Tunnel Vision (2)
When the game of horseshoes was over, our father was primed to tell one of his war stories. It happened every Fourth of July, without fail. He filled his German stein to the brim with beer and motioned for all those around to move in closer. Ernie groaned, gulping his beer down so fast that some dribbled down the front of his shirt. "Did I ever tell you about how I single-handedly took out a Nip pillbox on Iwo Jima?" Everyone had heard the story time and time again, but no one dared to say so. "The machinegun bullets were buzzing like angry bees. My buddy, Ziggy Petrosky, took one in the head and was killed instantly. Pete D’Angelo was down, so was Corky Cleburne. The Nips were swinging the machinegun back-and-forth, mowing us down like wheat before the scythe. One bullet came so close that it singed the hairs above my right ear. Another plucked at my sleeve." An obligatory chorus of "wows" and "holy cows" went up from the captive audience. Ernie sighed, rolling his eyes. "I knew that I had to do something and fast, or we’d be wiped out to the last man. So I went around, collecting grenades from the dead and wounded, seven in all, stuffing them anywhere I could. What I was panning on doing was suicide, but, hell, someone had to do it. Taking a deep breath, I started toward the pillbox, and, before I knew it a bullet took my little finger clean off. Dad held up his left and waved it to display the missing digit. "I thought it was a piece of shrapnel," whispered Ernie. "So did I. But, hey, Dad’s eighty-two. It’s hard to keep a story straight at that age." "But did it slow me down?" my father asked the crowd. "Hell no! I was committed to what I had to do and on I went, yanking the pin from a grenade with my teeth and -----." "I gotta get outta here," hissed Ernie, jumping up from the lawn chair. Dad watched him walking away, his lips trembling in anger. "Ya gotta understand him, Ern. The war’s his life." "Yeah, every breathing second. A man who really saw that kinda action keeps his mouth shut about it. Hell! Pretty soon, he’ll be telling everyone he was the pilot of the Enola Gay." "Do you hate him that much?" "I don’t hate him, kid. ‘Despise’ would be closer to the word." Ernie began to hit the beer harder, accepting a few shots of whiskey from various uncles and cousins and a long chug of Peach Tree Schnapps from good old Aunt Bessie. I could see that he was well on his way to getting drunk, but I didn’t dare to say a word after his lecture. If I did, he would probably deck me with one of his famous sucker shots. I had an uneasy feeling that something was going to happen, and soon. I felt it probing my nerve endings like a cold ice pick. A half hour later, with a deep purple lacing the horizon, my mother waved her hands and shouted "supper time!" It was a family custom to eat late, sometimes finishing up by the light of candles and Japanese lanterns. "Everyone please be seated. As usual, there’s plenty of everything you could want: hotdogs, hamburgers, steaks, ribs and chicken. Coleslaw and baked beans, potato and macaroni salad. And Elaine has graced us with her usual lime jello mold, with chunks of pineapple. Ernest, come on over here! You’ll be seated at the table of honor. C’mon, honey! Right over here." "Ah, Ma." "No arguments. What say everyone? Doesn’t Ernest deserve the place of honor?" A spatter of applause. No doubt, after his heroic war story, there were those who thought my father should have the place of honor, including himself. I followed Ernie to the designated table and found, to my horror, that our dining companions would be none other than Elaine and Big Rico! That ice pick, probing my nerve endings, turned to fire and ice. Ernie and Rico had a simmering hatred for one another and seating them at the same table was bound to bring trouble. Big trouble, with a capital T. And it started sooner than any worse case scenario I could have expected. "Hey! How ya doin’, Don Corleone?" Big Rico growled, his dark eyes turning to nasty, little slits. I kicked Ernie under the table and he kicked me back harder. "Tell me; have you wasted anyone lately? Ya know; with a gun or a knife or a length of piano wire." "Keep it up, pal, and I will." Ernie snorted. "And all I need are these," added Rico, holding up two hands the size of ham hocks." I was about to call out the National Guard when our mother arrived, carrying a