Tunnel Vision

    I hit the D.C. beltway, squeezing my canary-yellow, nineteen-sixty-four Beetle into the horde of speeding traffic.  A Mercedes made a point of cutting me off, a hand shooting out of the driver's window and flashing me the bird.  Cursing, I returned the greeting, stomping on the accelerator until my front end was only inches from the luxury car's rear bumper.  Frigging jerk!  Probably some Congressional cretin running late for a meeting.  If I had to deal with traffic like this on a daily basis, I'd be a blithering idiot.  Or, quite possibly, a chiseled name on a tombstone.

    I knew that I'd be making this trip the moment my eyes blinked open and I realized what day it was.  It was the same on every Fourth of July, year after year after year.  The same act in a reoccurring play.  First: my mother's sad expression and a long, gusty sigh.  Second: her laments about how the family picnic wouldn't be the same without my brother Ernie in attendance.  Third: my father taking me aside, stuffing gas money in my pocket and pointing me in the direction of D.C..  There was little sense in arguing the matter, for I would inevitably wind up the loser.  It was my duty.  My obligation as a caring and loving brother.  My three sisters were, as usual, exempt from such duties and obligations.  I was single, while they had husbands and kids to care for.  When it came right down to it, they didn't give a squat if Ernie attended the picnic, or whether he was dead or alive for that matter.

    Ernie was the oldest, then Estelle, Eunice, Elaine, and, finally, myself.  When Ernie was drafted a year out of high school, rushed through basic training and whisked off to Vietnam, I was only ten-years-old.  I hardly knew what my pee-pee was for, let alone what that ridiculous war was all about.

    Being a mere five-feet-five and one-thirty soaking wet, Ernie was elected for one of the dirtiest jobs of all; a tunnel rat.  Time and time again, armed with nothing more than a flashlight and a .45 automatic, he was attached to a rope and lowered into a tunnel complex to ferret out any VC that might be holed-up there.  With snakes and spiders, trip wires and pungi sticks, the VC weren't nearly half the problem.  If the tunnel was big enough, he would be part of a team, but, more often than not, he went it alone.  After six harrowing months, his nerves were in shambles, and pronounced unfit for further service, he was sent home with a medical discharge.  Thanks a heap, pal, now get on with your life. 

    I can still remember his homecoming, as he shambled into the house, with sunken eyes, a week's worth of beard and his breath reeking of alcohol.  His dress uniform, stained with food and drink, was about as wrinkled as a piece of crumpled tissue paper, with a couple of brass buttons missing.  He was a shell of his former fun-loving self, not speaking much and jumping at the slightest of sounds.  Every night, he would wake us with his shrieking and hurrying into his room, we would find him sitting bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide and wild and his body drenched with a cold sweat.  And then there was the claustrophobia, the arachnophobia and a dozen other phobias.

    Our father had been a gung-ho Marine in the South Pacific and was the head of the local VFW, his many medals and ribbons and souvenirs adorning the walls of his private study.  A regular Audie Murphy.  Despite witnessing three years of vicious warfare, he prided himself on coming home "sound of body, mind and soul."  There wasn't a day that he and Ernie didn't square off in an argument, dad calling him a "wimp" and a "sissy" and a classic example of the new "weak-kneed generation."  During one especially violent altercation, Ernie wound up with a bloodied nose and a split lip, rushing off, as was usual, to the local bar for some liquid consolation.  Being her first born, mother always sided with Ernie, shielding him against my father's patriotic tirades and cooking him his favorite meals.  Meals that Ernie usually poked over and left largely unfinished.

    Then two months after his return home, Ernie notified us at the supper table that he was heading to Washington D.C., where he had landed a job on some government agency, having been granted special consideration since he was a veteran.  Leaving our questions unanswered, he packed the next morning and bid us a quick farewell, refusing father's offer of a ride as he rushed out the door.  Embracing our tearful mother midway across the front lawn, he promised to write the first chance he got.  A promise, by the way, which has still gone unfulfilled.

