Bunker Down
Ken Post
I’m feeling a bit lightheaded so I figure I’ll close up a bit early today. As I toss a few files into my briefcase, a family of four walks in. My salesman eye quickly sizes them up: solid middle class with a price point probably smack in the center, edging back to frugal. They’ve brought the whole family—that’s a new one.
The father speaks first. “We’d like to buy a bunker.” His brown hair is pushed to one side like a bulldozer might move dirt, and a soft belly presses against his t-shirt. He has those socks that barely show outside your shoes.
“You’ve come to the right place. I’m Chet. I’d shake your hands but this Covid thing has nixed that.”
“I’m Ron.” He mimes shaking hands. “And this is Sally.” He gestures to his wife, who also imitates a handshake. “Hope it’s okay we don’t have masks on.”
“It’s fine. I’m not wearing one.” Next step, get the kids comfortable and distracted or this sale is going nowhere. I pull out colored markers and paper from my drawer. “The kids will probably be bored with all the shop talk, so let’s get them settled around this table so they can draw.”
“That’s so thoughtful of you,” Sally says. She has a low-cut tank top with “Soccer Mom” on it, flip flops, and knee-length shorts. I remind myself not to stare at her tits.
I pull two chairs out for the kids; a towheaded boy, about five, has a clear flow of snot trailing down to his lip Sally wipes with a Kleenex before he’s seated. He’s wearing the tiniest shin guards and soccer cleats I’ve ever seen. Cute little bugger, minus the boogers. The girl, around seven or so, has a pink ballet tutu on with matching barrettes in her hair.
Now I know why the kids are along for the ride; two doors down in the strip mall is a ballet studio. There is always a stream of parents coming and going there. The rest of the mall traffic hits Kwan’s Korean barbecue place on the far end, Kenny’s Tattoo Parlor, or The Cutting Edge Salon, the hair joint next door. I trim my hair in the mirror.
Sally notices a framed picture on my desk. “That’s a wonderful family photo,” she says. “Do you have a bunker for them?” Mom and Pop are standing in front of their clapboard farm house with me, and my older brother Donnie. “Actually, I don’t. Mom passed away in 2014 and Pop a year later. Donnie doesn’t live around here anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Sally.
I park the photo at the edge of my desk, bite my lip. “I guess we should get down to business.” I lay a three-ring binder and iPad on the table. “Before we take a look at bunkers, I find it helpful to do a client assessment to determine why you want one and what kind of options might fit.” I slide a checklist across the table and hand them a pen. “Take your time.”
Please identify the reasons (check all that apply) you want a bunker:
__ Antifa
__ Oath Keepers/Proud Boys
__Climate Change
__Nuclear war
__Pandemic
__ Hillary (kidding!)
__Socialists and Communists
__ Other Social Unrest (Black Lives Matter, Income Disparity, etc.)
__ General National Anxiety (GNA)
__All of the Above
The couple nod their heads together and pore over the list, murmuring. I leave them alone and busy myself looking for the Phillies score. Sally checks one box with the pen and Ron smiles. It is cute the way they work together. Must be nice to have a teammate.
“We keep hearing about all this climate change stuff,” Sally says. She plays with her wedding ring. “It seems important and something we may need to be worried about. Not so much for us, but for our kids’ sake.”
“We’re way above sea level here in Pennsylvania so I don’t consider it a big issue,” I say. I kind of like these folks, genuine and humble. Not like the uber-rich clients who want a bunker to keep up with the rest of their wealthy friends.
“Okay, we’ll leave it unchecked,” Ron says. They go back to perusing the list and check a few more boxes. “We’re ready now.” Ron hands the sheet and pen back.
I scan the list. “Nuclear war,” “pandemic,” “social unrest,” and “general national anxiety” are marked. “Okay, I think we can work with this.” “Why don’t we work our way through the binder material first. Once we’re done with the binder, we have interactive stuff on the iPad where you adjust the room layouts and features. It will cost everything automatically with each change you make.”
Ron and Sally look at one another. She reaches for Ron’s hand and squeezes it. “Let’s dig in,” says Sally.
They ooh and ah at the pictures. We’ve come a long way from Cold War bunkers made of cinder block, a naked light bulb, and a pile of surplus K-rations. These are sleek metal modules welded together with separate bedrooms, designer kitchens, bidets, hardwood flooring, game rooms, or whatever. All I know is if and when Armageddon comes, I’m gonna be above ground defending my house like it’s the Alamo. Either that or I’ll be quickly incinerated in a nuclear holocaust. I don’t want to stumble out of my hole to a world I don’t recognize and more dangerous than the one I hid from.
“We kind of like this one.” Sally points to a model resembling an underground Winnebago.
“Pretty tight for a family of four, especially if you have to tough it out underground for a while until the fighting stops or the radioactivity levels drop to tolerable levels.” I flip several pages. “You might want to upsize to this model. The minimal guidelines are 150 square feet per person for a two-week stay, or 200 square feet for an estimated four weeks or longer.” At the back of the binder is a tabbed section, “Specifications,” and I pluck a page out and hand it to Sally. “Quality of life underground is a key consideration.”
Sally looks it over and hands it to Ron. “I probably should have mentioned my parents who live down the road would join us. My brother too. He lives outside of Millersville. “
My lips purse. “You could pack them in, but that would be pretty tight and below the guidelines for mental health. Plus, if it’s a nuclear attack, your brother lives too far to make it. Maybe he needs to be left out of the equation.”
Sally puts her hand to her mouth and gasps. “I can’t sacrifice Tom.”
Ron pats Sally’s knee. “I guess we’re gonna go bigger. We’re not leaving family behind.” He reaches for the binder and points to a bunker. “How much for this one?”
I grab my updated price sheet from my desk. “That’s 60k.”
Ron makes a fist and gently coughs into it.
“Of course,” I say, “that’s just for the basic shell and the finished insides. The asterisk next to the price means there are other considerations. It doesn’t include the septic system, drain field, excavation costs, plumbing and electrical hookups, and other stuff.”