heaping plate of food. It was enough to feed a third world country. "C’mon, Ma!" exclaimed Ernie. "I can’t eat all of that!" "Oh yes you can, young man. You’re as skinny as a scare crow and it worries me to death. When you’re finished, I’ll get you seconds." "Geez, Ma!" "They’ll be no liquid lunches on these premises. Now eat up." Groaning, Ernie stared at the food for a long time, before picking up a plastic fork and prodding the potato salad. Food was a four letter word and it started with the infamous F. And that’s when it happened! A daddy longlegs dropped from an overhead branch and began to scurry across the table, bearing straight for Ernie. A docile spider to us all, but to Ernie it was a huge, red-eyed, fire-breathing tunnel predator, hurrying to suck the juices of life from his body. "Aaahhh! Get outta here! Get that thing away from me!" "C’mon," laughed Big Rico. It’s only a friggin’ daddy longlegs. My kids play with them all the time. Quit being such a pussy-ass." "Oh, my God! Oh, my God, it’s headin’ right for me!" With that, Ernie grabbed Elaine’s cherished jello mold and plopped it atop the spider, pounding the mess with his fist for good measure. A green blob, as big as my thumb nail, flew up and stuck to Big Rico’s face, just below his right eye. "You idiot!" screamed Elaine, leaping to her feet. "Just look what you’ve done to my jello mold!" "Big deal," huffed Ernie, between panicked breaths. "It tastes like bat guano anyways." "How dare you! How dare you say something like that!" "Yeah, you’re right. Bat guano’s a canapé compared to your jello." Big Rico reached across the table and grabbed a handful of Ernie’s collar. "You’ve done it now! Nobody, but nobody, insults my wife!" Ernie broke free and backed up, overturning the picnic bench. He started around the table for Rico, his hands clenched into fists. "C’mon, Mister Mafioso! Ya wanna fight, let’s go! Oh yeah! I’ll send you straight to that big pizza parlor in the sky!" But, before they could clash, our father was on the scene, wedging himself between them and shouting for order. "What the hell’s wrong with you, Ernie? Why do you always hafta turn this picnic into some kind of free-for-all?" "Me? Why’s it always me? How about Elaine maybe, or Rico here?" "No, no, it’s not them. It’s you!" "Oh, sure, Mister Hero of the South Pacific! Don’t even bother to find out what happened. Just blame crazy, good-for-nothing Ernie!" "You said it, pal, not me." "That’s it! I’m out of here! Adios, arrivederci, auf Wiedersehen!" "Good riddance!" shouted Elaine. "Nobody, but Mom, wanted you here in the first place!" A hurt look flashed across Ernie’s face, like a fast-moving cloud across the moon. His lips trembled for a moment, then he whirled and headed out across the lawn toward the street. "Ernie!" cried our mother, as she came out of the house with a platter of fresh-baked cookies. "Ernest! Where in the world are you going?" Father raised a hand to calm her. "Let him go. If he’d rather sleep on benches and eat in soup kitchens, that’s his problem." "What in the world did you do to him?" "The question is; what in the world has he done to himself?" "Oh no! He’s not leaving, not like this!" Dropping the platter of cookies in her desperation, mother ran after her cherished firstborn as fast as her arthritic legs could carry her. Catching him as he strode up the street, they engaged in a few moments of excited conversation, then parted with a hug and kiss. Mother stood rooted to the sidewalk, watching him go, her shoulders sagging so low that it looked as if she was about to fall to the ground. "A mother’s love," hissed good old Dad, as he turned and began to herd everyone back toward their food. With little other choice, I hustled to my mother and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Don’t worry, Mom. Everything’ll be all right." "Not between Ernest and your father. It’ll never be all right. Never." "I’ll go get him and see if I can calm him down." "That damn war should have never happened. Look what it’s done to your brother. Just look!" Hopping into my Bug, I caught up with Ernie two blocks away. By the look on his face, I knew that things weren’t going to turn out rosy. "C’mon, Ern, get in." "Forget about me, man. Go back to the Addams Family." "What are you planning on doing; hoofing it all the way back to D.C.?" "Why not? I need the exercise." We covered another