I hit the D.C. beltway, squeezing my canary-yellow, nineteen-sixty-four Beetle into the horde of speeding cars. A Mercedes made a point of cutting me off, a hand shooting from its passenger 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. What a frigging jerk! It was probably some Congressional cretin running late for a meeting. If I had to deal with traffic, like this, on a daily basis, I would be a blithering idiot, or, quite possibly, a chiseled name on a tombstone.
Three to five times a year, I made the pain-in-the-neck trip to Washington D.C. to spend some quality time with my brother Ernie. Ernie was the eldest of my siblings – then there was Estelle, Eunice, Enid and Elaine. I was the youngest, the baby of the brood. When Ernie was drafted a year out of high school, whisked through basic training and sent to Vietnam, I was a mere ten-years-of-age. I hardly knew who was President, let alone what that ridiculous war was all about.
Being a mere five-foot-five and one-thirty soaking wet, Ernie was elected for one of the dirtiest jobs of all - a tunnel rat. Time after time, armed with nothing more than a flashlight and a .45 automatic, he was attached to a rope and lowered into a tunnel complex to flush out any VC that might be holed up there. Considering the spiders and snakes, trip wires and pungi sticks, the VC were hardly half the problem. If the tunnel was large enough, he would be part of a team, but, more often than not, he had to go it alone. After six harrowing months, with his nerves totally in shambles, he was shipped home with a medical discharge. Thanks a heap for the sacrifice, pal; now get the hell on with your life.
I can still remember his less-than-glorious homecoming, as he shambled into the house, with sunken eyes, a week's growth 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 its brass buttons missing. And not to mention; a purple mouse and split lip from some barroom brawl in Los Angeles. He was a shadow of his former fun-loving self, not speaking much and jumping at the slightest of noises. Nearly every night, he would wake us with his shrieking and, hurrying into his room, we would find him sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wide as saucers, and his body drenched with a cold sweat. And to make matters worse, 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 war souvenirs adorning the walls of his private study. Oh, yes, indeed - he was a self-proclaimed Audie Murphy and Sergeant York, all wrapped into one. 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” or a “sissy” or a classic example of the new “weak-kneed generation.” During one especially violent altercation, Ernie wound up with a bloodied nose and some sore ribs, rushing off, as was usual, to a neighborhood bar for some liquid consolation. Being her first born, Mom always sided with Ernie, shielding him against our father's patriotic tirades and cooking him his favorite meals – meals that Ernie poked over with his fork and left largely uneaten.
Three months after arriving home, Ernie notified everyone at the supper table that he was heading for Washington D.C., where he had landed a job with some government agency; having been granted special consideration since he was a veteran. Leaving our questions unanswered, he packed early the next morning and bid us all a hasty goodbye, refusing Father's offer of a ride as he hustled out the door. Embracing our tearful mother midway across the front lawn, he promised to write every chance that he got - a promise, by the way, which he has never kept.
It wasn't long before we learned what Ernie's new job was; a homeless person, languishing on the Washington Mall and living off the charity and goodwill of others. And, believe me, he was far from being alone, for Washington, it seemed, had more beggars than the whole city of Calcutta – fifteen thousand by last count and a good many of them Vietnam vets. Why in the hell Washington, I often wondered. I suppose it was the best place in which to make a point. Hey, Jack and Jill tourist - look what Uncle Sam and the fat cat politicians did to us!
In a fit of painful pride, my father sped down to D.C. to confront his “no account son” and they fell to fisticuffs, right there, beneath the marble gaze of Honest Abe. Lucky for them that the first cop along was a Korean vet, and, after taking both sides of the argument into consideration, he sent my father packing with a mere wag of his finger. Unfazed by my mother's sorrowful pleas, Dad set down the law; under absolutely no conditions was Ernie to be welcomed home again. Well, maybe, just maybe, for his funeral.
