The Rise and fall of the Urban Bunker Part VII: The Final Battle

Change always occurs. Sometimes it starts small. Other times it bursts forth in a spider’s web of fissures opening the road ahead. For me, it was a small start, a beeping noise that triggered a cataclysm.

When I first arrived in Mambo Basin a decade ago, I was full of anticipation. Living here was an overwhelming, almost erotic adventure filled with vast potential. Any doubts were outweighed by my utter fascination and wonder at the sparkling sprawling setting I had chosen to enter.

But like the lover whose flaws can no longer be ignored, L.A eventually began to remind me why we could never be together, why it could never last between us. We were just too different. Nevertheless, I built a life in Los Angeles a life filled with friends, colleagues. Most significant: Dainty Warrior. Alternatively, I was intricately tied to the East Coast, to New England. Her salty smells and mist-covered granite hills comprise the air that first filled my lungs and the land I first felt beneath my feet. Los Angeles. New England. The choice had to be left to fate and fortified by compelling motives. Law School was that motive. And the location was to be decided by fate. I applied to six Law Schools. Six. Some were in New England. Some were in Los Angeles. And I waited to see what happened next.

The first letter came from a school in the southern boundaries of Mambo Basin. It was one of those thin envelopes. Gold embossed and official. I was not rejected. Nor was I accepted. I was waitlisted, placed somewhere in line, just in case a slot opened among the entering class. Not good enough. It was nice to know I was worth considering. But I find it hard to be excited about joining any organization that welcomes me with a shrug and the statement, “Wellllll. If there’s no one better…”

Three weeks later my world cracked open. I was back in Mambo Basin, walking off lunch. And I was contemplating a conversation I had with the representative from Abanaki Valley Law School in the tiny New England village of Rexford. She was a pleasant sort who took the time to check my file and verify that everything was received. She and I chatted for a few minutes about New England and the little mountain side shire where the school is located.

Rexford is a tiny town barely visible on any map. But the Abanaki Valley Law community is this little pungent potent example of dedication and excellence. Its mission: to meld learning and science and liberal arts with legal discourse to build powerful and forward thinking attorneys. This philosophy, this academic mission, sets it apart from any of the schools I was considering. Abanaki seemed the best choice. And I was certain I didn’t have a chance of getting in. So I went to lunch.

I was returning with a hoagie in my gut. It was a cappicola and ham filled monster called, “the east coaster”. A truck passed rustling the air and stirring up a swirl of dust and noise. Under the roar of the brief maelstrom I heard a beep. I stopped and listened. Another beep. My cell phone. I shot a hand into my pocket and looked at the incoming number. The area code was in northern New England.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” said the voice. It was the girl from Abanaki admissions. “We spoke earlier.” She said after introducing herself.

“Yes. I remember. What can I do for you?”

“Well,” she began with a sort of surrendered tone that I could not understand. “We were looking at your file and there is a little something we missed. I thought I should give you a call and speak to you about it.”

My mind twisted. What was wrong? Was something on the application missing? Did a transcript get lost? “I’m listening.” I said.

“Well. The Dean of Admissions said I should call you and inform you that you’ve been accepted.”

“What?” I could swear she just told me I was accepted.

“Congratulations. You’ve been accepted to the class of 2011.”

“What?” It seemed she was delusional. Apparently, she thought I’d been accepted.

“We’ll be sending you the acceptance letter in a couple of days. But the Dean felt you would appreciate the phone call.”

I stood there on the street staring at a small shrub near the bank. The girl from admissions was talking to me. But all I could hear was this breathing sound in my head: breathing, slow, even breathing. For the first time ever my future was tangible, focused. With that phone call everything changed. No matter what happened for the rest of time, go, not go, whatever. I got into law school. I got in. And it was a good school. Acceptance is the merit badge for an academic badass. It felt like I’d prevailed over something, maybe life itself. Suddenly, I was going to law school --- and home to New England. The joy was overwhelming, and fleeting.

