Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  It was more of the same through the summer of Watergate and into the Gerald Ford period, which was both the sickest and the healthiest time in American history. Sickest is easy to understand, eh? But healthiest? Watergate renewed my faith in America, in our system of government. The system worked. That the individuals, principals, involved were scuzzballs makes it, the workings of the system, all the more impressive. Had we been a benevolent dictatorship, or had ethnic, racial, economic or social divisions dominated our governmental or cultural system, America would have come unglued. Put to the acid test, it was only deeply scarred: an incredible demonstration of strength.

  More of the same, too, for Ty. He didn’t see the system work. He saw an old system reemerging, a system of bigotry. One of the shrinks later said he thought Ty had set himself up for all the accidents—eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth type thing—by participating in mutilations in Viet Nam and Cambodia. When I first heard that I thought it was an earthenware vessel of excreted by-product, but after ... I wasn’t sure.

  21

  AFTER THREE MONTHS OF healing, the slash on Theodore Darsman’s wrist was a long curving yellow-purple scar. Ted Darsman—a.k.a. Tyrone Dorsey, Blackwell, Wallace, Green, and others—had bamboozled the emergency room staff. “Fell, mothafucka, fell carryin a fuckin bottle a Coke. I’m suin them fuckas. Big time, Man. Lookit mah arm. Mothafucka, that hurt. Hit them mothafuckas for a million. Think I can’t, huh? You watch me, mothafucka. Million bucks aint nothin to them pigs. One Super Bowl commercial. Who make the glass? Sue them mothafuckas too.” And later he bamboozled the people who ran the soup kitchen just off the Nimitz Freeway, and the people of Our Lady of Hope Men’s Shelter near the Bayshore Highway. “Just been down and out, Man. Just down and out. Times er tough. I owned my home. Had my own business. Had trucks. A whole fleet. You try keepin gas in a fleet a trucks at these prices!”

  For more months Ty played on the sympathy of strangers, sought help, pleaded for understanding. He had, with the bottle shard, frightened himself into “cleaning up his act.” The fear waned, his hyperactivity subsided. He scrounged quietly, swindled a little here, liberated a little there, petty theft from the shelters. He withdrew more and more into the private space within his mind, escaping, obsessing on what once was, on Olivia, distancing himself from welfare workers, from other homeless men, from junkies, journalists, Jesuits—anyone who wanted to control or direct his thoughts.

  He became a nowhere man. A nobody. Not Ted Darsman any longer. Not Ty Dorsey. For a while Tom Davis. Then Tom Davies. Then Tobias Denny. Into and out of shelters, into and out of breadlines, into and out of social services offices. Finally he became, with forged documents, Tyler Mohammed. That made him feel like a brother. He finally belonged, if only in his mind, if only tangentially, to something, to a people. Still he remained mostly quiet, mostly withdrawn, mostly alone.

  Then in October 1974, from behind, “Hey, what time are you?”

  Tyler, sullen, angry. “Nine forty-five. You?”

  The guy, happy. “Nine forty-five, too.”

  “Join the line.”

  “Geez fuckin Louise, Man, I told myself when I got outta the Corps I was like nev-ah ev-ah goina stand in another fuckin line. En look at me.”

  “Humph.” Tyler Mohammed glared at the smiling long-haired freak in the OD green field jacket. Ty turned, dropped his head, stared at the green-and-black checkerboard tiles of the floor.

  “Who were you with, Man?”

  Tyler turned back. “Hmm?”

  “Yer hand, Man. Says you was across the pond. Who were you with?”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Pisano. Anthony F. I actually been job huntin. Went to an interview last time I had an appointment and they disqualified me. Gave me a bag a shit. They expect you ta go to like ten places.”

  “Man,” Ty whispered, “yer coked out, aren’tcha?”

  Tony just winked. About them people wandered aimlessly. Some sat on the floor. Some told those in line before them or behind them their unemployment history or practiced their stories about their futile job quest. Most people, however, stood, passive, unwavering, looking forward like zombies, not recognizing anyone, not allowing themselves to be recognized, to be penetrated in their humiliation.

  “Whip some on me, Man, or I blow the whistle.”

  “Men’s room, Man,” Tony whispered. Then beside each other, before urinals, again, “Who were you with, Man?”