    It wasn't long before we learned what Ernie's mysterious job was; a homeless person, languishing  on the Washington Mall and living off the charity of others.  And he wasn't alone, for Washington seemed to have more beggars than Calcutta; some fifteen thousand by last count, a good many of them Vietnam vets.  Why Washington?  I guess it was the best place in which to make a point.  Hey, Jack and Jill tourists; look what Uncle Sam and the fat cat politicians have done to us!

    In a fit of prideful rage, my father sped down to D.C. to confront his "no account son" and they fell into fisticuffs, right there, beneath the marble gaze of old Honest Abe.  Lucky for them that the first policeman along was a Korean vet, and taking both of their arguments into consideration, he sent my father packing with a mild warning and a wag of the finger.  Unfazed by my mother's sorrowful pleas, it would be a long seven years before my father relented, allowing Ernie home for the Fourth of July and only the Fourth of July.  And thus started my once-a-year duty and obligation.

    Parking in what seemed the last available space in the entire city, I locked my Bug and walked the six blocks to the Mall.  I had no idea where to start my search, for it seemed that each year Ernie would choose yet another patch of ground to call his own.  I stopped, my eyes prowling in the direction of the Lincoln Memorial, then sweeping across the Korean War Memorial, along the length of the Reflecting Pool and up towards the Washington Monument. Could one of those specks in the distance be my brother?

    Noticing two homeless men parked on a bench, I decided to wander over, a bit uneasy under their watchful glares.  One was a huge black guy, clad in a knit cap and ankle-length wool coat, despite a temperature of nearly a hundred.  The other was a sallow, reed-thin man, his spindly arms festooned with tattoos from his shoulders clear down to his wrists.  I knew from his inflamed nostrils and constant snorting that he was an addict.  If looks could kill, I would have died a hundred deaths.

    "Excuse me.  Can either of you gentlemen tell me where I can find Ernie Prescott?"

    Overcoat fixed me with a jaundiced eye, then looked to his companion with a snorting laugh.  "This dude called us "gentlemen."

    "Jesus H."  Tattoos glanced around, sniffling and snorting.  "I hope to hell no one heard him.  Could play hell with our reputations."

    I hesitated, not quite sure on how to proceed.

    "Why ya lookin' for Ernie Prescott?" asked Overcoat.  "You a cop?"

    "Naw," chuckled Tattoos.  "He looks to wimpy-ass to be a cop." 

    "Ya better watch your butt with Prescott."  Overcoat snatched a butt from the ground and looked to see if there was enough to light up.  "That mother is one crazy dude.  Nearly bit my ear clean off a while back.  "Oh yeah; he's one crazy, psychotic dude."

    "Uh ----- Ernie's my brother.  I'm here to find him."

    Overcoat looked me over, slowly nodding his head.  "Yeah, now that I look, I can see the resemblance.  Ugly as a bag of monkeys, the both of ya."

    "Please, guys.  All I wanna do is find Ernie and take him home.  That's all, no trouble, no muss, no fuss."
    "We ain't gonna give ya no trouble," reassured Overcoat, holding out his massive hands, palms up.  "You wouldn't happen to have an extra smoke, would ya?"

    "Sure," I said, digging into my pocket and tossing him a pack of Marlboros.  "Keep the whole thing.  Call it a payment for the answer to my question."

    "Hey, thanks, man!"  Overcoat jerked a thumb over his shoulder.  "Ernie has a bench, he calls 'home', on the other side of the Reflecting Pool.  Jus' up from the Korean War Memorial.'

    "Thanks.  You gents have a nice day."

    I followed a path that led me past the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, heading around to the other side of the Reflecting Pool.  The area was crowded with tourists and joggers and people out taking in the sun.  A group of Japanese tourists, all dressed alike in black suits and white shirts, were jabbering excitedly and snapping pictures of everybody and everything in their circumference of vision.  Two little girls, decked out in bright sun dresses, sat dangling their feet in the Reflecting pool as they tossed scraps of bread to a flotilla of ducks.  A jet roared overhead, leaving a long white vapor trail in its wake.

