite irresponsible and unconcerned, Poncho totally ignored all the rules and never paid a fine. A pile of accumulating fines combined with late-payment fees forced him to sell all his possessions, including his truck. Poncho wound up in the shelter system and eventually found the tunnel where he constructed a little house.
A smartly designed flier explains the background of Project Renewal. The organization was originally founded in 1967 as the Manhattan Bowery Project. Back in those days, the Project specialized in and catered to heavy alcoholics. Most clients are currently MICA’s, Mentally Ill Chemical Abusers.