Parking in what appeared to be the last available space in the entire city, I locked up my Bug and walked the six blocks to the Mall. I had no idea where to start my search; every time that I had come to visit Ernie, it seemed that he had chosen yet another patch of ground to call his own. I stopped, casting my gaze in the direction of the Lincoln Monument, then sweeping across the Korean War Memorial, along the length of the Reflecting Pool and up towards the distant spike of the Washington Monument. Could one of those specks, way off there, be my brother?
Spotting two homeless guys parked on a bench, I decided to wander over, a bit uneasy under their watchful glares. One was a huge black dude, clad in a knit watch cap and ankle-length wool coat, despite a temperature nearly reaching ninety-five degrees. The other was a sallow, reed-thin man, his spindly arms festooned with tattoos from his shoulders clear down to his bony wrists. I recognized from his inflamed nostrils and constant snorting that he was an addict. If looks could have killed, I would have died a hundred painful deaths.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. Can either of you tell me where I can find Ernie Prescott?”
Overcoat affixed me with a jaundiced eye, finally looking to his partner with a barking laugh. “This guy called us “gentlemen.”
“Jesus Christ.” Tattoos glanced around, sniffling and snorting. “I hope to shit no one heard him. It could play hell with our reputations.”
I hesitated, grinning, not quite certain on how to proceed.
“Why ya lookin' for Ernie Prescott?” asked Overcoat. “You a cop?
“Naw,” chuckled Tattoos. He looks too wimpy-ass to be a cop.”
“You better watch your ass with Prescott.” Overcoat snatched a butt from the ground and straightened it between thumb and forefinger, checking to see if there was enough to smoke. “That mother is one crazy dude. Nearly bit my ear clean off a while back. Yup, he's one crazy, psychotic dude.”
“Uh --- Ernie's my brother. I'm here to find him.”
Tattoos looked me over, squinting and slowly shaking his head. “Yeah, now that I look, I can see the resemblance. Ugliness must run in the family.”
“Please, guys; all I want to do is find Ernie and spend some time with him. I'm not looking for any trouble.”
“We ain't gonna give ya any trouble,” Overcoat reassured me, holding out his massive hands, palms up. “You wouldn't happen to have an extra smoke, would'ja?”
“Sure,” I said, digging into my pocket and tossing him a nearly full pack of Marlboros. “Keep the whole thing. Call it payment for the answer to my question.”
“Hey, thanks, man!” Smiling from ear-to-ear, Overcoat jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Ernie has a bench he calls 'home', on the other side of the Reflecting Pool. It's 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 and to the other side of the Reflecting Pool. 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 dresses, sat dangling their feet in the Reflecting Pool as they tossed scraps of bread to a squawking flotilla of ducks. A jet roared overhead, leaving a long white vapor trail in its wake.
I located Ernie surprisingly fast - stretched out on a bench, with his legs crossed at the ankles and his long fingers clasped, prayer-like, across his chest. Looking as serene and carefree as a corpse, stretched out in a coffin, I was almost sorry that I had to wake him. I stood there for 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 food. The crescent-shaped scar, which he had received in a bike mishap when he was a kid, was stark white against the chestnut-brown of his skin. He was clad in camouflage fatigues, wrinkled and soiled; an olive-green bush hat; and a pair of scuffed and worn combat boots. Why, in the name of God, I thought to myself, did all the poor, lost souls of the Vietnam War chose to wear a facsimile of the uniform in which they had suffered so greatly? Was it just another way in making a statement? Near the bench, was an old, olive-drab duffel bag, stenciled with the faded black letters U.S.A..
“Hey, Ernie! Yoooo!”
Not a muscle moved.
“Ernest! Hey, Ern!”
An eye popped open, considering me for a moment, then snapped shut, followed by a long, phlegmy groan. “Ah, Jesus, kid; you screwed up my nap.”
“Well, that's some howdy-do.”
