TUBULAR TRIBULATION

With the most pivotal crossroads in history looming on the immediate horizon like the blackest of thunderclouds ready to ignite an earth-shattering blaze with a bolt heard round the world, now feels like a half-decent time to revisit the previous sharpest turning point in my life.

24, October, 1979

I’m in the golden years of my physical prime at 60 years old, and I’ve never left the country. Moreover, I’ve only set foot in 7 states. You could say that I’m bored. You could also be lying.

Picture this. It’s someone’s birthday and, logically/as usual, almost no one cares. Elvyn summons 10 of us to an unscheduled meeting in the conference room on Bessi’s bottom floor. She means business. This doesn’t happen often, and it always equates with the same condition: a dangerous job needs to be done, and ours is the only organization equipped to provide the service(s) required.

Sidenote. I only called her Elvyn when no one else could’ve heard it. Otherwise, depending on who was around at the time, I referred to her as:

• Miss Quinn (62%)
• Madam Quinn (27%)
• EQ (8%)
• Bosslady (2%)
• Queue (1%)
• Lenny (0%)

I’m just guessing on the percentages.

Ernest called her Lenny once in a moment of unreasonably cocksure disrespect; promptly in response, his mother thumped him on his laryngeal prominence [Adam’s apple], and thus far in his life, I think [despite having not seen him in 40 years], that was the worst thing that ever happened to him.

I arrive fifth to find Elvyn, Conrad and two others, Carver and Brackett, each of these two his own version of a very physically impressive [for a full-blooded human], overconfident nitwit.

I can feel our fearless leader’s stress level from across the room. This must be a dicey situation that comes with a sequence of tough choices. Oof, I hope no one (important) died already.

And, admittedly, I feel some degree of excitement, I guess. I know that I’m basically a half-human wrecking ball, and I’ve been itching (foolishly) to test my skills in life-threatening combat. While certainly useful, testosterone isn’t smart.

The next to file in {before another minute elapsed} were (in order) Taya, Payton, Riley, Ernest [not last, for once {and on crutches, by the way}], with the one and only Buster Bradley bringing up the rear. BB offers a lone skill to the operation {and, admittedly, a useful one at that}: he can control an automobile like nobody’s business. Whether behind the wheel of a tiny “performance vehicle” or an eighteen-wheeler, he makes all the right decisions while shifting gears. Incredible spatial awareness, impressive knack for thinking lightning-fast, and a cocky little bastard. One day his arrogance will get him killed. Don’t bother marking my words—it already happened.

Incidentally, too, everyone called Taya by her first name, which was “Taya.” Not sure why. Her tremendous surname was/is Skeeter. (The slash stems from the fact that I know not whether she still lives.)

I realize I’m suddenly dropping names like it’s my job, but you’ll remember the personal details as you need them. We’ve no time to waste!

Commencing the meeting with a solemn tone, Elvyn announces, “We have a big fucking problem.” Now that she has seized the entire room’s undivided attention [she almost never “curses”], she elaborates, “In actual fact, it’s an ill-timed tri-convergence of dreadful problems, and based on a sickening abundance of factors from multiple angles, especially politically, there can only be one solution. We, the ten of us, are here to come up with that solution as soon as possible before setting it in stone followed by immediate motion and swift execution.” She’s made no effort to mask her anguished disgust, nor should she have been expected to do so.

And she really talked talks like that. EQ {assumedly still} assembles paragraphs on the fly while orating in a manner which would solidify your thinking that she had been writing and tweaking her speech for a few weeks. Nope, moment by moment, Elvyn’s thoughts often took/take the shape of poetry.