block, arguing all the way, before I convinced Ernie to get into the car. "I took tomorrow off as a vacation day. I knew I’d be driving you right back. You can stay the night at my place and we’ll start out after breakfast." "Stop at a liquor store, man. I need some liquid valium." Ernie did shots and beers clear to three in the morning, wavering between tearful reminiscing and darn right ugliness. I finally coaxed him into my bed and I collapsed on the couch. Twice, during what was left of the night, I was awakened by his shrieks, rushing into the bedroom to find him tossing and turning, the sheet crumpled into a ball and his body lathered in a cold sweat. I didn’t dare wake him from his throes, because he’d probably perceive me as a VC and we’d wind up in a death struggle. The nest morning, he trudged into the living room, mussy-haired and red-eyed, looking no more refreshed than when he had hit the sack. I made a breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast and he picked at it with his fork, foregoing the orange juice for a shot of Jack Daniels. He spoke little, what eating he did interspersed with long groans and weary sighs. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, but I kept it to myself, knowing that it would make him angry. Our mother called, most likely trying to convince him to stay, and he marched around the room with the phone, grunting and talking in low tones. When the half hour conversation ended, he took a long shower and dressed in his newly-washed camouflage outfit, snatching up his duffel. "I’m ready to hit the road, kid. If I stay any longer, someone will snag my bench." "What did Mom hafta say?" "Aw, ya know; this an’ that." "She loves you, man." "Yeah, I know. If I had a proper place, I’d have ‘er down for a visit. A little time away from that pack of imbeciles would do her good." "It’s a shame that you hafta think of our family in those terms." A snorting laugh. "I’m sure they think no less of me." We went down to the Bug and after the usual ritual of the Wild Turkey, sleep mask and Mozart CD, Ernie was cutting wood before we hit the interstate. At least, this time, he smelled clean and fresh and not like a simmering outhouse. Again, his head found my shoulder, drenching my shirt with his sleepy drool. But this time, I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind it one single bit. He didn’t wake up until I pulled the Bug into a parking slot four blocks from the Mall. "Huh? We’re here already?" "As usual, you were sleeping like a new born babe." "Wish I was. It would give me a new try at life." We sat there for a few moments, both of us lost in our own thoughts. "Okay, kid, thanks for everything," he said, giving my arm a squeeze. "I’ll hike it from here." "I’ll go with you." "You don’t hafta. I’m a big boy." "I want to. You’re my brother for chrissakes." We walked to the Mall, Ernie looking eagerly around, as though he had been gone for a year instead of a day. Before I knew it, we were strolling besides the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, its black granite reflecting the sky and the trees and the mournful faces of those searching through the names. Tourists were snapping pictures and a young woman was lifting a name with a pencil and tracing paper. Along the Memorial, loved ones had left letters and flowers and even a baseball glove and a bottle of Coke. Ernie stopped, sighing, rubbing a forefinger gently over a name. I leaned in close and saw that it was "Arthur Wynocki." "You knew him, Ern?" "Yeah, Artie Wynocki. He was a little, eighteen-year-old, farm boy from somewhere in Iowa. Near Davenport I think. A tunnel rat, just like me." "He got killed, huh?" "Oh yeah, it’s seared into my brain like a cattle brand. We hooked him up to a rope and lowered him into a tunnel near Cu Chi. There was one helluva lotta tunnels in that area. He hadn’t been in the tunnel thirty seconds when we heard this big explosion. When we pulled him up, all we got were his legs." "Ah, geez, Ern." "A real good kid," said Ernie, still fingering the name. "Little Artie," he added in a strangled whisper. "Ya know, Ern; ya gotta stop doing this to yourself." "Doing what?" "Reliving that damn war, over and over and over." "Lemme tell ya, kid," he said, sweeping an arm along the Memorial. "This is my family, all fifty-eight thousand plus. They talked the talk and walked the walk. And they don’t