“I'm nursing a major hangover, here.” Ernie smacked his mouth, darting out his tongue. “My tongue feels like a sausage, lying on a bed of cotton. Cheap wine will do it to you all the time.”
“How about sitting up and moving over so I can sit down?”
With a gurgling groan, he swung his legs off the bench and sat up, burying his face in his hands.
I plopped down next to him, sniffed at the air and quickly moved to the far end of the bench. God, he smelled something awful; like an outhouse, simmering under a hundred-degree sun!
“What'sa matter, kid; you don't care for my aroma?”
“When's the last time that you took a shower?”
“Maybe two or three months ago, in the White House. The President let's me use his private bath.”
“Then, I just bet, the two of you hunkered down in the Oval Office, discussing the fate of the free world.”
“Well, yeah; he consults with old war horses, like me, all the time. It gives him a better perspective on things.”
A homeless man shuffled along the walk; an old guy with a mop of snow-white hair, with a matching walrus-like moustache. He reminded me of a down-and-out Colonel Sanders. Stopping, he held out a bag in Ernie's direction. “I got some day-old doughnuts from Starbucks. You want one, Ernie?”
“Jesus, yeah, Ruben; it's just what I need.” Ernie shot a hand into the bag and pulled out a jelly doughnut, wolfing it down it two bites. “Wish you had a black coffee to go along with it.”
“The waitress isn't that generous.”
“You have to use the right line of bullshit. Ruben, this is my brother, Elliot. Elliot, this is Ruben.”
I accepted the old man's hand, which felt as curled and hard as the talon of a bird. He smelled bad also, but not near as much as Ernie.
Ruben squinted, bushy white brows hiding his eyes. “I can tell that you two are brothers, just by lookin' at'cha.” Then, with a small salute, he hobbled off in the direction of the Lincoln Memorial.
“You're not going to believe this,” said Ernie, following the old man's departure. “Ruben, there, use to be a hotshot broker on Wall Street. He had a loving wife, three college-grad kids, a twenty-room mansion, Mercedes, Olympic-sized swimming pool and tennis courts, the whole enchilada.”
“C'mon! What in the hell happened to him?”
“The rat race burned him out. He's actually happier, now, then way back when.”
“Man-oh-man, that is totally hard to believe.” I plopped the bag that I was holding onto Ernie's lap. “This is a little care package from Mom; a pack of underwear and another of socks. Also; there's some of her famous brownies, plus toothpaste, mouth wash and dental floss.”
Ernie shoved the supplies into his duffel bag without checking them out. “Christ, she should have been a dentist. How's she doing, anyways?”
“She thinks about you all the time, man. You know; you should move back to Jersey and make her happy in her last years.”
“Jersey, eeeccchhh! I'd rather be back in Nam, burning leeches from my flesh.” Ernie scrubbed his face with his hands, making a sandpapery sound. “How's the old man, just like I give two shits?”
“High blood pressure, sugar, rheumatism, you name it.”
“The indefatigable war horse is finally going lame, huh? Does he still hate me?”
“He doesn't hate you, Ern. He just hates the way you've chosen to live.”
“Christ, he would have been proud as punch if I'd been blown to smithereens in Nam.”
“C'mon, let's take a walk. It'll help you sober up.”
We headed in the direction of the Washington Monument, 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.
I looked over and spotted Overcoat and Tattoos watching us from the other side of the Reflecting Pool. Tattoos raised a middle finger in our direction, pumping it high in the air. “Hey, Ernie; you know those two losers, over there?”
“Oh yeah, they're a real sweet pair. Tyrone was in the First Cavalry, Quang Tri, in nineteen-sixty-eight. Rumors are he got a dishonorable discharge for one reason or another. His pal, Lester, is nothing but a worthless junkie. I'm the Duke of Earl compared to those two.”
“Tyrone said that you nearly bit his ear off once.”