I’ll make a very long, enormously complex, heatedly {at times} discussed story short (in the past tense). Three wildly divergent, even rogue (perhaps) packs of belanoc were making a wee bit too much noise in three different places at once: London, Afghanistan, and Oslo [possible galacian presence in Afghanistan]. Due to a lifelong inexplicable longing, I wanted to be included in the Oslo squad. Fjords, man. Something about them. But I knew this would/should come down to basic optimization of resources. Factoring in Elvyn’s emotional bias, and lucky for me {as I saw it in that moment} I figured I’d be sent to Oslo, despite Conrad and Ernest pushing for London. In other words, I thought they’d want me to go where I could be most useful. Such complexity. I love theory-crafting.

Queue continues, “Priorities: Oslo 60% London 37%, Afghanistan 3%.”

“Most of you met our English duo last summer during their visit,” Ernest supplements. “We have 11 operatives available currently, three of whom are already stationed in Scandinavia, and—”

“Twelve,” his older brother, Conrad, interrupts with a relevant correction.

“My cast isn’t scheduled to come off tomorrow.” Ernest’s way of being a dick while pointing out that he’s not available for active duty.

“Indeed, and as such, you will need to sit this one out.” Conrad’s way of letting his little bro know that he’s not referring to him; he’s talking about me.

“Oh, I see the confusion.” Despite failing to see the confusion, Ernest projects his signature smart-ass tone; it’s unmistakable; and I would be exceedingly surprised to learn that he has not yet been socked square in the nose for it. “It goes ten, eleven, and then twelve.”

“Remove Afghanistan from consideration,” an impatient Elvyn interjects with finality, her momentous decision carrying more weight than you may be capable of comprehending at this point in time.

Now, I’m sure most of us knew that willful ignorance would be a possibility in this impossible regard, but I don’t reckon anyone figured it’d be such an easy-to-decide, cut-and-dry strategical choice. But, for those of us able to eliminate emotion from the equation, it couldn’t have made any more sense, no? Given the Soviet presence over there, not to mention the nasty terrain and cave-mazes, we decided, essentially, to ignore the huge infestation by an opportunistically packed pod of belanoc, taking advantage of the conflict, having a feeding frenzy, disguising kills as casualties in the chaos, and further adapting to UV radiation. I think they’re gonna end up inciting an actual war.

You haven’t already forgotten that it’s 1979, have you?

“I can’t argue with that,” Conrad replies. “We still need him somewhere. Now, more than ever. We’re undermanned. Bad luck with injuries in recent months.” Before Ernest can begin grumbling his first of many whiny words, Conrad looks my way and addresses me directly, “Atlas, laddie, we need you.”

“I know.” Of course I knew. They’ve needed me for 20 years; could’ve put me in play at a moment’s notice but didn’t. I’m not even bitter. I get it. My value perplexes even the most capable brains. I sure as shit know (not) what I’m worth.

“Are you ready?” checks Conrad for the sake of having it on official/verifiable record (or something of the sort, I guess).

“What do you think?” I assure him (and the room) with supreme confidence. Of course I’m ready. Everyone knows I’m ready. Look at me.

Conrad informs his mother, “I vote Oslo.”

Ah, okay. Now we’re all on the same page. I am being included in an overseas operation. Almost 60 years young, never set foot outside U.S. soil. I’ve been held back, overprotected, underutilized. Again, everyone knows it.

Suddenly, life’s different.

And, by the by, Connie votes Oslo because he deems it the much safer [easier to escape] of the two. The London job will be pretty deep underground and promises a horde of about at least 6-10 [possibly double], as opposed to Oslo, which looks like half that [a family of 4-5]. Shit goes sideways, it’ll be ridiculously easier to evacuate from the open air under moonlit Norwegian skies than it will be to escape the dark underbelly of the London city streets.

Elvyn considers her next words. “Do either of these situations really demand his presence?”

I jump in. “Maybe my presence demands either—no, one of these situations.” She cuts me a quick look that I knew was coming. She probably isn’t entirely sure what I mean. I’m probably not entirely sure what I mean, either. [I’m (still) not/wasn’t.]

“He needs the experience,” Conrad suggests.