“Congratulations.” said Dainty Warrior, but the sentiment was not genuine. Dainty Warrior’s utterance came through gritted teeth and tears. She did not want me to go. Her desires, her vision and plan for life were different than mine.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I had control over my future. It was not at the mercy of talent agents or studio executives. It was in my control. Do the homework, earn the grades. Achieve success. My control. My mission. My life. My journey. Mine. Succeed or fail. It was mine to own.
But Dainty Warrior had her own schooling to navigate and my announcement added urgency to her long fantasized desire: marriage and children. We’d discussed it in passing. We’d fantasized. But serious analysis was something we failed to do. Opening the topic snapped off a jagged precipice of issues we scarcely knew existed. And the Urban Bunker’s usually quiet and safe interior became a battle ground.

Suddenly we were exploring facets of our individual philosophies that we never attempted to discuss in the past, possibly because we never happened upon them. Or maybe our instincts knew better. Maybe we avoided the discussion because we secretly knew it would explode in our faces. Debates about where we wanted to spend our lives became heated differences on parenting which transitioned to arguments about the fundamentals of family and simple aesthetics. Dainty Warrior argued for life close to her Sister and far from my family while I advocated for New England and my Mother’s potential to be a wild and wonderful grandmother. Soon insults began. Pouting and silent treatments followed. And the truth of the situation became apparent. It was all unfolding.

Dainty Warrior and I are one of those wonderful little couples that impress everyone by staying together for nine years. The secret: don’t let it get messy. Don’t challenge the parameters. Don’t delve too deep. Beginning with one phone call and the promise of law school in New England, Dainty Warrior and I were plunged into an abyss of life-issues that proved so huge and so divisive, we could not find resolution. I could not ask Dainty Warrior to wait for marriage and children any more than she could ask me to stay in L.A and ignore the opportunity I have been offered. I could not simply choose between east coast and west coast. I had to choose the life I wanted for the rest of time. I had to choose the family I wanted for the rest of time. I had to choose between my family and Dainty Warrior’s. Once that choice was made, it could never be reversed. It was all because I wanted to go to law school, all because I wanted life to be a little better. It did not seem fair. But this lesson is not about fairness. It was clearly about bravery and strength and the desire to pursue happiness at all costs.

After some weeks of nasty bickering, the members of the Original Orangutan Squad stopped taking bets on who would prevail and began making plans to do us both and leave the bodies in separate flood channels. What finally transpired was a stalemate. Dainty Warrior and I remained together physically but apart emotionally. We both understood that I was going to depart for law school and she would remain in Mambo Basin. What happened after that was not a future we attempted to predict, though it was likely our story was coming to its end. We began making preparations to leave the Urban Bunker for good.

Dainty Warrior is in school. She will be a nurse some day, and a good one. I am going to law school. I assume I will practice as a lawyer. I know I will continue to write as well. But for now, a new future waits for me and for Dainty Warrior. Together or apart, I am certain our adventures will be grand, our journeys worth telling. But they will not be told from within the Urban Bunker. There are no more tales to tell of the Urban Bunker. The stories I needed to relate have all been written. It is time for something new.

When I began composing the Urban Bunker it was an experiment. I wanted to see what would happen if I just told some stories and shared some thoughts. I wanted to write according to my rules. I wanted to entertain and maybe inspire a different perspective. I believe I succeeded. People happened into this literary safe house. Some stayed, others visited from time to time. And I loved being able to share this experiment with them. For the gift and privilege of being able to share my stories, I say thank you.

In those first hours of the Urban Bunker, I also devised a plan. I wrote, in part: “If the day should come in six days, or six months that I no longer have anything to offer those who visit the bunker, we'll wire the bunker with Semtex and set the timers for two minutes.”

That was almost four years ago. Now, we find ourselves here, beyond the cultural blast zone, standing with our toes on the edge of truth.

The Original Orangutan Squad has cleared out the Bunker. We have secured the firearms and packed the vehicles with our belongings. The walls and supports of our Urban Bunker have been strategically packed with military grade explosives and we have retreated to a safe distance.

I open my hand and examine a single key. Soon it will be placed in a detonator box. I will turn it to arm the charges and a member of the Original Orangutan Squad will tap a button to initiate the firing sequence.