give any bullshit like Dad." A little boy stopped short and looked wide-eyed at Ernie’s clothes, as if he had seeped from the granite, a ghost of a war long past. We walked around the Reflecting pool and spotted an old man sitting on Ernie’s bench; a man with a shock of snow-white hair and a matching walrus-type moustache. He reminded me of a down-and-out Colonel Sanders. "Hey, Ruben! You ain’t stealin’ my bench, are ya?" "No, no, Ernie. I was jus’ keepin’ it warm for ya." "I appreciate it." "Ya wanna doughnut? Ruben asked, holding out a bag. "Day old, from Starbucks." "No thanks, Ruben. This is my brother, Elliot." I took the old man’s hand which was as curled and hard as the talon of a bird. "Glad to meet’cha, Ruben." "Same here. I can tell you two are brothers jus’ by lookin’ at’cha." With a small salute, Ruben strolled off in the direction of the Lincoln Memorial. "You’re not gonna believe this," said Ernie, watching the old man’s departure. "Ruben, there, use to be a hotshot broker on Wall Street. Loving wife, three kids, twenty room mansion, Mercedes, Olympic-size swimming pool and tennis courts, the whole nine yards and more." "What the hell happened to him?" "The rat race burned him out. He’s actually happier now than he was back then." I noticed that the sky had taken on the color of a fresh bruise. In the distance, angry gray clouds were trooping along the horizon like circus elephants on parade. "Hey, Ern? Where do ya go when it rains?" "If it’s hot, like now, I jus’ sit here an’ get drenched. Very soothing if you’ve never tried it." A gritty chuckle. "When it gets colder, I head over to the White House and the Prez fixes me up with the Lincoln Bedroom." I had to admit; despite all his hardships, Ernie still had a sardonic sense of humor. ‘Well, kid, I guess it’s adios." "Yeah, I guess." Ernie wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, patting my back. "I love ya, kid," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "I ----- uh ----- love ya too." He took a step back and held me at arm’s-length, wiping a tear from my eye. "What’s this?" "Allergies. All the pollen, ya know." "Okay, sure. I’m not ever going back home, kid. It’s jus’ not worth the hassle." "You’re kiddin’." "Nope. I’ve never been more serious. You could bring Mom down for a visit if you want." "You’d want Mom to see you like this?" "C’mon, she knows how it is with me. The shower and beard trim and fancy duds don’t fool her for a second. She knows it’s all smoke an’ mirrors." With that, Ernie sprawled out on his bench, crossing his feet and pulling the brim of his hat over his eyes. He gave a long, comforting sigh and wiggled his fingers in a goodbye. I headed back toward my car, passing Overcoat and Tattoos, sitting on their bench, a thick drop of rain plopping against my head. In early October, I brought Mom down to visit Ernie, but we couldn’t find him anywhere. We asked a few of the homeless where he was, but none could remember seeing him since mid-August. At police headquarters and the shelters and the soup kitchens and the clinics, we didn’t fare any better. Ernie had simply upped and disappeared in a puff of smoke. Mom was beside herself with grief, but we had little other choice but to head back home and wonder. Then two weeks after our visit, I was watching CNN when I caught some footage of a group of Vietnam vets visiting Ho Chi Minh City. They were mostly upper-middle-class to wealthy guys, dressed well, with expensive cameras and tour brochures. But, then, for the briefest of moments, the camera settled on a bearded, long-haired dude, wearing a camouflage outfit. My God! Was it, could it? Had Ernie somehow, through theft or a good con or a generous benefactor, gotten together enough money for a flight to Vietnam? A visit to the country which had ruined him, to seek out and confront his many demons. I waited patiently for a repeat of the broadcast, and, when it came, my nose was only an inch from the screen. Yes, yes! Sweet Mary and Joseph, if it wasn’t Ernie, it was his identical twin! Right down to, if my eyes weren’t deceiving me, that little crescent-shaped scar over his right eye! I slumped into my chair, my mind racing, wondering whether he would return home a new man or possibly more paranoid than ever. That is; barring that he didn’t pull some stupid stunt and not return at all.
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