  “No one.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I”—Ty broke into a laugh, his first in a short forever—“shit you not.”

  “Right on, Bro. Here.” Tony handed Ty two joints. “Gratis, Amigo.”

  “Where you from, Man?” Ty asked.

  “Pennsylvania,” Tony said. They moved to the sinks.

  “Humph. Me too! Coal Hill. Near Scranton. Sucks, Man. So’s San Jose. You come out for dope or broads, Man?”

  “Came out for a guy’s wedding. He was a screamin yellow buzzard.”

  “Fuckin fool.”

  “Yeah. Got it made, though.”

  “White guy, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You Airborne?”

  “Me. Naw. I’m a bastard. Magnificent Bastard. Marine, Man. Pukin buzzard guy’s up in San Martin. House on the hill. Got it—”

  “I know a guy up there. Wapinski.”

  “Hey. That’s him.”

  “Ha! We was together in Nam. A Shau. Hamburger Hill. Bad mothafuckas.”

  “Yeah. Ha. Small world. We’re from the same town ... in Pennsy. I worked for his grandpa.”

  “Shee-it! En life goes on.”

  “Yeah. Ha.”

  “Yeah, cept lots a returnees in these lines, Man. Lots a returnees.”

  Thursday, 31 October 1974, San Martin Municipal Building—“What stupid, idiotic junk is this!”

  “Idiotic?”

  “How dare you waste taxpayers dollars on ridiculous schemes.”

  Wapinski stared. His jaw dropped. He had not expected—had not the slightest inkling—that Henry Alan Harrison would finally review his work this day, week, or that Harrison had not been reviewing it all along, that Tim Reed, thinking he was protecting Bobby, had kept the designs, data, and reports from Harrison.

  “Who do you think you are?!” Harrison snapped. “And how could you possibly think anyone, anyone in their right mind, would approve this—this juggernaut! This spruce goose! Windmills!”

  It was not yet nine o’clock. The sky was clear, the morning calm. On the way in he’d been singing like he did now virtually every morning, “‘I guess, you’d say, what ken make me feel this way, my girl, talking bout ...’” Then into the office, smiling, greeting the guards, the receptionists, taking the stairs two-by-two (exercising his knee), pondering how they’d get by on his salary alone, Sara three months pregnant, due in March, could she teach until spring vacation? Knowing they’d make it.

  “Windmills!” Harrison screamed again. “Wapinski, you’d better justify this. You’d better come up with substantial justification for this!” Harrison’s hand lashed out, tipped the edge of Bobby’s thick file that lay on Harrison’s desk, the top of the ream splaying then cascading down the desk and chair—off arm, seat, a drawer handle and onto the floor—cascading down like the Stanislaus flowed down the Devil’s Staircase.

  Phone conversation:

  “Sara.”

  “Bob.”

  “Come home.”

  “Bob, is everything okay?”

  “Please come home, I ... I need you.”

  Then, at the cottage, Sara entering, Bobby by the table, sitting, drooped, elbows on his knees, staring fixedly at the hardwood, his voice sheepish, shaking. “I’ve been fired.”

  “Oh.” She came to him, bent to hug him. “Is that it?”

  He did not look at her. He was embarrassed. Embarrassed by the fact, by the tears in his eyes. Even afraid she would abandon him. He straightened, looked at her. He couldn’t hold back. “T
hey may just as well have knifed me,” he said.

  “Bob.” Sara touched his face.

  “Harrison fired me. He wants to kill me. Kill us economically. He might just as well have ripped out my heart.”

  “What happened?”

  “He ... in front of the whole office ... he ranted about me wasting taxpayers’ dollars. He didn’t understand anything. He didn’t even look at the figures. He didn’t understand. He just kept badgering me, telling everyone I was Don Quixote. He said, ‘Wapinski, you either begin to play ball, get on the team, or pack your bags.’ I got tongue-tied. He never even gave me a chance to explain.”

  “What about Tim?”

  “He wasn’t in. He hasn’t been in since Monday. He wasn’t feeling well on Monday.”

  “Well, Harrison can’t just fire you like that. Can he?”

  “I ...”

  “You could challenge it. The County Board of Commissioners ... they review job evaluations ...”

  “You know ... just to design one ... even one house. One good house. And see it built. One design that wasn’t destroying. And see it through. They ... Harrison ... he kept my file. When I asked Beth for it she said Henry had ordered her to lock it up.”