My protectors gather around me. We shake hands and we know that we are going our separate ways. The Original Orangutan Squad, my little band of assassins and warriors has served its purpose and accomplished its mission with dedication and professionalism. But they cannot come where I am going. I have to leave Mambo Basin without them. I have to step into life without fear, without an army. Succeed or fail the journey is mine and mine alone.

I insert the key and give it a twist. The charges are armed. With a nod I turn my back and stroll away. I cannot look. I will not look. The Urban Bunker will shatter. Amid the chest throbbing concussion and smoke and shower of concrete the Original Orangutan Squad will fade into the desert. It is not for me to see the direction they take, lest I am tempted to call upon them again.

I stand before Dainty Warrior and smile. There is love. There is sadness. There are two friends standing face to face sharing a silent gaze filled with wonder and happiness and sadness and anger and disappointment and memories and knowledge of one another that no person will ever know. I kiss her cheek and whisper a farewell. She kisses me and curls her lip, squinting away an angry tear before climbing into her vehicle. She waves goodbye drives west toward the city. I watch until her car dissolves into the horizon.

A deep pounding blast rattles my bones as the Urban Bunker flies apart in a ball of fire. I do not startle. I was expecting it. The hot shockwave radiates outward across the desert kicking up a ripple of dust that peppers my back. A glowing orange fireball billows skyward sucking up debris before dissipating into a smear of black smoke. Chunks of hot concrete and shards of metal rain down on the smoldering crater that was once The Urban Bunker.

Once the explosion has subsided I approach the crater and pick up a piece of rebar. It’s hot to the touch. I place one end against the sandy ground and carve some words into the dry earth. I draw an arrow pointing east before I too make my departure.

In the movies, the hero always fades into the western horizon, silhouetted against a blazing sunset. But as I roar across the dusty desert, I look east toward the sunrise and brightening skies. I look toward a new day and a new adventure. I look toward law school in a little village called Rexford. I look toward my home town of Harmony, Massachusetts. For the first time in years, I feel brave. I feel hopeful. I feel like happiness is within reach. Whatever occurs, I will write about it.

And maybe, just maybe, someone will find those words I scrawled in the desert floor. Maybe someone, standing out there on the edge of truth will look down and see that I wrote, “Follow me” followed by a simple web address, a clue to my location, a path for old friends to find new stories. And they will ask the same question I am asking myself right now. What will happen next?

Follow me: http://Kendellporter.blogspot.com.

Thank you for reading!!!

A. Kendell Porter

The Rise and fall of the Urban Bunker Part VI: Where the Stars Belong.

The plate was empty. A smear of squash was left where a pile formerly existed. A buttery film remained where once there was a filet of baked haddock. I had devoured the flakey white meat and took everything on the plate with it.

We were dining in a tavern down the road from the New England safe house. Low ceilings and high backed booths cocooned us against the crispy night air outside. A single musician lilted out a selection of Celtic folksongs. And I thought of nothing, nothing but the food in front of me. Honest food. No chipotle mayonnaise or seasoned salt covering the meat. There were no dancing waiters or themed gimmicks. No pumping beats on the sound system, no wall of televisions. There was nothing to distract or over stimulate the senses. This was real, unpretentious dining. I call it Puritan cuisine. Nothing too tricky here, just fish and squash and something green. Natural flavors enhanced by a pinch of salt and sneeze of pepper with a pad of butter to help it all down. And for the first time in years, I was experiencing something other than Los Angeles, something other than fear and defensive posturing and the overwhelming cacophony of a boundless metropolis. I was home and I liked it, possibly too much.

When I left Los Angeles to spend a weekend with my family, I was terrified I would never see the city again. But the second I stepped off the plane in New Hampshire, something happened. My soul came alive, my senses were awakened and suddenly, L.A seemed foreign and frightening. And I was not so sure that I needed to see L.A. again. Everything seemed to fit. I felt more sure footed. I could breathe easier. My asthma subsided. I could even see what people were thinking by looking in their eyes. It was as if I had stumbled on some lost tribe whose language I inexplicably understood.

The menus had all the right items in all the right places prepared using all the right methods. The supermarket had all the regional brands I forgot I missed because I’d gotten used to doing without them. And outside – in the night sky swirling high above me – the stars were located where they belong, each blinking body in its proper place on the celestial map. I felt a sense of balance and belonging that I have not felt in a long time. And I felt a sense of peace that I long ago forgot could exist.