    I was surprised on how fast I found Ernie, stretched out on a bench, with his legs crossed at the ankles and his long fingers clasped across his chest.  Looking as carefree and serene as a corpse laid out in its coffin, I was almost sorry that I had to wake him.  I stood therefore a few moments, taking in his greasy, shoulder-length hair, his thin, weather-beaten face, the scruffy beard, flecked with gray and clotted with bits of dried-up food.  The crescent-shaped scar, that he had gotten in a bike mishap when he was a kid, stood out stark white against the chestnut-brown of his skin.  He was clad in camouflage fatigues, all wrinkled and soiled, and a pair of worn combat boots.  Why did all these poor, helpless relics of the Vietnam War chose to wear the uniform in which they had suffered so profusely?  Was it yet another means of making a statement?  Near the bench, was an old, olive-drab duffel bag, stenciled with the faded black letters U.S.A..

    "Hey, Ernie.  Ern boy.  Yoooo!"

    Not a muscle moved.

    "Ernest!  Hey, Ern."

    An eye popped open, regarding me for a second, then snapped shut, followed by a long, phlegmy groan.  "Aaahhh shit.  Not another friggin' picnic."

    "You got it, pal.  C'mon, rise an' shine."
    "Not this guy.  I'm nursin' a major hangover here."

    "Let's go.  If we're lucky, we'll catch the last of the picnic."

    "It's more like 'unlucky.'"

    "C'mon, c'mon.  Upsy-daisy."

    "I ain't goin'!  No way."

    "You don't have a choice.  I didn't make this trip for my health.'

    Suddenly he launched himself off the bench and faced me eye-to-eye.  "I most certainly do have a choice an' I choose not to go.  Like it or not, little bro', that's the way it's gonna play out.  Or maybe you wanna have a go-round with me, right here an' now."

    "Okay, sure."  I wasted little time in using my ace-in-the-hole; the same winning card year after year.  "Okay, so break Mom's heart.  Let her pay up-teen dollars to her shrink."

    "Ah, geez."

    "Despite all your faults, you're a better man than that, Ern.  You might as well admit it."

    As he sighed and took a step in my direction, my nose flinched at the smell of him.  Something like an outhouse, simmering under a hundred degree sun.

    "What'sa matter, kid?  Don't like the aroma?"

    "When's the last time you took a shower?"

    "At the white House, in the President's private bath.  Maybe six months ago."

    "Then the two of you sat back in the Oval office, I bet, and discussed the fate of the free world."

    "Sure.  He consults with ol' war horses, like me, all the time.  Gives 'im a better perspective on things."  Ernie gave a he-haw laugh and snatched up his duffel bag and fatigue hat.  "Okay, for chrissakes.  We better get this show on the road.  For the life of me; I don't know why I fall for your line of shit, year after year after year."

    We headed in the direction of Constitution Avenue, Ernie in the lead, moving along in his peculiar, penguin-like strut, the duffel bag slung over his frail shoulder.  The bright sun was playing havoc with his hangover, and, every so often, he would let out a long, wounded groan, his free hand massaging his temple.  He was about to venture from his domain and I could tell that he didn't like it one single bit.

    As we drew near, Tattoos nudged Overcoat and the big man peered over his shoulder in our direction.  Grinning from ear-to-ear, he stood tall and jabbed his chest with a thumb.  "First Calvary Division.  Quang Tri, nineteen-sixty-eight."

    "Tunnel rat," responded Ernie, jabbing his own chest.  "I gophered from what end of that shit country to the other.  You guys, in the First Cav, were nothing but a bunch of pussies."

    Overcoat raised a middle finger the size of a sausage.

    Taking a step in his direction, Ernie growled, making a biting motion with his teeth. 

    Wide-eyed, Overcoat backpedaled a few frantic feet.  ""See that, man, see that.  I told ya your brother is a friggin' nutcase."

    We crossed Constitution Avenue, Ernie taking his time and causing drivers to slam on their brakes.  When they honked their horns and shouted, Ernie answered with a wave of his fist.  Oh, yes, indeed!  Ernie Prescott was one angry man, and, by damn, he wanted the whole world to know it.

    "You need something better than this shit, Ern.  C'mon, why don't'cha move back home, clean up your act and find a respectable job?"

    "New Jersey, eeeccchhh!  I'd as soon be back in Nam, burning leeches form my flesh."

