A Bud Light at the End of the Tunnel

The letter—crisp white paper with officious black text, apart from the jarring red ‘PENALTY’ on the top right corner of the page—sat in stark contrast to Chuck’s weathered, wrinkled hands.

“Staring at it isn’t going to help,” said Chuck’s wife, Rosemary.

Chuck humphed. 

Typical of cantankerous old men, Chuck Habberfield humphed a lot. Even more since the nation-wide lockdown. Now he barely uttered a word as the weeks in isolation dragged on.

Before, his weekly routine had been a repetitive, yet satisfying schedule of activities. When he wasn’t engaged in a scheduled activity, he was in Peter Horrowitz’s backyard drinking beers, cultivating anti-government sentiment. Then the lockdown had seen his activities unceremoniously scrapped, setting him adrift; listless. Bored.

He filled his time watching ‘How To’ Youtube videos. How To Swordfight. How To Escape A Straightjacket. How To Make Cheese.

Today, he should have been playing golf with Bill and Archie. Or was that tomorrow? He didn’t know what day it was anymore.

“What day is it?” he asked.

“It speaks!” Rosemary said.

“Tuesday?”

“It’s Friday.”

Chuck raised his eyebrows then resumed brooding over the letter.

“It’s criminal, this,” he said.

“Oh, quit catastrophising,” Rosemary said, drying the breakfast dishes. “It’s just a fine.”

“Just a fine? It’s thirteen hundred dollars!”

“Well, you should have thought of that when you ignored the first two warnings, shouldn’t you?”

“Humph.”

The kitchen was silent but for the clink of cutlery returning to the drawer.

“Oh for goodness sake, Charles,” Rosemary said at last. “Go outside or something.”

“What, and get another fine?”

“It’s not going outside that got you fined and you know it. You can’t go to Peter’s house.”

“I wasn’t at his house.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Charles. You were in his backyard.”

“Humph.”

“You can still talk on the phone, you know?”

“Can’t have a beer over the phone.”

“You’re lucky Peter didn’t get a fine, too.”

“The government’s lucky I’m not a younger man.”

“Oh don’t start that again.”

“When I was younger—”

“I mean it, Charles,” Rosemary threw the dishcloth at Chuck. “Get out of my kitchen and do something useful.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know, like maybe fix the lawnmower you’re too much of a cheapskate to replace? Or hang up that picture you said you'd hang a year ago." Rosemary softened, knowing that being aggressive only served to reinforce her husband’s obstinate tendencies. "Why don’t you clean out the basement? Get back to your hobbies.”

Charles raised his finger in protest—out of sheer habit rather than actually disagreeing—and an idea came to him. A lightbulb illuminated above his head. 

“That’s better,” Rosemary said, having flicked on the kitchen light. “So gloomy in here today.”

“You’re right,” said Chuck.

“It’s that time of year.”

“No, not about the light. About the basement.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re right, Rose. I should get my workbench out from under all that junk.”

“That’s the spirit."

“I’ll, ah, I’ll be back for lunch then,” Chuck said, rising from the chair. He took a final look at the penalty notice, scrunched it up, and tossed it in the bin.

* * *

Chuck stood before the insurmountable miscellanea that had cocooned his workbench. On this day, unlike all the others in which he'd stood impotent before the mass, he saw past it all. Past the half-empty paint cans, useless tools, broken lawn furniture, and countless boxes. Under the chaos was his once-prized workbench. But it wasn’t the workbench he looked to. His X-ray vision penetrated the household refuse—through the junk, the workbench, and the brick wall behind it; through the wall and into the dark earth of his property’s foundations. Past the pipes, conduit, and tree roots until he saw into Peter Horrowitz’s pristine basement. Fifty feet south, as the mole digs.

Chuck stepped to the pile, adjusted his angle of attack five degrees, and began to dismantle the clutter. Decades of domestic detritus was tossed over his shoulder as he bored toward his target. At last, panting, Chuck reached the corner of the bench upon which he had successfully estimated his telephone sat.

He was thankful for the phone’s robust construction as the dial tone purred in his ear. Chuck smiled as he twirled the dial and waited for the call to be answered.

