Black Balloon

Chapter 11

We took the same route as my last trip to the surface, through the mild-mannered-barbershop-by-day that was secretly a passage-to-a-top-secret-underground-facility-by-night. Except now the barber chairs were empty, the streetlights were lit, and the base was a ghost town; empty sidewalks, shuttered doors, vehicles parked idle. A guard trailed us the whole way, a mandated compromise for Gendelman's little field trip. I had gotten to know the various soldiers assigned to this duty as they were on regular rotation, and although none of them would tell me their name or talk to me at all really, it didn't stop me from asking. When they ignored me, I started making up names for each of them. This evening, we were accompanied by Carlos, a pasty redheaded man with freckles and an inapt nickname.

I stepped from the barber shop and out into the abandoned street where I was met with a sight that could have soothed the sorest of eyes: Standing in the road, wearing a polka dot circle dress and clutching a matching pocket book, . She was a knockout with her crimson lipstick and curly dark hair, all decked out for a Saturday night. Her beauty stunned me into silence.

"You already know Ms. Ashcroft, I believe?" Gendelman said.

"Ye-Yes."

"She's agreed to accompany us tonight. I figure you tire of seeing my ugly face every day. Mildred, this is Miles Vandergriff. I know you've met, but I don't believe you've been properly introduced."

"Hello, Miles."

Hi..."

We shook hands as if meeting for the first time.

"Where shall we go tonight?" Gendelman teased rhetorically. "Ah! I have a special treat in my mind."

In our previous encounters, when she had been performing her examinations, the dynamic was different. The "rules" were established: patient and nurse, and so I knew what was expected of me. But tonight was different. Tonight was a social occasion and what was expected of me was to be funny, interesting, charming, all of those things. The old me, in my old life back in Alta, was never shy, and yet suddenly now I was rendered speechless, racking my brain to think of something to say that didn't sound clumsy, boring, or stupid. I must be losing my social skills from being caged up.

Two empty blocks later, we arrived at a brick building with white pillars supporting its grand portico. It stood out sharply among the other structures on base, starkly contrasted with the mid-century minimalist architecture and steel Quonset huts. Gendelman wrapped his knuckles on the heavy wooden door which immediately opened. A soldier in formal Air Force regalia greeted him.

"Frank," the man said warmly. "How are you?"

"Mr. Meijer."

"Come in."

"I have guests. I hope that is ok?"

"More the merrier."

The man held the door as the three of us entered and Carlos waited outside per Gendelman's instructions. We walked into what I can only describe as a rich man's cigar room, like something you'd see on the Titanic, the type of place where twentieth century railroad magnates would discuss vertical integration. Ornate molding decorated the walls. At the far end of the room was a huge fire place. Gilded portraits of military leadership hung on every wall. Groupings of leather-bound chairs were placed around opulent mahogany tables, most of which were empty. A thick cloud of sweet-smelling cigar smoke filled every cubic foot of air while a bartender in a jacket and tie polished whiskey glasses to a perfect shine.

It was incongruous, such a club existing in this place, the middle of the desert. What infrastructure must exist to keep a fresh supply of limes, lemons, and bourbon flowing? But it was the U.S. military of the nineteen fifties, only ten years removed from World War Two and at the height of a nuclear standoff with the Soviets. They must have had the budget to get anything they wanted. If some three star general requested a pool with a lazy river be built on base, he'd be floating in an inner tube sipping a cocktail the next day.