    "Oh, please, it ain't that bad."

    "Yeah it is."

    We walked the six blocks back to my car, Ernie coming to a sudden stop, his red-rimmed eyes growing as big as saucers.

    "What'sa matter?  You don't like my Bug?"

    "Oh no!  I'm not getting' into that two-by-four sardine can!  Uh-uh!  No freakin' way!"

    "C'mon, relax.  Take a deep breath, count to ten and relax."

    "This sucker is too damn small for me, man!  I don't think I can handle it.  Why don't'cha buy some big ark, like a Caddy or a Lincoln or somethin'?"

    "It's the same car that I've had for the last three years.  Take it easy.  You know the drill."

    "Ah, man, you're gonna kill me here."

    We weren't in the Bug for twenty seconds before Ernie began to panic, jumping around in the seat as though he was perched on a bed of hot embers.  Reaching around for a brown paper bag on the rear floor, I pulled out a pint of Wild Turkey and handed it to him.  Unscrewing the cap, he emptied the half its contents in one long gulp, wheezing for air and thumping his chest.

"Man-oh-man!  Thus stuff'll kill ya!"

Wasting little time, I pulled a sleeping mask from the bag, which he quickly snatched and slipped over his eyes.  With a sigh of relief, he took another swig of Wild Turkey and rested his head back on the seat.  With any luck he'd be sleeping before we got out of the city.  To help matters, I fed Mozart's Symphony Number Four in O Minor into my CD player and set the sound at a comforting level.  It worked out better than I could have expected.  By the time we reached the beltway, Ernie was sawing Zs, a tendril of drool dangling from his lower lip.  If God kept smiling down, he wouldn't wake up until we reached my apartment in Toms River.

    A few miles past the Delaware Memorial Bridge, I pulled off the interstate and headed for a Wal-Mart in a shopping complex.  Leaving Ernie sleeping in the car, I hurried in and purchased a package of boxer shorts and another of socks.  My job was far from being over.  Before we hit the picnic at my parent's house, I had to transform Ernie into a somewhat presentable character.  Shower, shave, a clean outfit, a few instructions on etiquette, the whole nine yards.  Every year, the same ordeal; a race against friggin' time.

    Luckily, by this time, the traffic on the interstate had thinned out, most travelers having reached their holiday destination.  I had the Bug moving along at its top speed, keeping my fingers crossed that I wouldn't happen along a radar trap.  If I did, I planned on presenting my father with the speeding ticket.

    Finally, with a long sigh of relief, I pulled into the parking lot of my condo complex, taking a few moments to gather my thoughts and hatch a game plan.  By this time, Ernie had slumped over in the seat, his head resting on my shoulder, with his sleepy drool soaking through my shirt.

    "Hey, Ern.  Ernie."

    "Huh?  Whaaa -----?"

    "Let's go, bro.  It's time to turn you into something human."

    "We're here already?"

    "Yup, my place.  You've been sleepin' like a newborn babe."

    "Christ, New Jersey.  Yuccckkk!"

    "Doesn't have all the comforts of the Washington Mall, but I'll try my best.  C'mon, let's go."

    When we entered my condo, Ernie tossed his duffel bag on the couch and headed for the kitchen, opening the door to my fridge.

    "Uh-uh.  No time.  You'll get plenty to eat at the picnic."

    "Who wants to eat?  I'm like for a nice cold beer."

    "C'mon, c'mon.  Strip off those filthy clothes."

    "Aaahhh!"

    Locating my last can of Bud, Ernie snapped the tab and drained it dry in a heartbeat.

    "Take those clothes off and no arguments.  Mom would have a shit-fit if you showed up as you are.  And God only knows how Dad would react."

    "If they can't accept me for what I am, the hell with the whole bunch of 'em."

    When I stepped forward to help him out, he cursed and waved me off.  Sitting on my couch, he unlaced his combat boots and yanked them off, sending up a stench that nearly made me gag.  His socks, once white, were camouflaged in shades of brown and green like the rest of his outfit.  Off came the jacket and trousers and there he was, clad in the same star-patterned boxer shorts that he had left with last year!

    "Christ, Ern!  Not the same underwear."