  “Challenge him.”

  “I can’t. Don’t you see, Sara. I can’t go back there.”

  Sara sighed, put a hand on his hand. For a while they sat in silence, Bobby in shock—shocked by his own reaction to Harrison, by how he shook, how he was still shaking, less angry than assaulted, violated. Then the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Sara said softly. “It’s probably Harrison wanting to apologize. Hello.”

  “Hello. Is this Sara?”

  “Yes it is. Who’s this?”

  “Linda Pisano. Is Bob there?”

  “Yes.”

  Then Linda to Bob. “Your grandfather’s back in the hospital.”

  “Oh God!”

  “I’m not sure how serious it is,” Linda said. “I drove him over to St. Luke’s. He’s been coughing and he’s awfully short of breath. And his hands are cool. They decided to admit him. They ruled out a heart attack. He’s awfully strong, Bob. But I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is Tony there?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him in, ah, about a month.”

  “He was in San Jose, I think. That’s what Grandpa said. Grandpa was hoping that he’d come back and help out again.”

  “I ... ah ... Linda, I ... maybe I shouldn’t say this but your divorce is ... I mean, I know how he’s been. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have filed, but I don’t think he’ll go back.”

  “I didn’t go through with it.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “I haven’t been able to find him.”

  They both paused. Then Bobby said, “Should I come back?”

  “Call tomorrow,” Linda answered. “It may be nothing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could you try and get in touch with Tony for me? I know he was in a men’s shelter in San Jose ... for a while. Tell him I didn’t go through with it. And that Grandpa needs him. And I ... the girls miss him. Really.”

  Drugged-out, boozed-up, unemployed, homeless, unwashed, unkempt. Twenty-three and twenty-seven years old, and already old—society’s dregs, falling, falling, dropping acid because it was so much cheaper in San Jose in November of 1974 than skag or coke or even grass that Tyler Mohammed and Tony Pisano could stay fucked up and flying with minimal panhandling.

  Tripping: The exterior is drab—gray paint on grooved asphalt shingles banged over clapboard in the ’30s or ’40s, an upgrading project in Pennsylvania mountain country. Click. Ty enters the house. It is but a single room. Then, above, without stairs, another room appears. He is rising, falling up through the floor to the other room. Click. A ramp appears, brings him to a high door in the wall in the gable end. He passes through.

  Click. Click. Click. Speeding. Drugged out. Fucked up. Scenes flashing like slides, like live index cards on a Rolodex. Now a corridor. The sides are Sheetrocked like the Sheetrock he carried, lugged up board ramps, manpower jobs, nigger work, vet work, until his arms are eighteen feet long, until on the left there is an interior door, window, as to an office. The door is closed, the office dark. He cannot see through the glass but sees vaguely his own reflected image sieved through the diamonds of reinforcement wire in the glass. The diamonds cut deep. The diamond-shaped pile that is him, sieved, falls, falls piece by diamond piece until he is a clutter of diamond-shaped dowels at his own feet.

  Click. Past the window down the corridor to an immense room without a ceiling. At his feet the room is a gigantic pool and the pool is filled with thick translucent green liquid, splashing, huge waves splashing as if the pool in the room is an ocean. There is dry land across the ocean, through the storm spray. Click. There are boats in the raging sea, four dark gray shapes, ancient, open-topped oar-drawn whalers, or Viet Namese sampans. No one has oars. There are people in the boats. They are grotesque. He knows they are alive, sees their pained faces, knows they fear the sea, fear more so reaching, crashing into the hardly discernible far shore. They beckon him, invite him aboard to witness their plight. In the boat, through the splash and spindrift, it is impossible to see the sides of the room. The sea makes him sick. He vomits.

  Click. Hands, wrists, forearms, change, turn into green-rubber lettuce, leaf lettuce, uncured rubber, smelly, sticky. He retreats. He is not of them, has not transformed. They are people. He has known for a thousand years, they, the green and red, ghastly, gruesome, grotesque, rubberized pliables in pain and fear are people. He forces the boat back toward the first shore, but he cannot leave. His feet, ankles, have transformed, have stuck. He strains. Terror. Someone is talking calmly, softly from just behind. “Don’t be afraid, Tyler Mohammed. You don’t have to struggle against us.” His face, he can see his face rubberizing, the eyes stretched vertically to eight, ten, sixteen inches long, his head melting. He screams. He turns toward the calm voice. “Ha,” he thinks. “They don’t expect this. No one has ever attacked them.”