“Energy demands release,” I remind her. “It’s time.”

“Mum, he’s ready.” Good ole Ernest, that magnificent fuck-wad, influencing shit now that he can’t affect later. I love him.

“Shut up, dears.” Elvyn’s face can’t hide that she knows my time has come. We allow her a few extra moments to think.

“London needs him,” Taya states, less patient than the rest of us. No one openly disagrees. Elvyn’s annoyed look shoots from Taya to me [at which point I confirm agreement] and then to Conrad, who is coming around to the idea because he knows that’s where each of us will be most useful. “This is a simple math problem with a favorably high ceiling for creative strategy.” I could always count on Taya to back me up before I spoke. Occasionally, I’d wish she weren’t a lesbian; it was an intrusive thought; anyhow, the one skill Taya brought to the table {besides an otherworldly gift for concocting sour cream pound cake}, the reason Bessi recruited her: she was/is a brilliant strategist, and I know this because we agreed 99% of the time; the only two times we didn’t agree was simply because she was wrong (due to no [real] fault of her own).

In late October, 1979, Taya had to be pushing 90 years old. If she still lives, I will freak out. On that note, should the opportunity arise, I might even initiate a hug for the first time in my life.

By the way, that impromptu “meeting” took about 29 hours; you got the short version. The long, live version seemed {in my estimation} to take about 9 days. Oh, time: you hilariously relative, punishing ultimatum of inescapable measurements, you!

31, October, 1979

Not long after waking, this day becomes the worst I’ve yet lived.

The hour at the time: about 13:00.
The jet lag: real.

The moment I step outside into the middle of London (for the first time ever), I can feel all the differences at once. The whirring pace of the place catches me off guard; I don’t know where to look! Shiny objects demand at least brief glances, do they not? And the smell of the city is completely new to me. The damp air breathes differently than the dry climate in which I grew up. So many people talking at once. So many footsteps. So many squeaking brakes. So many routine sounds. I needed at least 75 seconds to adjust, possibly even 80.

Knowing fully well what to expect will never be a substitute for firsthand experience of what actually happens.

Not entirely sure what the moral of this story is, but maybe it’s this: no matter the length of your life, you’ll get lucky about as often as you’ll be unlucky. One supremely key trick to life is learning how to spin whatever luck comes at you in your favor.

Here’s the deal where we are right now in time. There’s an indiscriminately aggressive pack (of belanoc) living in the Tube {London’s “subway system”} [mainly along the Central Line] and feeding on the citizens a hair too freely, and they seem to be getting hungrier and less concerned with “appearances.” We have to stop this before people actually start believing it’s the ghost of Jack the Ripper; or worse, they become aware of the truth.

Again, we’re a squad of six. Besides me and Conrad, there’s Riley, Brackett, and the two locals: McGinnis and Perry. All very physically capable men [besides me, obviously, and Conrad, who benefits from one-fourth g/b DNA]. {Did you know that?} I feel good about this job because it shouldn’t require any strategically fast-thinking adjustments in the heat of battle.

We spend a night in the city being tourists.

I had fun.

But now it’s 08:00 the next morning. Down {underground} we go just as the rain really starts to pick up. Good timing, as saturation could’ve only diminished our capabilities at this point. Water carries weight, and weight must be carried.

During the majority of our march into a section of forgotten bowels in the London Tube, Conrad talks basic strategy, underscoring the importance of covering flanks, offers examples of situations that call for carefully thrown grenades, etc. Later, the locals are surprised by the weight of Halcyon [3 stone {42 lbs}], but they try to act like they’re not. Later, Brackett laughs at his own fart and I wish we’d brought Carver instead.

Make no mistake: we are expecting a fight. Several fights. To the death. This is dangerous work. If we don’t get off a clean ambush whilst the bulk of the pack slumbers, we might will be in trouble.

The smell down here becomes increasingly foul, and indescribably so. I hope you never smell it, because if you do, then you are in immediate, grave danger.