“Hello, Peter speaking.”

“Pete,” Chuck said, still smiling.

“Chuck? Since when do you use the phone?”

“Since I can’t share a Bud with my buddy in the garden.”

“So you’re going to comply this time?”

“I got thirteen hundred reasons that tell me I have to comply this time.”

Peter whistled into the receiver. 

“It’s not the money, you know,” said Chuck. “It’s the constant monitoring.”

“Mhmm.”

“And you know how I feel about government overwatch.”

“I do.”

“I mean it’s unconstitutional, Pete. They’re infringing on my rights as an American citizen.”

“Preaching to the converted, Chuck.”

“I know we’re in the sweet spot for getting the virus—seventies, compromised immune system—but if I’m going to die of this bullshit, let me go out having spent a day in the sunshine, cold bottle of suds in my hand. Not cowering in my house.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“I’m cowering in my basement.”

“What are you cowering from?”

“Rosemary.”

“On your ass again, huh?”

“God love her, she doesn’t understand what’s been taken from me.”

“Sure, buddy. I know.”

“Course you do. We’ve been pals for, what, our whole lives, right?”

“Since fourth grade,” Pete confirmed.

“And how many times have we had these global whaddayacallems?”

“Pandemics.”

“These Goddamn pandemics,” Chuck said, about to spit on the ground as he would have had they been sitting in the foldout chairs under the oak in Pete’s garden. 

“There was the swine flu,” said Pete.

“And the bird flu,” replied Chuck.

“Mad cow.”

“H1N1,” said Chuck.

“I think that was swine flu.”

“And which one was the one we got from monkeys?” asked Chuck.

“Ah, that was the aids,” said Pete.

“Aids. Right. And now this Wuhan Covid thing. They reckon some bloke had a craving for bat or one of them Chinese armadillo critters.”

Pete said, “I mean, we used to eat some heinous shit when we were hungover but nothing that killed thousands of people.”

“Exactly,” Chuck said. “A Goddamn bat, Pete. Don’t you see it?”

“Oh, I see it.”

“The common denominator in all this?”

“Animals,” they said together.

“Goddamn animals,” repeated Pete.

“And you notice the animals are still all outside running wild? Birds flying around doing whatever they please when they’re carrying the bird flu. Pigs happy as pigs in shit while they’re riddled with disease. Monkeys monkeying around, fornicating, throwing faeces at us at the zoo, and now the bats. Don’t see bats being deprived of their civil liberties, do you?”

“You don’t, Chuck. Damn bats are out there screeching around every night.”

“Cavorting,” said Chuck.

“Huddling together in their caves all day. Social distancing right out the window for bats.”

“They’re the sicks ones, Pete. Not you and me.”

“These so-called experts have got it all ass-backwards.”

Chuck continued, “So because of these animals, I can’t go next door to see my buddy for a beer? Can’t play golf? Rosemary can’t get her hair done? You don’t know what she’s like when she can’t get her hair done.”

“Margery, too,” Pete agreed.

“Can’t do a thing. Land of the free, my ass. Land of the lockdown more like it.” 

“Lockdown,” confirmed Pete.

“They call it a lockdown, but you know what I call it?”

“Tyranny,” they said together.

Chuck heard Pete’s wife ask who was on the phone talking about tyranny. “It’s Chuck,” he replied.

“Of course it is. Well, tell him I said hello and that I’m sorry about the fine.”

“You hear that?” Peter asked.

“Yep. Tell her I appreciate it and that I look forward to coming over just as soon as I complete my plan.”

“A plan?” said Peter, his voice thinned with intrigue. “For what?”

“Liberty,” said Chuck. “A plan for beers without unconstitutional federal overwatch.”

Peter sighed. “Look, Chuck. I know we’re a couple of anarchists, but don’t you think it’s time we accepted these new rules—draconian though they are? I can’t afford a thousand bucks every time we have a drink.”

“I can't believe I'm hearing this but that’s the beauty, Pete. We won’t get caught if they can’t see us.”

“What, are you going to sneak over here in the dead of night?”