  Click. From somewhere, a hemlock branch is in his hands. Not a branch with prickly needles but a staff sharpened to a spear point. He jumps to the nearest boat, thrashes through broken horrified souls toward the helmsman. The storm tosses the craft. He stumbles but surges forward, stumbles again, reaches the helm. The helmsman has vanished.

  Click. Fast. Faster. He wills the craft toward the far shore. Faster. The cries of pain, the fear, the woe of the melting dripping cabbage faces straining to break from him, him the helmsman, to remain adrift in pain rather than to face the unknown shore.

  “Bad trip, Man?”

  Blank stare. Slack jaw.

  “Hey, Man, bad trip, huh? You freaked out, Man. You’re a real freak-out, Man. Ha! Freak-Out Man.”

  Tony looked out from their squat. Then he looked back at Ty, then back out from their box. They were in San Jose, above Santa Clara Street, downtown—not old, inner-city blight East Coast downtown, but still there were alleys, dumpsters, boxes. Their box was on the flat roof of a three-story building, over a shoe store and wallpaper outlet and respectable apartments. The rooftop was safe, defendable. To one side were the boxes of Frankie “the Kid” Denahee and David “Wildman” Coffee. Sheldon “Fuzzy” Golan and Big Bro Boyson were set up to the other. The roof was OP, NDP—observation post, night defensive position. To the third-floor tenant, if they were quiet, their presence was okay. At each first light they flatten the boxes, drop to the fire escape, split up, withdraw to the park across from the courthouse or wander the few blocks to San Jose State College where Big Bro likes to leer at the coeds. They do not hang together but disperse singly or in pairs. Tony, Fuzzy, Wildman, or the Kid take turns pairing with Big Bro Boyson because Big Bro is immense and dark black and his large round face and huge jaw attract suspicion.

  It was now Tony’s turn, not just to hang with Big Bro, and not just this day. But outside the law, outside the civi
lized fringe of society’s petticoat, with these homeless brothers and cousins, it became Tony’s turn to function. Big Bro had been a Marine. Frankie had served with the 25th Infantry Division; Wildman with the 4th; Fuzzy with the Big Red One. Their numbers, their names, their squats changed, shifted, yet they’d become an informal network watching out for each other. They called Tony Pisano the Catcher from The Catcher in the Rye—whatever happened in the field was fair play but should they come too close to the edge, the Catcher, unobtrusive, no questions asked, was there to catch, to protect.

  “Bad trip, Man?” Tony repeated.

  Still Ty did not respond. Tony folded back the newspaper, continued reading the story inside. In Saigon there had been violent antigovernment riots. Tony had followed the story since November first. Demonstrators and police had clashed repeatedly. President Thieu’s repressive policies and government corruption had been denounced by leaders of South Viet Nam’s opposition. Thieu had responded by firing three of his four corps commanders and had promised to ease restraints on the press. Simultaneously he had accused the demonstrators of trying to undermine the government. Moscow responded to the unrest by pledging increased aid to Hanoi.

  Tony did not tell Ty what he was reading. Nor did he mention it to the others. He knew Wildman would freak. Wildman had been a POW for ten days. He and sixteen others had been cut off and captured. During that time he witnessed his closest friend’s decapitation. He saw three guys tied, stretched, eaten by rats. Of the seventeen, thirteen attempted to escape. Wildman, or so his story went, was one of six survivors. He’d been discharged in 1968, had lived on the fringe since ’71.

  Tony knew that Fuzzy, if he read the news, would also freak, want to take action. “You know, Man, they always sayin, ‘It can’t happen here.’ Or they thinkin, ‘Won’t happen here.’ Or they aren’t thinkin at all cause they don’t have a fuckin clue. IT CAN HAPPEN HERE!”

  Tony had said nothing the first time, perhaps nothing the second, but Fuzzy was focused. “What?” Tony had finally responded.

  “Terrorism, Man. Disrupt domestic tranquility, Man. It’s goina happen here cause we’re goina make it happen.”