Now we arrive at a fork in our journey. We can either take a hard left or gently veer right. It’s dark and foreboding in both directions. Instinctively, my inclination is to lean toward the right. But the locals {being locals and all} have all kinds of reasons to go left, and they both make ample sense. Thus, left, we go.

I don’t like it.

Unless I can argue with insurmountable intelligence, I tend to keep quiet.

As we progress down this abandoned corridor, each member of the squad shifts seamlessly into fully focused business mode, silence amplifies, causing tensions to rise, reinforcing the gravity of the silence—oh, goodie, a negative feedback loop. Someone has to say something. Guess it’s me: “Brackett, did you poot again?” That earned a nervously courteous chuckle or two. I can’t lighten this mood. Something’s wrong.

“That reminds me of a joke,” Conrad intervenes in a tone that forecasts his particular brand of always welcome hilarity: “A string walks into a bar—”

Automatic gunfire shreds the silence and launches each of us into the unflinching mentality of a trained soldier. McGinnis and Perry finish gunning down a belanoc that looks like a vagrant crackhead. It writhes in agony as Conrad lops off its head. Old man can still move.

Just now, peripherally, I glimpse a threat lunging through the air at Perry’s back; so, instinctively, I spring into action, intercept the assailant by slicing open its intestines and then blowing its head off at point-blank range.

More splatter than I would’ve liked. Something gross got in my mouth. I spit, and spit again, and then I spit again.

I’m equipped with my typical loadout, by the way: Halcyon and a sawed-off shotgun. A long list of other situationally useful (if not lifesaving) odds and ends stashed about my person.

Fast footsteps echo from all directions. Fear grips all but two of us [Conrad’s the other] in a way that spells doom. Why? Not enough opportunities for training. Perry verges on a panic attack: “This is some kind of fucking trap. They fucking trapped us. I think we’re trapped. We’re dead. I think we’re dead.”

“Stop talking,” Conrad insists.

More footsteps. Other sounds, too. Primal groans. Life. Hunger. Predation.

I notice the tears running down Brackett’s cheeks.

“Atlas…” Conrad implores, asking a question for which I do not have a solid answer.

Stymieing my emotions, I begin breaking down the dilemma logically, “There are fewer of them west, but I think I felt a draft east that might’ve suggested a passage north.”

“We’re all gonna die here,” McGinnis numbly mumbles. Brackett cries audibly. Riley dutifully prepares for suicidal combat.

Conrad grits his teeth and runs east. Riley follows sans deliberation, exemplifying the mindset of a patriot.

At the time, I didn’t understand why, but I just followed, too, because what else was I gonna do? The other three followed as well since, otherwise, they’d have been left alone in the dark.

Down here, we were supposed to find a pack of six belanoc, maybe ten, tops. Now we run into a gang of fifty. Lesson: sometimes your intel is bad. Sometimes, adjustments must be made on the fly. And sometimes it sucks.

I watch Conrad’s face fall as he immediately processes the dire nature of our conundrum. We’re all gonna die, probably; but I might get lucky and survive [obviously I do, but there have been times when I wished I didn’t]. By now, armed in each hand with a live grenade, ICQ‘s decision has been made. He looks at me. “Son, I’m sorry; we don’t have time to talk strategy; now run!” He pulls both pins and charges the hungry pack of certain death.

As has been mentioned elsewhere on this site—and it’ll no doubt be mentioned again—time stands still in the most monumental moment(s) in/of your life.

Brackett, Perry, McGinnis. All their training goes out the window. (A valuable lesson, this.) Each man self-turrets, spraying wildly in a panic. One of them [Brackett, I think] shoots Riley {the only one of them not panicking} in the back of the head, killing him instantly. Ultimately, the three who did panic died horribly gruesome deaths.

All that, whilst Conrad bought me all the time I needed.