Ron sinks lower in his chair with each item I mention. I take a breath and let him regain his composure.
Sally jumps in and saves the day. “I think we need to do whatever it takes”—she looks at Ron—“within reason. It’s all about survivability, isn’t it?” she says.
She really does have an aura of positivity I find refreshing. A kind of natural, rural charm, like a freshly plowed field. Ron, who is less beaten-down now, perks up, and glows at his wife.
This is where my years of salesmanship come into play: cars, furniture, real estate. Ron’s at the brink and I don’t want to push him over. I need to pay it out slowly, set the drag loose. It’s all psychology and reading the buyer. I pick up their completed bunker checklist. “I see you’ve checked nuclear war. To keep you safe when an H-bomb drops, you’ll need specialized protection. For example, a blast door.”
Ron and Sally have a baffled look on their face. “What’s that?” they say in tandem.
“It’s a high-tech door made of steel. Our most popular model features three rotating cam latches, a 2800-degree melting point, and can sustain massive pressure waves.” I recall the videos of nuclear blasts wiping clean everything in their path, either by heat or supersonic wind. Do I really want to pop the blast door, climb out of my bunker, and find a fiery, charred landscape with radiation levels causing immediate sterilization? I think not.
“We hadn’t thought of that,” Ron says. “How much for the door?”
I point to the price sheet and Ron lets out a low whistle.
“Yeah, they’re spendy, but worth it. The good news is if you buy that model, I toss in free extra bennies.”
“Like what?”
“For starters, we’ll put a layer of cast, reinforced concrete around your metal building.” I wait to see if its importance registers. It doesn’t. “It shields the interior of the bunker from an electromagnetic pulse or geomagnetic storm.”
“Who comes up with this stuff?” Sally asks. “I had no idea.”
“Brainiac scientists, that’s who. I didn’t know about this stuff either,” I say. “Until I got into the bunker business.”
“Anything else you’re tossing into the deal?” Ron asks.
“Just getting to that. We throw in a free chemical and biological warfare air filtration system that will keep you safe from virtually all the nasties: sarin, ricin, cyanide, etc. Total value: 9,000 dollars.”
“Sounds good,” Ron says as he looks at Sally.
“The blast door combo special lasts ‘til the end of the month. You’ve got plenty of time to think it over. I want you guys to feel comfortable with all this. Go home. Talk it over. If you have questions give me a call or stop by.” I reach into my drawer and pull out a business card for them. “You can borrow that binder and check out my website too. It’s got everything, including all the forms you need to complete. I can also have my soil/groundwater guy swing by and check out your site. Gratis. Might give you more peace of mind.”
They stand and we fake shaking hands again. Their son, Walter, runs up and hands me the picture he drew.
“Here,” he says proudly. “I drew you.”
I actually have a squarish head, brown hair (graying at the temples), and brown eyes. To Walter, I look like a cross between Mister Potato Head and Ernie from Sesame Street. My face is orange, I have a nose the size of an extra-large hard-boiled egg, and an unruly thatch of black hair. I high-five Walter, Covid-be-damned. A good salesman always pays attention to the kids and I like Walter. He’s got spunk even if he is a crappy artist. He reminds me of my brother, Donnie, at that age, who actually is an artist, and a pretty darn good one. Donnie and I haven’t talked for months and a pang stirs in my gut. “Can I keep this?”
“It’s for you,” says Walter.
I make a big show of scotch-taping it to my file cabinet although I am truly touched by it. We all say our goodbyes, and Ron, Sally and the kids file out. I close up, hoping to catch the last few innings of the Philly game.
At home, I flop on the sofa, crack a beer, and snap on the TV. It’s the bottom of the ninth, the Phillies are down by six, and there are two outs so I give up and channel surf. The sofa smells of Millie, my old golden retriever that died last year. I almost tear up thinking about Millie and can’t make up my mind if I should get another dog. I miss the companionship on walks in the state park, and the “conversations” we used to have. When she was older, she’d curl up on an old blanket at the back of the office. I can’t bring myself to toss that old, stinky thing.
I click the remote and bounce from floods, to heat waves, to riots, to endless Covid, to Russian hacking, spiraling tariffs—it’s like a carousel of bad news. No wonder people are freaking out. Was it always this way? Disasters, natural and man-made, came one at a time and we could handle them. Now, it’s like being caught in a field during a hailstorm—no place to hide. That’s why the bunker business is booming. People want a place to escape. I feel like a counselor helping people cope with their fears. I don’t have a solution but living in a hole is not a winning choice. The money’s been good but I’ve seen the looks from my salesmen buddies at the Chamber of Commerce meetings. They’re not angels either yet even they’re looking down their noses at me these days. Charlie, over at Andy’s Appliance Centre said, “at least I’m selling something people can use.”
After the news, I roll the John Deere riding mower out of the garage. It’s a gift to myself bought with the cash from my first bunker sale. At twenty horsepower, it knocks out my half-acre of lawn in no time flat. I search for the red gas jug and pass by the garage shelves. A bunch of boxes are labeled “Chet and Donnie”; leftovers from cleaning out Mom and Pop’s house. The problem with being in the garage is it’s full of distractions. Sometimes I’m in the garage and can’t remember what I’m here for. I blow dust off the boxes and sneeze several times before I open them.
One box is full of photos. There’s Donnie and me at Pine Lake Reservoir straining to hold a string of bass. Our toothy grins as big as the fish. Another has us straddling a cannon barrel at Gettysburg. He’s in back with his arms around me, wearing a blue Union Civil War cap bought at the park store. The next box has our old baseball gloves. I pick mine up and hold it to my nose; the leather smells of Neatsfoot oil I religiously rubbed into it. The other glove says “Donnie R.” (Rikkelbach) and has our old phone number on it. It’s hard not to see us as kids and wonder where all the time went.