    "Gotta break 'em in, like a fine wine."

    "More like a fine cheese."

    "Well, we don't exactly have any Laundromats on the Mall."

    "Okay, okay.  Get into the bathroom and either trim or shave off that bird's nest of a beard.  There's a razor and scissors next to the sink.  Then a nice, long, hot shower, scrubbing each and every crevice.  And pay extra special attention to that greasy hair.  Fingernail clippers are next to the sink too."  I tossed him the Wal-Mart bag.  ":Here's your new undies."

    "Yeah, yeah, yeah.  How about some plastic surgery?"

    "No time.  Maybe later."

    When the bathroom door slammed, I gingerly picked up his clothes and threw them into my washer along with an extra cup of detergent.  Then hustling to a kitchen cabinet, I pulled out a fifth of Jack Daniels and took a long gulp to settle my nerves.  Five more gulps later, I settled into my chair, with a nice, warm, euphoric feeling, and switched on the TV, waiting patiently for Ernie to make his transformation.  He was usually pretty diligent at it, knowing that D-Day was at hand and he had little other choice.  He might have even enjoyed the clean-up, although he would never make such an admission.

    A full hour later, he stepped from the bathroom, naked as a jaybird, his beard trimmed to a decent length and his pallid body reddened from a good scrubbing.  Fingernails and toenails clipped.  Hair squeaky clean.  Even the smell of mouthwash and talc.

    "Well, do I pass muster, drill sergeant?"

    "Hey, you look great, man!  Put on the undies and I'll get that outfit I bought you last year."

    "No!  Not those pansy-ass clothes!  Lemme put on my regular duds."

    "No way.  Anyways, they're in the washer."

    Ten minutes later, he stood before me, the transformation having reached greater levels.  Plaid short-sleeved shirt.  Khaki trousers.  And a pair of oxblood loafers, complete with tassels.

    "Man, I look like a fairy queen."

    "Well, yeah, a little."

    "Ya see, ya see!"

    "Hey, I was just kiddin'.  You look great.  There's just one other thing."  I went to a drawer of my desk and rummaged for an elastic band.  Finding one, I 
gathered Ernie's long hair and secured it neatly into a pony tail.  "Voila!  Now we're ready to boogie."

    Fifteen miles and twenty minutes later, I pulled the Bug over to the curb in front of my parent's house.  The lawn was crowded with people, and, once they spotted us, they started to gallop in our direction like a herd of cattle spooked by a clap of thunder.

    "Here they come, Ern.  Ya ready?"

    "I'm never ready for this shit.  Dum, de-dum-dum, dum."

    The crowd pressed against my Bug so hard that it started to rock.  Ernie shot me a panicked look, took a long breath and got out.

    Our mother beheld him at a distance for a few moments, her eyes brimming with tears, then dashed forward with a wail, smothering his entire face with kisses.  "My baby!  My sweet, little baby!  It's been so long!"  She took a step back and held him at arm's-length.  "Now don't you look spiffy.  What a nice outfit."

    "Aw, it's nothing.  I jus' went to my wardrobe closet and yanked it out."

    "Really!" my mother gushed, never failing to amaze me with her naivety.  "Did you hear that everyone?  Ernest has his very own wardrobe closet."

    "Yeah, right next to the Lincoln Memorial," quipped our father, as he elbowed his way through the gawking crowd.

    At eighty-two, Dad was still a force to be reckoned with; no gray in his raven hair, no wrinkles lining his ruddy face, and a compact, one-hundred-seventy pound frame, completely void of sagging skin or fat.  He wore a VFW cap perched squarely atop his fifties-style crew cut.  Big hands, the size of catchers' mitts, with the little finger of the left missing from a piece of shrapnel at Iwo Jima.

    "Ain't that right, kiddo?" asked Dad with a sly wink.  "Right there, next to the Lincoln Memorial."

    "That's right, Pop."

    "Ya look a little underfed."

    "My gourmet chef, Pierre, has been on vacation for the past month."

    "Uh-huh.  Bet your bartender hasn't."
    "Ernie bristled.  "What's that s'pose to mean?"