“God no. You and I are both asleep by nine. We’re going to meet in your basement. You’ve still got those sofas and the TV down there, right?”

“Well, yeah, but how are you going to avoid the cameras? Or those neighbours that dobbed you in last time?”

“Remember Kelly Barlow?” 

“Kelly Barlow?" asked Pete. "From when we were kids?”

“That’s right. Remember whenever we wanted to play down by the creek she’d see us heading down there and come bug us?”

“Of course,” Pete chuckled. “God she was annoying.”

“And do you remember what we did to try and get rid of her? Digging those holes, covering them with sticks and leaves so she’d fall into them?”

“Shit, I’d almost forgotten about that.”

“She never let us play just the two of us,” said Chuck. “Always trying to get in on our games, telling on us for every little thing.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Kind of reminds you of the government, don’t it?”

“Ah, sure. Anyway, what’s your point?” asked Pete.

“Remember my idea to avoid Kelly seeing us?”

“The tunnel?” said Pete.

“The tunnel. We measured it out and everything.”

“A hundred and seventy feet if I recall,” said Pete. “But your pop got wind of it and shut us down. Said we’d break our Goddamn necks. He was right, too.”

There was a moment’s silence before Chuck said, “So?”

“So, what?”

“So, let’s do it now.”

Peter whispered, “You want to dig a tunnel from your basement to mine?”

“I want to dig a tunnel from my basement to freedom.”

“You out of your Goddamn mind?”

“Absolutely,” Chuck said. “I am climbing the walls here, pal.”

“Your walls are gonna collapse, more like.”

“Look, I’m not stupid. I’ll use all that timber from the old fence I’ve been saving for just such an occasion to reinforce the tunnel.”

“What the hell do you know about—” Pete hushed his voice “—about tunnelling?”

“It’s amazing what you can find on the Youtube. They’ve got tutorials for anything you can think of.”

“You’re really serious about this, huh?” asked Pete.

“I told you, I am not dying in my house from boredom while all the animal culprits carry on uninfringed.”

Rosemary’s voice carried down the basement steps into the gloom. “Who are you talking to down there?”

“It’s Pete,” Chuck replied.

“How the hell’d you find the phone under all that junk?”

Chuck ignored the jab and went back to the phone. “Anyway, Pete, I’ll get to work and let you know how I’m going.” Then, louder for his wife’s benefit, “With my hobby.”

He hung up before Pete could dampen his spirits any further.

* * *

Hours later, Rosemary called downstairs to announce that dinner was ready. Chuck had missed lunch, deciding instead to continue clattering and cursing in the basement much to her amusement.

When he finally emerged from the stairwell, Chuck looked exhausted but his old eyes had a hint of the fire of his younger days. With his shirt unbuttoned, his face smeared with dirt and grime, Rosemary thought he looked rather handsome.

“How’s it going down there?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t recognise the place,” Chuck replied. “I’ve sorted the rubbish from the stuff I’m keeping.”

Rosemary rolled her eyes as she served dinner.

“No, I’m serious. I think you’ll be impressed with what I’ve managed to throw out.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Chuck Nothing.”

Chuck ate his dinner in five minutes, thanked Rosemary for a delicious meal—though she couldn’t believe he’d even tasted it—and went back to the basement. She smiled at his back disappearing down the stairs and shook her head.

Seconds later, the shuffling and banging—she thought maybe she heard drilling at one point—resumed in earnest and she busied herself with the dishes. The clinking and clanking of pots and plates provided a type of percussive melody to the thuds and grunts emitted from the basement and she felt they were in unison somehow. Contributing something to the world in a tiny but industrious way. Then she worried for a moment that Chuck might be overdoing it. If he dropped dead in the basement he’d have to stay there. At least he was off that bloody Youtube.

At eight o’clock, Chuck joined Rosemary in the living room and collapsed onto the sofa.

“Bed?” Rosemary said.

“I’m beat, physically, but I’m not sleepy in the slightest. Thought we’d watch a movie.”

“At this hour?” Rosemary said. “I’ll be out in minutes, so watch whatever you want.”