I kill off a leftover meat loaf dinner and wander out to my garden, suffering through this heat wave. Corn, tomatoes, zucchini sag in the blast furnace passing for summer. In a Covid-panic, I expanded the garden this year. More of everything, plus watermelons, peppers, peas. I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat all this shit before it dies on the vine. It sure would be nice to have help around here, a person to share this with. I turn on the hose and pass through the garden like a guy with a colostomy bag trailing behind.
My cell rings and it’s a rare call from Donnie. He owns an art gallery in Harrisburg.
We haven’t talked much since Trump got elected. Our politics are not the same, but the rift from 2016 created a chasm we can’t bridge. It stings losing your brother over this. How’s it going?” Donnie asks. “I bet you’re out in the garden at this time of day.”
“Good guess.”
“I know you aren’t much into art, but I thought I’d invite you down to Harrisburg for a show of my work.” He hesitates. “I’ll make you dinner since I don’t want to go to a restaurant.”
“Do I have to wear a mask?” I ask.
“I don’t want to get into politics with you now, but yes, you have to wear a mask. Everyone in the gallery will have to wear a mask, they’ll have to stay six feet apart and I can only have five people in at a time.”
I open Google Calendar on my phone. “When is the show?”
“Two weeks from Saturday.”
My calendar shows the date is empty. For some reason I say, “I may have a site inspection for a bunker.” Donnie isn’t a fan of my current occupation pandering to Trump’s hate-mongering and told me my business should be called “Apocalypse Now.” I’m starting to think he’s right. I never was much for Trump, but it was either that or Hillary, and I’ll be damned if I leave my ballot unmarked.
“Why don’t you get back to me in a week if your calendar clears,” Donnie suggests. “One thing for sure, though: I’m not making meat loaf. Anything but meat loaf.”
“Okay, message delivered.” I turn off the hose and drag it to me with one hand. “Thanks for the invite. I do appreciate it.”
The next day, I punch the code into the door lock to open in the morning, when my heart starts pounding and my breathing goes astray. Lately, it’s the same feeling I get when I open up. I fight it off but silently wonder what the hell is going on. It passes although I don’t have any appetite and leave the tuna sandwich I packed for lunch untouched in its Ziploc. Am I newly allergic to something in the office? I patrol for anything unusual and notice the trash I forgot to throw out last Friday. I don’t think it’s the problem but push the bar on the back door, and exit behind the strip mall, flinging the bag into the dumpster.
Two days later, I’m in the office updating my website, and returning missed calls. My eyes aren’t focusing and I’m sweating more than I should be. The AC’s working so what’s going on? I think it started a little after I walked in the office. I walk to the bathroom and feel light-headed. I gather my wits sitting on the toilet seat, get up, and throw cold water on my face. I’m blotting it with a paper towel and there’s this guy in the mirror. It’s me alright, but I don’t I like what I glimpse. He’s flushed and tired, but it’s only ten o’clock in the morning. My rapid Covid test came back negative so I Google panic attack and heart attack. I don’t have any chest pains, but there’s such a wide range of maladies I could just as well have a brain tumor.
Friday afternoon, my cell buzzes.
“Hi, Chet.”
It’s Mike from Neyhardt Toyota, an old family friend. “What’s up?”
“Remember Joe Stuenenberg?” Mike asks.
“Not really, why?” I take a swig from my water bottle.
“Joe’s our sales manager. I should say was our sales manager. He gave his two weeks’ notice today.” Mike pauses like he’s out of breath. “Totally out of the blue. His old lady hates winter here, wants to move to Phoenix. If you ask me, it’s out of the freezer and into the frying pan.”
“What’s this got to do with me?” I ask.
“You know the Old Man is fond of you.” Mike’s referring to Tom Neyhardt, the owner. The Neyhardts and Mom and Pop went to the same brick Lutheran church over on Pike Street for decades. “He told me to call to see if you want Joe’s job. He says you have the Midas touch.”
I’m flattered. Neyhardt’s sits on a rise above the road into town, like a castle, sun glinting off new car windshields. The place has been a gold mine for the forty years the Neyhardts have owned the dealership. They are the Lords of Slateville, the county seat. I imagine my office at Neyhardt’s, looking over our domain, the broad valley with Herndon Creek flowing through it. Trees blazing with color on the ridgeline this coming fall. “This is certainly a surprise. I’ve got a pretty good business going here, though.”
“The old man knows that.” A printer whirs in the background. “Neyhardt says we can muddle through while you phase out.”
“Even if I’m interested, it’s gonna take time.” I stare at a bank of three tall file cabinets against the wall plugged with paperwork. “There’s financials to run, contracts to close out.”
“Chet,” —Mike pauses for emphasis—“Tom said he’ll wait. He’s playing the long game and wants a local boy who’ll stick around. A guy who can mentor the young hotshots who think they know everything.”
“There’s one more thing.” Chet lowers his voice. “The Old Man’s a bit embarrassed about this bunker business. Said he’d have a hard time looking your parents—God rest their souls—in the eyes. He thinks you can do better. That’s just between you and me.”
I slump at the words. Tom Neyhardt used to give me pocket change for candy and sponsored my Little League team. “Let him know I’ll seriously consider it.”
“I’ll pass it on. Oh, one more thing. Tell Donnie I say hi,” Mike says.
The two of them played basketball together in high school and won the county championship. A few years ago, I fished Donnie’s tourney MVP trophy out of the garbage at his house. “You don’t want this anymore?” I asked Donnie.
“Nah, ancient history,” Donnie said.
It sits on a shelf in my living room next to a host of family photos.
“Will do, Mike. I’ll be in touch. Thanks.” I set my phone down and close the web browser.
The following Monday I haven’t reconnected with Ron and Sally. I’m not surprised—it’s a lot of money. I suspect things are percolating as they pencil the numbers and I don’t want to be pushy. Mike’s words gnaw at me like the cabbage moths eating my broccoli leaves.