The sensation was similar to being hit with a slab of wood every day for several years. Eventually, one gets accustomed to it. And then, one day, the beatings stop. Only in its absence does the discomfort become obvious. What I was feeling was terrifying because I could not ignore it. It needed to be addressed. But there was no time for that. I had come to convince my parents to move to L.A, where I planned on staying and where I planned on attending law school. That was my mission and I intended to see it through.

I fell onto the couch while Mother swirled around the kitchen. I examined the room. It is a small central room with a combination kitchen-sitting area. White walls ascended from plain wood floors. A wood stove chugged fire and heat. A wooden dining table sat under the twelve pane window. It was warm and comfortable in there. I pulled a bowl of mixed nuts close and cracked open an almond.

“You know. L.A’s not that bad.” I said. “The weather is nice. And the job prospects are pretty good. I mean. There are so many people there and so much money flying around.”

Mother was listening though she never ceased her frenzy. She was cleaning. I continued. “You guys could come out. You could find good work there. Lots of work.”

Mother nodded toward the other room where DadNotDad was stacking wood. “You think he would be comfortable in L.A?”

“Maybe.”

“And how would he compete against all the immigrant labor?”

“Easy I guess. He’s a good carpenter. He’s got a good aesthetic. The people in L.A would love him.” I looked up at the ceiling. DadNotDad built this safe house. He’d found the land, designed the house and purchased the materials nail by nail and board by board. He built it slow and paid for it as he could. No debt. No mortgage. It was his. He was this house’s owner and creator. The ceiling was perfect. Not a nail out of place, not a crooked slat of wood anywhere.

DadNotDad could do very well in L.A., I thought. He could even sell the safe house and make a tidy little profit. Mother could sell the house in Harmony and make just enough to move west. DadNotDad and Mother could get a place near me – something decent. It would not be as nice as this house. But it would respectable. Sure they’d have a mortgage. But they’d be working. They could probably find work. Probably.

I looked at the ceiling again. It really was perfect. The windows were perfect too. They had twelve panes, six on the top half and six on the bottom with natural wood sashes. And the wood stove was like this glowing heart at the center of this house. DadNotDad built the house. He owned it. He built it nail by nail, board by board.

“There really are a lot of people in L.A.” I said again, my gaze drifting out beyond the window panes to the dark front yard. “Lots of people. Everywhere. I mean, that’s a good thing. So much money there.”

DadNotDad built this house. He owns it. He built it with his own hands. He drove every nail and cut every piece of wood. Somewhere deep in the walls there was probably a two by four that he’d signed before closing the drywall forever.

The stars are where they belong, I thought.

I wondered if I would get into law school. I had two applications submitted. But it was too soon to hear back. I would submit more when I got back to L.A.

I heard the echoes of my mentors and colleagues in my head. “You should apply out of state. Your chances might be better.”

The stars are where they belong.

“Lots of people in L.A,” I said.

The haddock at the tavern was warm and delicate.

“So many people,” I said again.

It wasn’t fair to ask them to move. It wasn’t. New England is a good place. A land formed by pressure and ice. It is an ancient land where the hills are patient and wise.

Some of the best law schools in the country are on the east coast. The stars are where they belong.

Six years. It had been six years since I’d been home and over ten years since I moved to L.A. That is a lot of time away from family. I had many adventures in California. I’d experienced a lot of success and a handful of failure. But what now?

Law school. And then? A career? Maybe. More years in L.A? Likely. Raise a family? Sure, I guess, at some point. But in L.A? Never! Not in that city. The helicopters and freeways and noise. It’s a spreading, sprawling, viral place devoid of identity and introspection.

DadNotDad built this house, nail by nail. Law school. Apply out of state. My chances could be better. The stars are where they belong. This is home. I’m not afraid here.

“Mom?” I said.

“Yes?” She stopped. Something in my voice told her to listen carefully.

“It doesn’t make sense for you to come to L.A. I don’t want you to do it.”

“Really?” She said.

“I mean it. Don’t come anywhere near that place.”