Ernie barked a laugh, wincing as the effort jarred his headache. “”He tried to steal my duffel. Next time, I'll bite off his dick.”
We walked past the Washington Monument, Ernie informing me that the difference in shades, maybe midway up, was where the construction had continued after the project had remained dormant during the Civil War. Upon spotting my brother, a number of tourists frowned and gave us a wide berth as we drew near. If Ernie noticed it, which I suspect he did, it appeared not to bother him much. After being down for so long, pride and dignity were probably as foreign to him as a bubble bath or a full course meal in a four-star restaurant. As we approached the Capitol, about a half hour later, he screwed up his face as though he was sucking on an extra sour lemon.
“Well, there it is, kid; the marble mausoleum; home to the pandering pundits.”
“You really think that, huh?”
“Shit, yeah, I do. There's not a person in there, House or Senate, who gives a rat's ass about us Vietnam vets. And mark my words; our boys in Iraq will wind up getting the very same treatment. It's all power and greed and partisan politics, kid, and there's room for little else.”
“C'mon, there's has to be a few good ones.”
“Sure, maybe. But you can probably fit them into a thimble.” Ernie chuckled, indicating a marble walkway, lined with flowers. “A few months back, I took a whiz, right over there. I spent a night in jail for that transgression. It wasn't bad, though; at least I got a square meal – meatloaf, mashed potatoes and broccoli.”
“You are really something, bro. Hey, talking about food; what say I treat you to a nice breakfast?”
“Are you kidding? There's not a restaurant in this city that would let me past its gilded doors. But I just so happen to know a place and the food is top notch. C'mon, follow me.”
We headed up New Jersey Avenue, heading for Old Downtown. The sky had darkened, portending a late morning rainstorm, and, far off in the distance, I thought I heard a crackle of thunder. Three blocks up, Ernie came to a stop before an old brick building, with its windows boarded up with sections of plywood. Over the front door hung a sign – SOUP KITCHEN, open six-to-six.
“This is where you're taking me; a soup kitchen?”
“Best food in town, kid, or pretty damn near it. The place is operated by the Reverend Alonzo Biggs from the Emmanuel Baptist Church.”
Before I could argue the point, Ernie opened the door and bid me to enter with a sweeping flourish of his arm. What the heck, I thought, brotherly love before pride. Two steps into the place, I was greeted by a crazy hodgepodge of smells – body odor, boozy breath and stale sweat mixed with the tantalizing aroma of bacon and eggs and fresh-brewed coffee. Picnic tables had been set up, end-to-end, maybe three dozen in number, and there was hardly a place left to sit. Scruffy, ill-clad men, nearly all bearded and of many ethnic groups, lined the benches, wolfing down platefuls of food and exchanging talk in raucous tones.
There were even a dozen or so women, grubby and disheveled, and clad in the weirdest ensembles that I had ever seen. Cigarette and cigar smoke hung in the air, as thick as a fog bank off Puget Sound.
A large, broad-shouldered Negro, wrapped in a food-stained apron, ambled over to Ernie, his shirt rolled up, displaying arms as big around as tree trunks. When he smiled, the overhead lights twinkled off a gold tooth, front and center.
“Ernest, my man, I'm glad you could drop by.”
They shook, their hands performing a little ghetto how-de-do.
“How's it going, Rev? This, here, is my baby bro, Elliot. El, this is the Reverend Alonzo Biggs.”
I looked up at the preacher, marveling over his size. “Wow, you sure live up to your name.”
He grabbed my hand, laughing heartily. “Ernie has told me quite a bit about you; how you're the last surviving members of the Prescott clan.”
I glanced at Ernie, crinkling my brow. “He said that, huh?”
“It must be hard for the two of you and I'm glad you took the time to come down and visit.”
“It's the least I could do --- uh --- for my only kin.”
“Well, the both of you eat heartily. I believe you'll find an opening on one of the benches.”
Patting the both of us on the shoulder, the Reverend headed off to take up a position behind a long table of food warmers.