Tuesday, I sell a small bunker to a single guy named Dez who removes his AR-15 from his shoulder when he enters the office and props it against the chair. He buys a model named the Hunker Bunker which is a cross between an underground safe room and a tornado shelter. It’s FEMA-approved and can hold ten people on two rows of bleacher seats. He’s not real talkative so I don’t have any idea what he’s hoping to accomplish packing people in like sardines. Dez yanks an envelope from his back pocket and it’s thick with cash. He plunks down the wad on the Hunker Bunker, signs the papers, and drives off in a black Hummer with all the windows darkened.
I’m paying a few bills during the afternoon when Ron and Sally walk in.
“Where the kids?” I ask.
“They’re with grandpa and grandma,” Sally says.
“Are you ready to take the plunge? Let’s gather around the table and check where we’re at.” I pull out chairs, get them seated and grab their file.
“Well, we’ve thought about it and don’t know if we can afford a bunker that works for us.”
I sit back in my chair, surprised; I thought they were a shoe-in. “I’m sorry to hear that.” My mind shifts gears to sweeten the pot. There are always cards to play; you just have to figure out which ones to lay down at the right time. “Perhaps there are a few tweaks to the bunker and price I can make for you.” I scan the list of options I gave them. “For starters, we could scale back the air conditioning model, drop down to a cheaper blast door, and I bet I could convince my buddy at the bank to knock off half a percent on the loan.”
“I appreciate that,” Ron says. He looks over at Sally, who uncrosses her legs. “Boy, I don’t know” says Ron. “This is a real tough one for us.”
Sally slides the bunker binder she borrowed from the last visit across my desk. “We gotta pick up the kids.”
“You have beautiful kids. Do you have any pictures of them? That Walter’s a real spark plug.”
Ron and Sally beam and whip out their cell phones and flip through pics of Walter and his sister trick or treating, making cookies, running through sprinklers. All the stuff me and Donnie did. “It’s a shame it’s gonna be such a harsh world for the next generation.” I leave that hanging there like a pitch over the middle of home plate.
They look at each other sadly. Ron sighs and says, “Yeah, I know. I guess we’d better get the kids.” He and Sally rise slowly. “Thanks, Chet.”
They walk out and I shove the binder in my desk drawer. One that got away. Just like that monster bass Donnie and I almost caught in Johnson’s Pond.
I paw through the latest National Geographic while the microwave hums with my chili dinner. The microwave dings and I set the bowl down, and smell the chili with the freshly melted cheddar and a pile of green onions on top. Mom used to make the best chili but all I do is open a can and throw on the toppings. Out of nowhere, Mom, Dad and Donnie appear in their seats at the oak table with a trio of somber expressions. Donnie is as silent and stern as one of those Easter Island heads in the National Geo.
I look into my bowl and push it away while the room closes in on me.
Two days later my head is buried in files when Ron and Sally walk in and he is so excited he’s bubbling like a spring-fed creek.
“We went over the numbers after we met the other day and then talked again with our parents, and my brother-in-law, Tom. We’re gonna do it—if your deal is still on the table.” They’ve got a sheaf full of financial paperwork in a folder on the table.
Sally adds, “Our parents will each take out second mortgages on their houses, and we’re gonna do the same. I emptied out the “cookie jar” nest egg I’ve saved since high school. Plus, we’re gonna kick in our kids’ college money. Not all of it, but a good chunk. After all, we’re doing this mostly for them”—Sally and Ron fist bump—“so they have an opportunity to go to college after the poop hits the fan.”
College. I remember those days. Or try to remember—I was high or drunk and missed half my classes freshman year before washing out. I burned through Mom and Pop’s savings like a brush fire. A real fuck-up. Donnie buckled down, worked two jobs and graduated in three and a half years. Followed his dreams. I chased the easy money in sales and never looked back. The look in his eyes, like I quit on myself. Maybe that’s what started it between me and Donnie. Trump made it worse.
Ron and Sally: good, hardworking Americans doing everything right. Scrabbling for the American Dream but willing to toss it away for a chunk of buried real estate they’ll never use. It’s beautiful in a way, but nuttier than a fruitcake in every other way.
And I’m like a Carney barker trying to get them to win one more stuffed animal. For a moment, I look at Ron and Sally, right past them, to the sun beating down in the parking lot. Ron sounds like he’s far away. My mind feels like it’s moving in a different direction from my body. Am I having a panic attack? Whatever it is, it’s a weird sensation. Everything kind of blurs. “Could you guys give me a minute?”
“Chet, are you okay?” Ron asks.
“I just need some fresh air for a bit.”
I step out into the parking lot and Mom and Pop shimmer on waves in front of me. I blink a few times, take a few slow, deep breathes, and pull myself together. I’m not sure what’s going on, but for the first time, I’m thinking clearly, clearer than I have in a long time.
Back in the office, Sally gets water from the office mini-kitchen and sets the glass in front of me. “Feeling better?” she asks.
I take a sip and stare at their papers in front of me. “Are you sure about this?”
Sally and Ron look puzzled. “We think so. That’s why we got all this paperwork together,” Sally says.
I gather their papers from the table, shuffle through them, and push their folder back to them with my index finger. “A few things have changed since we last talked.”
Ron’s eyebrows shoot up suspiciously, suspecting a sales gouge.
“I’m closing up shop and moving over to Neyhart’s.”
“But—,” Sally stammers.
I hold my hand up like a traffic cop. “I’m really sorry. This opportunity just came up.” Actually, I’m not sorry at all. I want to tell them to use the money to buy a Winnebago and take the kids to visit Yellowstone and Yosemite. Check out the Grand Canyon. Bring your parents too. They’ll never forget that stuff as long as they live. It’s all the things I want to do—that I’m gonna do—hopefully with Donnie. We’ll go fishing every chance we get. If we don’t kill each other along the way.
Ron and Sally’s mouths hang ajar and they stand, chairs scraping the floor as they half back out of the office. “Well, this is—,” says Sally. Ron grabs her forearm and shushes her. “C’mon, honey. We’re through here.” The door rattles as they exit.
Like an omen, a convertible Toyota zips by. With cars, you sell the Great American Road, wind blowing through your hair, and I want to follow that road. I can’t wait to tell Donnie when I drop in on him in Harrisburg.