As we may have already established, he clutches a pin-less grenade in each hand; not to mention all the explosives strapped to his chest (and all about his body). Plus whatever he always does that no one ever knows about. Conrad was Bessi’s unrivaled demolitions expert, you see; as such, I know that whatever he’s about to do [in like 3 seconds] is going be very loud, very messy, and come with shockwaves that stagger.

My escape route lies east then north.

Armed with Halcyon and furiously eager to devastate, I slice my way through two, five, seven, eight, twelve belanoc. It’s easy. They’re untrained. In their blood, I bathe.

I spy the course of my egress.

That’s when I meet Severus. [Well, I saw him.] Still, I can see him. He doesn’t see me (until about 40 years later). He buries his big battle ax{e} in Conrad’s torso right as the old-timer explodes (in)gloriously. What a shrieking, sloppy mess. In that agonizing moment, part of me died, but my legs did what they were trained to do: they moved my body.

There were at least fifty of them. This was a trap. That’s obvious, right?

This is also the moment Bessi realizes there’s been a breach, i.e. a double-agent lies in our midst. Is that also obvious?

Forgive me—I’ve lost track of what’s obvious (on average).

Currently, in fact, I think we have two moles. Yes, I still say “we” when referring to Bessi. I’m still on their team. Your team, too, as it were.

So many thoughts going through my mind at this point. What sort of ambush has been set up in Norway? Will Elvyn survive? Can I survive this? Honestly, in this moment, yep, it looks easy—Conrad went out with a fucking bang—so I don’t exactly fear for my life, but I definitely run for it.

I’ve never run faster. And I probably never will.

I sprint toward the source of the explosion, deformation, pain, and even death, before darting left, creating a dust cloud by crashing through a boarded-up entryway which promises a path leading north and most quickly to the safety of daylight.

I attract a few aggressors, but their various injuries prevent successful pursuit. They can’t keep up. Long straightaway. I’m gone. Up the tunnel. Almost there…

I’m also dying on the inside. Conrad. Fuck. Not him. Not like that.

Platform ahead on the left. I hurdle the gap, of course—maybe about to burst into tears by this point—and then I get waylaid by Vilfred, and we go skidding across the surface in a skin-burning tussle for advantageous position.

Vilfred fights like a savage animal, clawing and groping, deranged and erratic, trying to pin me {I guess}, searching indiscriminately for a piece of flesh in which to bury his sharp fangs.

Since my opponent demonstrates no knowledge of technique whatsoever, I’m easily able to perform a basic reversal and wrangle this monster into a headlock—because let’s just understate the fact that my strength shocks him, and, during the reversal, when he sees my eyes, he recognizes my mama, his Bossman’s sissy.

Needless to say, this blows his mind. I’m not supposed to be capable of existing.

Yeah, this is not what he expected, and I’d prefer he didn’t pass along this knowledge; thus, I have to kill him.

With all my might, I squeeze his neck, but this wormy rascal is as strong as he is slippery. Deeper, I dig. He unleashes a shriek as his neck crackles before he loses consciousness. Quickly, I rationalize that I will have to tear his head off [which would likely take me in excess of seven seconds], but, then, just up the tunnel, a huge pack of his kindred encroach. Gotta think fast. Death approaches within six seconds; consequently, I can’t complete the execution of Vilfred. (I’m still mad about it.) I have to run or die; therefore, I run.

None of this makes sense.

There was nothing I could do.

I ran. I escaped. I survived.

Just like I promised Conrad that I would and knew in my heart/gut/head that I should. I’m too important. I hate it.

Can you grasp why the thirty-first day in October of the year 1979 was the worst day of my life? [Hint: I lost my entire family.]

The next day was my first as an exile—day one of an utterly underestimated, unfairly extended period of profound solitude.

That was 146,000 days [forty years] ago.

Fuck you, Halloween. And go to hell, November the first.

Thanksgiving, here we come!