    "Oh nothing," replied Dad, catching an admonishing look from Mother.  "Well, c'mon up, let's go, get reacquainted with the family."

    I noticed Estelle, Eunice and Elaine standing off at a distance, their who-gives-a-shit expressions hidden behind phony smiles.  I wouldn't give five cents for the three of them and I'm sure that Ernie wouldn't even give that.  With Mother's arm wrapped around his waist, he gave each of them an obligatory peck on the cheek and settled into a lawn chair, where Uncle Fred quickly delivered him a beer.

    I had to watch him closely, for, with one too many beers, he could quickly turn this whole picnic into a catastrophe.  Two years ago, with a half keg under his belt, he had gotten into a major tussle with cousin Jerome,  splitting the big mouth's lip and loosening one of his teeth.

    Mother disappeared into the house and returned a few minutes later, waving the picture that Ernie had posed for just before heading off to Nam.  A young, handsome Ernie, decked out in his dress uniform, in shades of brown and white, with a touch of rose in the cheeks.  Way back, when his innocence and boyhood charm was still intact.  "Look, look, everyone!  Here's my Ernest, only a week before they ordered him off to that dreadful war.  Wasn't he handsome?"  She caught herself, blushing.  "Well, of course he's still handsome, but even more so back then."  She held the picture high for all to see.

    Since everyone saw the picture year after year, there was only a spatter of applause.

    "Do you remember, Ernest?  Do you remember how you presented it to me, all nicely wrapped with a red bow?"

    "Yeah, I remember, Ma.  Christ, that was a lifetime ago."

    "Not to me.  It seems just like yesterday."

    "I'd give anything if it was," Ernie answered with a sigh.

    I strayed across the lawn, picking out my three sisters with their loved ones.  I called them "the three Es" and what a dysfunctional threesome they were; even more so than Ernie.  Estelle had had identity problems ever since she was a teenager, changing her personas faster than other girls changed boyfriends.  Christ!  She had more identities than Sybil.  Finally, she had gone to a shrink, by the name of Sanjay Rajamani, and, after six months of treatments, they had married and started a family.  I looked at them now, holding hands as they chatted, their five little Gunga Dins screaming and running circles around them.  When it was time for supper in the evening, they would line up the kids and hand out the Ritalin pills.

Then there was Eunice the butch, who had come out of the closet a few years back.  I spotted her, with short-cropped hair and work clothes, doing shots and beers with her current main squeeze, Chloe.

    And, finally, good old Elaine.  She had been a topless dancer at a local club, while dating a pretty nice guy named Lester Higgins.  Then, one night, Big Rico Bertolli had made the scene, ogling my sister throughout the night and throwing ten spots like confetti.  It was love at first sight, and, shortly after finding a dead fish on his stoop, Lester had taken off without leaving a forwarding address.  A mere two weeks later, Elaine and Big Rico were married, with our family and the entire Jersey mob in attendance, while the FBI recorded license plates outside of the reception hall.  I watched as Big Rico played Frisbee with his six-year-old son; a big, hulking guy, clad in a purple jogging suit and wearing more gold than Mister T.  His jet-black hair was slick with pomade and combed straight back, just like Frank "The Enforcer" Nitti in a movie I had once seen.

    I thought how strange it was that my father was so quick to dismiss the frailties of his daughters, while expecting so damn much from his sons.  But I guess that's the way it was; sons had to meet the big picture, daughters didn't.

I spotted Uncle Fred delivering another beer to Ernie as he sat watching a horseshoe game.  It was time to head on over and keep a lid on things.  Nothing was going to upset the apple cart this year, not if I could help it.

    "Enjoying yourself, Ern?  Good to see the family once and awhile, no?"

    "Once a year is fine by me.  Maybe every other year."

    "If I'm not mistaken, that's about your sixth beer."

    "Yeah, so?"

    "Just making a statement, is all."

    "Look, bro.  I didn't ask you to come down to D.C. and pick me up.  So don't start finger-pointin' how many beers I've had."

    "No need to get pissed."

    "I gotta get half sloshed to get through this ordeal.  Maybe totally sloshed."

    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 scarecrow 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 thumbnail, 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, longhaired 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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