Ken Post
I’m feeling a bit lightheaded so I figure I’ll close up a bit early today. As I toss a few files into my briefcase, a family of four walks in. My salesman eye quickly sizes them up: solid middle class with a price point probably smack in the center, edging back to frugal. They’ve brought the whole family—that’s a new one.
The father speaks first. “We’d like to buy a bunker.” His brown hair is pushed to one side like a bulldozer might move dirt, and a soft belly presses against his t-shirt. He has those socks that barely show outside your shoes.
“You’ve come to the right place. I’m Chet. I’d shake your hands but this Covid thing has nixed that.”
“I’m Ron.” He mimes shaking hands. “And this is Sally.” He gestures to his wife, who also imitates a handshake. “Hope it’s okay we don’t have masks on.”
“It’s fine. I’m not wearing one.” Next step, get the kids comfortable and distracted or this sale is going nowhere. I pull out colored markers and paper from my drawer. “The kids will probably be bored with all the shop talk, so let’s get them settled around this table so they can draw.”
“That’s so thoughtful of you,” Sally says. She has a low-cut tank top with “Soccer Mom” on it, flip flops, and knee-length shorts. I remind myself not to stare at her tits.
I pull two chairs out for the kids; a towheaded boy, about five, has a clear flow of snot trailing down to his lip Sally wipes with a Kleenex before he’s seated. He’s wearing the tiniest shin guards and soccer cleats I’ve ever seen. Cute little bugger, minus the boogers. The girl, around seven or so, has a pink ballet tutu on with matching barrettes in her hair.
Now I know why the kids are along for the ride; two doors down in the strip mall is a ballet studio. There is always a stream of parents coming and going there. The rest of the mall traffic hits Kwan’s Korean barbecue place on the far end, Kenny’s Tattoo Parlor, or The Cutting Edge Salon, the hair joint next door. I trim my hair in the mirror.
Sally notices a framed picture on my desk. “That’s a wonderful family photo,” she says. “Do you have a bunker for them?” Mom and Pop are standing in front of their clapboard farm house with me, and my older brother Donnie. “Actually, I don’t. Mom passed away in 2014 and Pop a year later. Donnie doesn’t live around here anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Sally.
I park the photo at the edge of my desk, bite my lip. “I guess we should get down to business.” I lay a three-ring binder and iPad on the table. “Before we take a look at bunkers, I find it helpful to do a client assessment to determine why you want one and what kind of options might fit.” I slide a checklist across the table and hand them a pen. “Take your time.”
Please identify the reasons (check all that apply) you want a bunker:
__ Antifa
__ Oath Keepers/Proud Boys
__Climate Change
__Nuclear war
__Pandemic
__ Hillary (kidding!)
__Socialists and Communists
__ Other Social Unrest (Black Lives Matter, Income Disparity, etc.)
__ General National Anxiety (GNA)
__All of the Above
The couple nod their heads together and pore over the list, murmuring. I leave them alone and busy myself looking for the Phillies score. Sally checks one box with the pen and Ron smiles. It is cute the way they work together. Must be nice to have a teammate.
“We keep hearing about all this climate change stuff,” Sally says. She plays with her wedding ring. “It seems important and something we may need to be worried about. Not so much for us, but for our kids’ sake.”
“We’re way above sea level here in Pennsylvania so I don’t consider it a big issue,” I say. I kind of like these folks, genuine and humble. Not like the uber-rich clients who want a bunker to keep up with the rest of their wealthy friends.
“Okay, we’ll leave it unchecked,” Ron says. They go back to perusing the list and check a few more boxes. “We’re ready now.” Ron hands the sheet and pen back.
I scan the list. “Nuclear war,” “pandemic,” “social unrest,” and “general national anxiety” are marked. “Okay, I think we can work with this.” “Why don’t we work our way through the binder material first. Once we’re done with the binder, we have interactive stuff on the iPad where you adjust the room layouts and features. It will cost everything automatically with each change you make.”
Ron and Sally look at one another. She reaches for Ron’s hand and squeezes it. “Let’s dig in,” says Sally.
They ooh and ah at the pictures. We’ve come a long way from Cold War bunkers made of cinder block, a naked light bulb, and a pile of surplus K-rations. These are sleek metal modules welded together with separate bedrooms, designer kitchens, bidets, hardwood flooring, game rooms, or whatever. All I know is if and when Armageddon comes, I’m gonna be above ground defending my house like it’s the Alamo. Either that or I’ll be quickly incinerated in a nuclear holocaust. I don’t want to stumble out of my hole to a world I don’t recognize and more dangerous than the one I hid from.
“We kind of like this one.” Sally points to a model resembling an underground Winnebago.
“Pretty tight for a family of four, especially if you have to tough it out underground for a while until the fighting stops or the radioactivity levels drop to tolerable levels.” I flip several pages. “You might want to upsize to this model. The minimal guidelines are 150 square feet per person for a two-week stay, or 200 square feet for an estimated four weeks or longer.” At the back of the binder is a tabbed section, “Specifications,” and I pluck a page out and hand it to Sally. “Quality of life underground is a key consideration.”
Sally looks it over and hands it to Ron. “I probably should have mentioned my parents who live down the road would join us. My brother too. He lives outside of Millersville. “
My lips purse. “You could pack them in, but that would be pretty tight and below the guidelines for mental health. Plus, if it’s a nuclear attack, your brother lives too far to make it. Maybe he needs to be left out of the equation.”
Sally puts her hand to her mouth and gasps. “I can’t sacrifice Tom.”
Ron pats Sally’s knee. “I guess we’re gonna go bigger. We’re not leaving family behind.” He reaches for the binder and points to a bunker. “How much for this one?”
I grab my updated price sheet from my desk. “That’s 60k.”
Ron makes a fist and gently coughs into it.
“Of course,” I say, “that’s just for the basic shell and the finished insides. The asterisk next to the price means there are other considerations. It doesn’t include the septic system, drain field, excavation costs, plumbing and electrical hookups, and other stuff.”