She listened. She knew there was more. I looked at her and waited to make sure I really meant what I was about to say. I took a breath. “Can I come home?” my heart beat once. “I think I’m ready now.”

Next: The Rise and Fall of the Urban Bunker Part VII: The Final Battle

The Rise and fall of the Urban Bunker, Part V: The Autumn and the Fall

Making an elegant swoop out of the morning sky, a twin-engine regional jet glided into final approach. Aboard the little aircraft were about 40 passengers. Among them was a young soldier returning home from war. This two-hour flight from Atlanta to New England was the final portion of a 3-day journey that began at an airfield in Baghdad. His eyes were cracked and red from fatigue, though his uniform fatigues were crisp and alert. He flirted with a girl in the next seat and wearily answered a myriad of questions from the other passengers who listened to him with wonder. “Is it hot there?”, “Is it cold?” “Do they like us or hate us?” “Are we winning?” “Are you going back?”

There was a man on his way to a hunting trip in the mountains. He was as concerned about the welfare of his firearm as I was about mine. I had not seen my pistol since I handed my suitcase across the baggage counter in Los Angeles. With a two hour layover in Atlanta, which included a transfer between planes and terminals, anything could have occurred to my precious hardware. But the fate of my handgun was of minimal concern at that moment.

I was fastened tightly to my seat. Barely awake and overcome with the urge to take what I call, a landing piss. The moment that seatbelt sign illuminated, I was beset with a need to drain one off. “We’ll be on the ground in about 20 minutes.” announced the attendant. As if triggered by the same neuron that controls the urge to laugh at funerals, my bladder suddenly puffed right up.

I looked out the window and got my first view of New England in six years. Autumn was nearing its end and many of the leaves had already dropped. Yet there was still a mosaic of orange, red and brown covering the rolling landscape. I could make out twisting roads cutting through the scattered neighborhoods below.

The tops of the trees fairly tickled the airplane now as the ground came up to meet us. We dipped across a small field, and almost scraped over a fence. The pale, nearly white landing strip appeared directly under us. The pilot raised the nose, gently flaring the aircraft and….

WHOMP, the back wheels touched earth. The nose dipped and the front gear made contact a second later. Vibrations rattled up through the plane, the flaps flared out and a roaring wind engulfed us. My torso was urged forward by inertia. The roar subsided as we decelerated. The plane turned off the runway.

There was a loudspeaker click and the attendant’s gentle voice oozed through the cabin, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Manchester/Boston Regional Airport. The local time is 11:53am. This is the final stop for this flight. Those who have carry-on items, please be careful when opening the overhead compartments as the contents may shift during flight.”

The attendant continued her announcements, but most of the passengers were already shedding their seatbelts and clambering for position in the aisles. I waited and watched out my window. I could see ground crew outside surrounding the plane, waiting for it to stop.

The pilot barked a quiet command over the cabin P.A. “Flight attendants, prepare doors for arrival.”

We came to an almost indiscernible stop. The pilot cut the engines and the turbines whistled out their final gasp, PSSSTEEEeeeooooooooo.

I sat and waited. Six years. I made it. I was on the ground in New England. We did not crash. No terrorists hijacked the plane. No murder in the skies. Aside from being subjected to a bad movie and some stale crackers, nothing really horrifying occurred up there. And it makes sense. It’s a lot of work to hijack a plane.

First, someone has to find a bunch of guys who are willing to take on all the preparations necessary for the mission. That takes organization and cooperation. Anyone who has ever tried to get fifteen guys to agree on a pizza topping knows such things are rare indeed. Bin Laden, asshole that he is, got lucky pulling his little 9/11 group together. Religious extremists or not, most guys are guys all over. They’d much rather watch sports and get blowjobs than waste their morning dying for a cause. Terrorism is not for the lazy.

I heard the doors open and the passengers started to disembark. I stood up and grabbed my coat. I was expecting the air to be crisp. But I was not expecting the emotional response that I was about to experience. As soon as I stepped off the airplane into the unheated jetway, I was hit with a blast of autumn air, crisp, new, open air that smelled like damp leaves, salted mist and jet fuel.