Chuck took himself off for a shower. When he returned, Rosemary was asleep in her chair, her knitting rising and falling on her chest. He selected the DVD from his alphabetised collection and got himself a beer while the warnings about piracy turned the room bright blue. Then, comfortable in his recliner, he pressed play and whistled along to the opening theme of The Great Escape.

* * *

Once Chuck had drilled and hammered through the brick of his basement wall, the small garden trowel he was using to dig the earth was practically silent.

He assured Rosemary that his pursuit would all be revealed in good time and, having been a painter a past life, his wife empathised with his request for privacy until completion.

Inspired by his heroes in The Great Escape and The Shawshank Redemption, Chuck was removing soil hidden within any item he brought upstairs and adding it to a rubbish pile. As the tunnel deepened, he pulled apart two bookcases and his son's childhood bed for bracing. When that timber ran out, he smuggled fence palings downstairs while Rosemary brushed her teeth.

“Did you hear they’re opening up parts of Europe?” she said one morning as he passed through the kitchen, weighed down by a ski boot full of soil.

“They’ve flattened the curve in Australia,” she called down the stairs a week later. But all Chuck could hear was the urging of his soul, desperate to reclaim what was rightfully his: a beer with his pal out of sight of Big Brother.

***

Six weeks after he started the tunnel, Chuck’s garden trowel clanged as it struck the brick of Peter Horrowitz’s basement wall.

He’d survived two near collapses, a persistent leak that threatened to flood his basement, and the particularly unpleasant discovery of the skeletal remains of Sandy the corgi. He’d very nearly given up a dozen times but all was forgotten with the sound that signalled one round to go in his fight against tyranny: Pete’s wall.

He trotted back down the tunnel, admiring the structure, and picked up the phone.

“Pete,” he said when the call was answered. “Go down to the basement.”

“You’re here?” Pete asked in disbelief.

“You’re Goddamn right I am.”

A minute later, Peter’s muffled voice called through the masonry. “Chuck?”

“The very same!” Chuck sang.

“Sonofabitch!” Pete replied. “You actually did it.”

“Operation Dark Ale is all but mission accomplished.”

There was silence for a few moments until Chuck continued, “You want me to push through or are you gonna do it? I mean, it’s your wall.”

“I, ah, I gotta be honest, Chuck. I didn’t think you’d get more than a few feet before you gave up. And seeing as I hadn’t heard from you in nearly two months, I assumed you’d, you know, stopped and gone back to Youtube.”

“What are you saying, Pete?”

“I’m saying I don’t know, Chuck.”

“What don’t you know?” Chuck asked, his temper rising.

“I'm saying I don't know if I can let you punch a hole in my basement wall.”

“B-But what happened to standing up for our rights?” Chuck called out. “And beers; what happened to freedom beers, Pete?”

“Come on, Chuck. It’s over.”

Chuck stood upright, wiped the sweat from his eyes. “Over?” he yelled. Something dawned on him. “They got to you, didn’t they?”

“What? No. What the hell—”

“They offer you cash for ratting me out?”

“Okay, now you’re talking crazy, Chuck.”

“That’s what all the turncoats say. Judas!”

“No, it’s over, Chuck!” Pete called through the wall. “The lockdown’s over. We can go to each other’s house again. Chuck?”

But Chuck had stormed back down the tunnel to fetch his drill. 

For five minutes the tunnel was filled with the deafening staccato of Chuck’s hammer drill. He worked at the mortar between the bricks until one finally loosened enough to push out into Pete’s basement.

Light poured in before the rectangular aperture was darkened by Rosemary’s scowling face. For a moment Chuck thought he’d tunnelled in a U shape, ending up back at his own house. Then Pete joined her, as did his wife, Margery. Chuck felt they had a collective look, not of anger, but much worse—disappointment.

“Chuck,” said Pete, stone-faced.

“Pete,” said Chuck. Then to his wife, “Honey?”

“I tried to tell you, they've lifted the lockdown, Charles,” said Rosemary. "I knew I should have checked on you."

“Reckon this is going to cost you a lot more than thirteen hundred bucks, Chuck.”

Chuck looked at the drill in his hands coated pink with brick dust.

“Got any beers?”