Ron sinks lower in his chair with each item I mention. I take a breath and let him regain his composure.
Sally jumps in and saves the day. “I think we need to do whatever it takes”—she looks at Ron—“within reason. It’s all about survivability, isn’t it?” she says.
She really does have an aura of positivity I find refreshing. A kind of natural, rural charm, like a freshly plowed field. Ron, who is less beaten-down now, perks up, and glows at his wife.
This is where my years of salesmanship come into play: cars, furniture, real estate. Ron’s at the brink and I don’t want to push him over. I need to pay it out slowly, set the drag loose. It’s all psychology and reading the buyer. I pick up their completed bunker checklist. “I see you’ve checked nuclear war. To keep you safe when an H-bomb drops, you’ll need specialized protection. For example, a blast door.”
Ron and Sally have a baffled look on their face. “What’s that?” they say in tandem.
“It’s a high-tech door made of steel. Our most popular model features three rotating cam latches, a 2800-degree melting point, and can sustain massive pressure waves.” I recall the videos of nuclear blasts wiping clean everything in their path, either by heat or supersonic wind. Do I really want to pop the blast door, climb out of my bunker, and find a fiery, charred landscape with radiation levels causing immediate sterilization? I think not.
“We hadn’t thought of that,” Ron says. “How much for the door?”
I point to the price sheet and Ron lets out a low whistle.
“Yeah, they’re spendy, but worth it. The good news is if you buy that model, I toss in free extra bennies.”
“Like what?”
“For starters, we’ll put a layer of cast, reinforced concrete around your metal building.” I wait to see if its importance registers. It doesn’t. “It shields the interior of the bunker from an electromagnetic pulse or geomagnetic storm.”
“Who comes up with this stuff?” Sally asks. “I had no idea.”
“Brainiac scientists, that’s who. I didn’t know about this stuff either,” I say. “Until I got into the bunker business.”
“Anything else you’re tossing into the deal?” Ron asks.
“Just getting to that. We throw in a free chemical and biological warfare air filtration system that will keep you safe from virtually all the nasties: sarin, ricin, cyanide, etc. Total value: 9,000 dollars.”
“Sounds good,” Ron says as he looks at Sally.
“The blast door combo special lasts ‘til the end of the month. You’ve got plenty of time to think it over. I want you guys to feel comfortable with all this. Go home. Talk it over. If you have questions give me a call or stop by.” I reach into my drawer and pull out a business card for them. “You can borrow that binder and check out my website too. It’s got everything, including all the forms you need to complete. I can also have my soil/groundwater guy swing by and check out your site. Gratis. Might give you more peace of mind.”
They stand and we fake shaking hands again. Their son, Walter, runs up and hands me the picture he drew.
“Here,” he says proudly. “I drew you.”
I actually have a squarish head, brown hair (graying at the temples), and brown eyes. To Walter, I look like a cross between Mister Potato Head and Ernie from Sesame Street. My face is orange, I have a nose the size of an extra-large hard-boiled egg, and an unruly thatch of black hair. I high-five Walter, Covid-be-damned. A good salesman always pays attention to the kids and I like Walter. He’s got spunk even if he is a crappy artist. He reminds me of my brother, Donnie, at that age, who actually is an artist, and a pretty darn good one. Donnie and I haven’t talked for months and a pang stirs in my gut. “Can I keep this?”
“It’s for you,” says Walter.
I make a big show of scotch-taping it to my file cabinet although I am truly touched by it. We all say our goodbyes, and Ron, Sally and the kids file out. I close up, hoping to catch the last few innings of the Philly game.
At home, I flop on the sofa, crack a beer, and snap on the TV. It’s the bottom of the ninth, the Phillies are down by six, and there are two outs so I give up and channel surf. The sofa smells of Millie, my old golden retriever that died last year. I almost tear up thinking about Millie and can’t make up my mind if I should get another dog. I miss the companionship on walks in the state park, and the “conversations” we used to have. When she was older, she’d curl up on an old blanket at the back of the office. I can’t bring myself to toss that old, stinky thing.
I click the remote and bounce from floods, to heat waves, to riots, to endless Covid, to Russian hacking, spiraling tariffs—it’s like a carousel of bad news. No wonder people are freaking out. Was it always this way? Disasters, natural and man-made, came one at a time and we could handle them. Now, it’s like being caught in a field during a hailstorm—no place to hide. That’s why the bunker business is booming. People want a place to escape. I feel like a counselor helping people cope with their fears. I don’t have a solution but living in a hole is not a winning choice. The money’s been good but I’ve seen the looks from my salesmen buddies at the Chamber of Commerce meetings. They’re not angels either yet even they’re looking down their noses at me these days. Charlie, over at Andy’s Appliance Centre said, “at least I’m selling something people can use.”
After the news, I roll the John Deere riding mower out of the garage. It’s a gift to myself bought with the cash from my first bunker sale. At twenty horsepower, it knocks out my half-acre of lawn in no time flat. I search for the red gas jug and pass by the garage shelves. A bunch of boxes are labeled “Chet and Donnie”; leftovers from cleaning out Mom and Pop’s house. The problem with being in the garage is it’s full of distractions. Sometimes I’m in the garage and can’t remember what I’m here for. I blow dust off the boxes and sneeze several times before I open them.
One box is full of photos. There’s Donnie and me at Pine Lake Reservoir straining to hold a string of bass. Our toothy grins as big as the fish. Another has us straddling a cannon barrel at Gettysburg. He’s in back with his arms around me, wearing a blue Union Civil War cap bought at the park store. The next box has our old baseball gloves. I pick mine up and hold it to my nose; the leather smells of Neatsfoot oil I religiously rubbed into it. The other glove says “Donnie R.” (Rikkelbach) and has our old phone number on it. It’s hard not to see us as kids and wonder where all the time went.