ZANG! My mind filled with images: caramel coated apples, wood stoves and burning birch wood, lobster on a rainy day, good boots and wool socks, tiny window panes and wood clapboard siding, salt box houses, pine trees and maple leaves, good clam chowda’, black raspberry ice cream topped with chocolate jimmies. Not chocolate sprinkles. Fucking JIMMIES. Cuz that’s what we call ‘em back home. Everything good and wondrous I ever knew rose up out of the most hidden and secret places in my soul, places I have kept locked away for many years. They were followed by an overwhelming wave of relief. Los Angeles crumbled into barely recognizable shards of memory. Fear and trepidation drained out of my body like the urine in my bladder was threatening to do any second. I took a deep, gathering breath and scurried off to find a restroom.

But even as I stood at the urinal, flanked by weary travelers, I could not shake the feeling. At first, I thought it was simply the seduction of New England charm. But one needs exposure to all those little quaint traits before the effect is felt. This was different. This was brought on by a blast of chilled air in an airport. Not just any chilled air, New England air. Its smell is unique. Its feel in the nostrils is like nothing I have ever felt anywhere, from Big Bear, California to Alberta, Canada. New England’s cold air teases at the eyelids as a reminder that if it wanted to, it could remove all the skin off your face. It wrenched my soul. It woke me up and prodded something primal. Something that felt very --- right.

Moments later I stepped through the security gate into baggage claim. The soldier from my flight was behind me. I stepped to one side unnoticed. But the soldier’s entrance garnered applause. Passengers and security alike began clapping. His family rushed to him. They grabbed him and hugged him and rubbed his shaved head. I looked away and let the scene play without witness.

Moments later, my bag appeared. I unzipped it and darted my hand inside. My fingers met with the hard plastic gun case buried within. My gun made it. The hunter was next to me inspecting his firearms as well. They were all accounted for and intact, though the handle of his carrying case busted off in transit.

“Mother-cell.” I declared into my mobile phone. I had no Original Orangutan Squad to signal, no hidden earpiece. Just my cellphone set for voice dial. And somewhere outside, in a short term parking lot, my parents were sitting in a pickup truck waiting for my call.

The line came to life. Mother answered. I uttered a status check and brief order. “The package has arrived. I’m rolling now. Meet me curbside.” And I hung up. Though my protectors were absent, I still maintained my tactical nature. Fortunately, my parents understand and accept my ways. In fact, DadNotDad, whose National Guard training remains with him even after 40 years of civilian life, embraces my slightly militant procedures.

The truck rolled up as I stepped out of the terminal. DadNotDad jumped out, grabbed my bag and tossed in the back. I swung into the front passenger seat. DadNotDad mounted-up and we were rolling before anyone said a word.

I turned around. Mother was in the backseat. She was six years older, hair longer and more grey. But it was Mother, bundled up in her barn coat and knitted, wool cap. She, of course, started up right away, listing the shopping they’d done in preparation, the sleeping arrangements and the cleaning they’d done to make the safe-house comfortable. They’d even brought the couch from our home in Harmony Village so I could lounge in rustic luxury at the safe-house. It was all a bit much to absorb. I did not sleep well on the plane and I was still feeling the vibrations of my experience on the jetway.

I looked out the window and watched the passing landscape. Old maples and sapling birch dotted the meadows that surrounded us on both sides. Rolling, twisting roads took us up and over and around ancient gently sloping hills that were formed not by earthquakes and upheaval, but by the slow friction of glaciers advancing and retreating over tens of thousands of years. New England is old land, wise land formed by pressure and ice. And its people are born of that same matrix. It is a well-balanced solution of cold, wisdom and patience that simultaneously softens and toughens, and leaves no room for bullshit.

A voice in my head soothed my frenetic thoughts, “Try not to think about it.” I wanted to listen, but something was amiss in my mind. I had come to enjoy an autumn weekend with family. I was there to talk them into moving to L.A. But the existence I had fabricated for myself felt unstable. It was cracked at the foundation and poised to fall. Something substantial happened when I stepped off of the airplane. Life in L.A, the Urban Bunker, Law School, everything was about to change. I just didn’t know it yet.

Next: The Rise and fall of the Urban Bunker Part VI: Where the stars belong.