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Essay: Nights with Ern

<p>Parking lot visionaries</p>

Parking lot visionaries


Everyone knows security is a big deal in Vegas. It’s big business. A lot of it we never see. It hides, watching us, filming us. Or maybe it walks around in disguise. Of course, there’s plenty of the good, old-fashioned, hired-hand kind, too, and the other night I glimpsed a little moment that most people wouldn’t have paid much attention to, but it was poignant for me.

Two relatively old men in security uniforms at Caesars were talking, in a way that indicated they’d been having the same kind of conversation for several years. They probably didn’t know much about each other’s lives, really, but still this ritual conversation was important to them. One man was spelling the other during a shift. It swept me back in time.

The first job I could get out of college was working as a night security guard at the hospital where I was born. Sad fact, I know. I escorted nurses to and from their cars in a big open-air parking lot where junkies and hasslers lurked. (I’d actually had a brief stint patrolling a giant cavernous warehouse, until an enormous steel shelf of Huggies diapers collapsed on me — which sounds funny but is a bit of drama when you’re all alone at 4 a.m.).

It seemed to rain a lot more in those days, or nights, but at least the hospital gig was within walking distance of the ant-ridden apartment I shared with my mad girlfriend, which was not far from the New Light Baptist Church where I’d once sung as a child, and my stepbrother and I later hung out, downing Black Beauties with Colt .45 Malt Liquor.

The cause behind my employment was unpleasant. A guy had hidden under one of the nurse’s cars, pulled her legs out from underneath her, knocked her cold, driven her away and then raped her and set her on fire with gasoline. I was the reinforced security solution to that problem. My job was to shine my flashlight under cars, stroll the parking aisles and then make personal escorts when nurses arrived or went home, via radio instructions from the central hospital office.

I was in uniform and unarmed. Homeless people would wander through (I had to keep them moving). Drunks threw bottles at me. Sometimes bad things happened in the street. My girlfriend was going insane, my father was dying an excruciating death before my very eyes, and my stepbrother was facing possible federal charges. Everything was going according to plan.

But every night, a bobbing, approaching light would appear on the far edge of the parking lot, and I’d feel better. It was Ern, one of the other guards, who spelled me mid-shift. He called himself Ern O’Someone — I never did find out his real last name. But every night I looked forward to the flash of his light.

He was a whip-thin Irishman who rolled his own cigarettes — from Belfast, maybe 10 years older, who’d somehow managed to haul his wife and four kids out of their life of poverty there to a hovel here, where the sodium-orange, high-crime-area streetlights hummed in the dark. He was one of the happiest people I’ve ever met.

The sirens and gunshots at night didn’t deflate him … the Dobermans behind the chain-link fences … it was all part of the bounty of America and the fulfillment of his dream. His wife worked in a commercial laundry while their twins played on the floor in the back room. He pulled 12-hour shifts to fund his habit of sitting in a coffee shop, working in his notebook.

Ern wanted to be a writer — and not just any writer. His mind was ablaze with the fiendish mischief of someone who is onto the Big Idea. His project was nothing less than a Critique of the Modern World.

Oh, sure, he was a loon. But he had a rare passion and a joy in his thinking — an absolute faith that if he drank enough coffee and kept reading and writing, he’d leave behind a magnum opus of imagination, intellect and undeniable insight.

Some winter nights I’d be there shivering, bone cold. But I always took one promenade around the parking lot with Ern before I ran home for hot soup and some respite by our stinking heater. I wanted to hear about his new line of thinking — what was the latest development?

I often think back to those nights with Ern. He’s a kind of self-invented individual we need more of in America today — people who are innocently thrilled to be here, no matter what. People who believe in themselves and aren’t afraid to have a dream. People who have faith in the promise of America as much because of its problems as in spite of them. Despair and anger is easy in the end. We need more Ern.

Wherever you are, Mr. O’Someone, I hope you’re still writing and drinking coffee — and tackling the Big Questions. Tennessee Williams wrote of a dependence on the kindness of strangers. I’ve often found my greatest inspiration in them. Like a light moving toward me on nights of ambulances and rain.

My last night on that job, I didn’t take my break — I walked around talking with Ern. I remember watching him walk back to the hospital for the final time. When he got to the end of the lot, he turned and flashed his light twice. That was the final time I saw him, and I’ve taken that simple goodbye with me everywhere since.

KRIS SAKNUSSEMM has published novels, books of poetry and a memoir.