I kill off a leftover meat loaf dinner and wander out to my garden, suffering through this heat wave. Corn, tomatoes, zucchini sag in the blast furnace passing for summer. In a Covid-panic, I expanded the garden this year. More of everything, plus watermelons, peppers, peas. I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat all this shit before it dies on the vine. It sure would be nice to have help around here, a person to share this with. I turn on the hose and pass through the garden like a guy with a colostomy bag trailing behind.
My cell rings and it’s a rare call from Donnie. He owns an art gallery in Harrisburg.
We haven’t talked much since Trump got elected. Our politics are not the same, but the rift from 2016 created a chasm we can’t bridge. It stings losing your brother over this. How’s it going?” Donnie asks. “I bet you’re out in the garden at this time of day.”
“Good guess.”
“I know you aren’t much into art, but I thought I’d invite you down to Harrisburg for a show of my work.” He hesitates. “I’ll make you dinner since I don’t want to go to a restaurant.”
“Do I have to wear a mask?” I ask.
“I don’t want to get into politics with you now, but yes, you have to wear a mask. Everyone in the gallery will have to wear a mask, they’ll have to stay six feet apart and I can only have five people in at a time.”
I open Google Calendar on my phone. “When is the show?”
“Two weeks from Saturday.”
My calendar shows the date is empty. For some reason I say, “I may have a site inspection for a bunker.” Donnie isn’t a fan of my current occupation pandering to Trump’s hate-mongering and told me my business should be called “Apocalypse Now.” I’m starting to think he’s right. I never was much for Trump, but it was either that or Hillary, and I’ll be damned if I leave my ballot unmarked.
“Why don’t you get back to me in a week if your calendar clears,” Donnie suggests. “One thing for sure, though: I’m not making meat loaf. Anything but meat loaf.”
“Okay, message delivered.” I turn off the hose and drag it to me with one hand. “Thanks for the invite. I do appreciate it.”
The next day, I punch the code into the door lock to open in the morning, when my heart starts pounding and my breathing goes astray. Lately, it’s the same feeling I get when I open up. I fight it off but silently wonder what the hell is going on. It passes although I don’t have any appetite and leave the tuna sandwich I packed for lunch untouched in its Ziploc. Am I newly allergic to something in the office? I patrol for anything unusual and notice the trash I forgot to throw out last Friday. I don’t think it’s the problem but push the bar on the back door, and exit behind the strip mall, flinging the bag into the dumpster.
Two days later, I’m in the office updating my website, and returning missed calls. My eyes aren’t focusing and I’m sweating more than I should be. The AC’s working so what’s going on? I think it started a little after I walked in the office. I walk to the bathroom and feel light-headed. I gather my wits sitting on the toilet seat, get up, and throw cold water on my face. I’m blotting it with a paper towel and there’s this guy in the mirror. It’s me alright, but I don’t I like what I glimpse. He’s flushed and tired, but it’s only ten o’clock in the morning. My rapid Covid test came back negative so I Google panic attack and heart attack. I don’t have any chest pains, but there’s such a wide range of maladies I could just as well have a brain tumor.
Friday afternoon, my cell buzzes.
“Hi, Chet.”
It’s Mike from Neyhardt Toyota, an old family friend. “What’s up?”
“Remember Joe Stuenenberg?” Mike asks.
“Not really, why?” I take a swig from my water bottle.
“Joe’s our sales manager. I should say was our sales manager. He gave his two weeks’ notice today.” Mike pauses like he’s out of breath. “Totally out of the blue. His old lady hates winter here, wants to move to Phoenix. If you ask me, it’s out of the freezer and into the frying pan.”
“What’s this got to do with me?” I ask.
“You know the Old Man is fond of you.” Mike’s referring to Tom Neyhardt, the owner. The Neyhardts and Mom and Pop went to the same brick Lutheran church over on Pike Street for decades. “He told me to call to see if you want Joe’s job. He says you have the Midas touch.”
I’m flattered. Neyhardt’s sits on a rise above the road into town, like a castle, sun glinting off new car windshields. The place has been a gold mine for the forty years the Neyhardts have owned the dealership. They are the Lords of Slateville, the county seat. I imagine my office at Neyhardt’s, looking over our domain, the broad valley with Herndon Creek flowing through it. Trees blazing with color on the ridgeline this coming fall. “This is certainly a surprise. I’ve got a pretty good business going here, though.”
“The old man knows that.” A printer whirs in the background. “Neyhardt says we can muddle through while you phase out.”
“Even if I’m interested, it’s gonna take time.” I stare at a bank of three tall file cabinets against the wall plugged with paperwork. “There’s financials to run, contracts to close out.”
“Chet,” —Mike pauses for emphasis—“Tom said he’ll wait. He’s playing the long game and wants a local boy who’ll stick around. A guy who can mentor the young hotshots who think they know everything.”
“There’s one more thing.” Chet lowers his voice. “The Old Man’s a bit embarrassed about this bunker business. Said he’d have a hard time looking your parents—God rest their souls—in the eyes. He thinks you can do better. That’s just between you and me.”
I slump at the words. Tom Neyhardt used to give me pocket change for candy and sponsored my Little League team. “Let him know I’ll seriously consider it.”
“I’ll pass it on. Oh, one more thing. Tell Donnie I say hi,” Mike says.
The two of them played basketball together in high school and won the county championship. A few years ago, I fished Donnie’s tourney MVP trophy out of the garbage at his house. “You don’t want this anymore?” I asked Donnie.
“Nah, ancient history,” Donnie said.
It sits on a shelf in my living room next to a host of family photos.
“Will do, Mike. I’ll be in touch. Thanks.” I set my phone down and close the web browser.
The following Monday I haven’t reconnected with Ron and Sally. I’m not surprised—it’s a lot of money. I suspect things are percolating as they pencil the numbers and I don’t want to be pushy. Mike’s words gnaw at me like the cabbage moths eating my broccoli leaves.