I looked to my brother, trying to find some humor in it all. “Well, I guess we're the last of the Prescotts.”
“Yeah, well, you know.”
“No, I can honestly say that I don't know.”
“C'mon, man; it gains me a lot more sympathy. Let's eat.”
We grabbed plates, passing along the table and trying a little bit of everything – bacon and eggs, pancakes, sausage and home fries, rounding it all out with a steaming mug of coffee. And, I must admit; it was one of the best breakfasts that I ever had in my life. When we got up to leave, the Reverend hustled over and bid us a fond farewell, inviting us to come back any time that we wanted.
We walked back to the Mall and Ernie looked eagerly around, as though we had been gone for days instead of only two hours. Before I knew it, we were strolling along the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, its black granite reflecting the sky, the trees and the mournful faces of those searching for names. Tourists were taking pictures and a young woman was lifting a name with a pencil and tracing paper. At the foot of the Memorial, loved ones had left such things as letters and flowers and even a baseball glove and a can of Coke.
Ernie stopped, sighing, and rubbing a finger gently over a name. I leaned in close and saw that it was a soldier by the name of Arthur Wynocki.
“Did you know him, Ern?”
“Yeah, Artie Wynocki. He was a little, eighteen-year-old, farm boy from somewhere in Iowa. Near Davenport, I think. He was a tunnel rat, just like me.”
“He got killed, huh?”
“Oh yeah, the memories of it are 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 were a lot of tunnels in that area. He hadn't been in that tunnel thirty seconds when we heard this big explosion. When we pulled him up, all that we got were his legs.”
“Ah, Christ, Ern.”
“He was a real good kid,” said Ernie, still fingering the name. “Little Artie”, he added in a strangled whisper.
“You know, Ern; you have got to stop doing this to yourself.”
“Doing what?”
“Reliving that damn war, over and over and over again.”
“Let me tell you, kid,” he said, sweeping an arm along the Memorial. “This is my family, all fifty-eight thousand of them. They talked the talk and walked the walk. And they don't give me any bullshit like Dad.”
A little boy stopped short and looked wide-eyed at Ernie's clothes, as if he had popped from the Memorial; a ghost of a war long past.
We headed back to Ernie's bench and I noticed that the sky had taken on the color of a fresh bruise, with angry gray clouds trooping along the horizon like circus elephants on parade.
“Hey, Ern; where do you go when it rains?”
“If it's hot, like now, I just sit here and get drenched. It's the closest thing that I've got to a shower.” He gave 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 had managed to hold onto his sardonic humor.
“Well, kid, I guess it's adios.”
“Yeah, I guess. I'll try to get back down in a couple of months.”
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.”
“Bring Mom down with you next time.”
“I'll try. It's tough, ya know, with dad and all.”
With that, Ernie sprawled out on his bench, crossing his legs and pulling the brim of his bush hat low over his eyes. He gave a long, comforting sigh and wiggled his fingers in a goodbye.
As I headed back to my car, passing by Tyrone and Lester, a thick drop of rain plopped against my head.
In early September, I brought Mom down to visit Ernie, but we couldn't locate him anywhere. We asked a few of the homeless where he was, but none of them could remember seeing him since early August. At police headquarters and the shelters and the soup kitchens and the clinics, we didn't fare any better. Even Alonzo Biggs hadn't seen him for quite a spell. 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 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 travel 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 be? Had Ernie somehow, through theft or a good con or a generous benefactor, gotten together enough money for a flight to Vietnam? For a visit to the country that had ruined him, to seek out and confront his many demons. I waited impatiently for a repeat of the broadcast, and finally, when it came, my nose was only an inch from the screen. Yes, yes! Sweet Mary and Joseph and all the saints! 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 better man, or, possibly, in worse shape than ever. That is; barring that he didn't pull some stupid stunt and wasn't able to return at all.