Tuesday, I sell a small bunker to a single guy named Dez who removes his AR-15 from his shoulder when he enters the office and props it against the chair. He buys a model named the Hunker Bunker which is a cross between an underground safe room and a tornado shelter. It’s FEMA-approved and can hold ten people on two rows of bleacher seats. He’s not real talkative so I don’t have any idea what he’s hoping to accomplish packing people in like sardines. Dez yanks an envelope from his back pocket and it’s thick with cash. He plunks down the wad on the Hunker Bunker, signs the papers, and drives off in a black Hummer with all the windows darkened.
I’m paying a few bills during the afternoon when Ron and Sally walk in.
“Where the kids?” I ask.
“They’re with grandpa and grandma,” Sally says.
“Are you ready to take the plunge? Let’s gather around the table and check where we’re at.” I pull out chairs, get them seated and grab their file.
“Well, we’ve thought about it and don’t know if we can afford a bunker that works for us.”
I sit back in my chair, surprised; I thought they were a shoe-in. “I’m sorry to hear that.” My mind shifts gears to sweeten the pot. There are always cards to play; you just have to figure out which ones to lay down at the right time. “Perhaps there are a few tweaks to the bunker and price I can make for you.” I scan the list of options I gave them. “For starters, we could scale back the air conditioning model, drop down to a cheaper blast door, and I bet I could convince my buddy at the bank to knock off half a percent on the loan.”
“I appreciate that,” Ron says. He looks over at Sally, who uncrosses her legs. “Boy, I don’t know” says Ron. “This is a real tough one for us.”
Sally slides the bunker binder she borrowed from the last visit across my desk. “We gotta pick up the kids.”
“You have beautiful kids. Do you have any pictures of them? That Walter’s a real spark plug.”
Ron and Sally beam and whip out their cell phones and flip through pics of Walter and his sister trick or treating, making cookies, running through sprinklers. All the stuff me and Donnie did. “It’s a shame it’s gonna be such a harsh world for the next generation.” I leave that hanging there like a pitch over the middle of home plate.
They look at each other sadly. Ron sighs and says, “Yeah, I know. I guess we’d better get the kids.” He and Sally rise slowly. “Thanks, Chet.”
They walk out and I shove the binder in my desk drawer. One that got away. Just like that monster bass Donnie and I almost caught in Johnson’s Pond.
I paw through the latest National Geographic while the microwave hums with my chili dinner. The microwave dings and I set the bowl down, and smell the chili with the freshly melted cheddar and a pile of green onions on top. Mom used to make the best chili but all I do is open a can and throw on the toppings. Out of nowhere, Mom, Dad and Donnie appear in their seats at the oak table with a trio of somber expressions. Donnie is as silent and stern as one of those Easter Island heads in the National Geo.
I look into my bowl and push it away while the room closes in on me.
Two days later my head is buried in files when Ron and Sally walk in and he is so excited he’s bubbling like a spring-fed creek.
“We went over the numbers after we met the other day and then talked again with our parents, and my brother-in-law, Tom. We’re gonna do it—if your deal is still on the table.” They’ve got a sheaf full of financial paperwork in a folder on the table.
Sally adds, “Our parents will each take out second mortgages on their houses, and we’re gonna do the same. I emptied out the “cookie jar” nest egg I’ve saved since high school. Plus, we’re gonna kick in our kids’ college money. Not all of it, but a good chunk. After all, we’re doing this mostly for them”—Sally and Ron fist bump—“so they have an opportunity to go to college after the poop hits the fan.”
College. I remember those days. Or try to remember—I was high or drunk and missed half my classes freshman year before washing out. I burned through Mom and Pop’s savings like a brush fire. A real fuck-up. Donnie buckled down, worked two jobs and graduated in three and a half years. Followed his dreams. I chased the easy money in sales and never looked back. The look in his eyes, like I quit on myself. Maybe that’s what started it between me and Donnie. Trump made it worse.
Ron and Sally: good, hardworking Americans doing everything right. Scrabbling for the American Dream but willing to toss it away for a chunk of buried real estate they’ll never use. It’s beautiful in a way, but nuttier than a fruitcake in every other way.
And I’m like a Carney barker trying to get them to win one more stuffed animal. For a moment, I look at Ron and Sally, right past them, to the sun beating down in the parking lot. Ron sounds like he’s far away. My mind feels like it’s moving in a different direction from my body. Am I having a panic attack? Whatever it is, it’s a weird sensation. Everything kind of blurs. “Could you guys give me a minute?”
“Chet, are you okay?” Ron asks.
“I just need some fresh air for a bit.”
I step out into the parking lot and Mom and Pop shimmer on waves in front of me. I blink a few times, take a few slow, deep breathes, and pull myself together. I’m not sure what’s going on, but for the first time, I’m thinking clearly, clearer than I have in a long time.
Back in the office, Sally gets water from the office mini-kitchen and sets the glass in front of me. “Feeling better?” she asks.
I take a sip and stare at their papers in front of me. “Are you sure about this?”
Sally and Ron look puzzled. “We think so. That’s why we got all this paperwork together,” Sally says.
I gather their papers from the table, shuffle through them, and push their folder back to them with my index finger. “A few things have changed since we last talked.”
Ron’s eyebrows shoot up suspiciously, suspecting a sales gouge.
“I’m closing up shop and moving over to Neyhart’s.”
“But—,” Sally stammers.
I hold my hand up like a traffic cop. “I’m really sorry. This opportunity just came up.” Actually, I’m not sorry at all. I want to tell them to use the money to buy a Winnebago and take the kids to visit Yellowstone and Yosemite. Check out the Grand Canyon. Bring your parents too. They’ll never forget that stuff as long as they live. It’s all the things I want to do—that I’m gonna do—hopefully with Donnie. We’ll go fishing every chance we get. If we don’t kill each other along the way.
Ron and Sally’s mouths hang ajar and they stand, chairs scraping the floor as they half back out of the office. “Well, this is—,” says Sally. Ron grabs her forearm and shushes her. “C’mon, honey. We’re through here.” The door rattles as they exit.
Like an omen, a convertible Toyota zips by. With cars, you sell the Great American Road, wind blowing through your hair, and I want to follow that road. I can’t wait to tell Donnie when I drop in on him in Harrisburg.
