by Amy Brashear
“Great turnout,” said a girl at the podium. She had buttons up and down her vest. Anti this, anti that:
Together We Can Stop the Bomb
Freeze Voter ’84
Better Active Today than Radioactive Tomorrow!
Women Are Disarming the World
You can’t cuddle children with Nuclear Arms.
She was fired up, angry.
“This is a war against war,” she said. “We must be prepared for when the day comes—Don’t Nuke Me, Mr. President.”
A few boys sat in the back blowing up red balloons that spread out among the feet. A few girls were tying ribbons to the ends. A few balloons popped, and it made us all jump, but the boys went back to blowing up the balloons as replacements.
The girl moved out of the way while the crowd chanted, “We don’t want a nuclear war in 1984—”
A boy stood at the podium, the president of the Don’t Nuke Me organization, and talked about donations. I eyed a T-shirt he was selling. It was a single-file line of apes that had evolved into humans, but then—Flash. Boom. Blast. Mushroom Cloud.—and back to apes.
“We have a responsibility,” he said, “to make sure that this movie will not be one that will soon be forgotten in the minds of the viewers. We don’t need to wait until Eve of Destruction. Hollywood is filming a nuclear movie here. We don’t need this to become another Hollywood scare tactic that sends people to push the button first, like in a game of chase. A group of teenagers will be threatened by a bomb attack. They will be forever changed. We don’t need to make whatever happens on a script page reality.”
Chant: “We don’t want a nuclear war in 1984.”
“We’ll be extras because it will be fun to say we’re in a movie. But let’s not forget—if we don’t have a nuclear freeze, there won’t be any movies for a very long time, at least not in our lifetime. We’ll be in the dark ages—medieval.”
Chant: “We don’t want a nuclear war in 1984!”
A man with a bushy gray beard stepped up, leaned on the podium, and then laid into us like it was a Sunday morning fire-and-brimstone sermon. “Don’t want to live through nuclear war? Wouldn’t want to be around after it’s all over? Think that it will be easier to just let yourself be vaporized? Sorry, but you won’t have that option. Only the politicians can save you. Sadly, there’s a good chance that you will be killed in an instant even if you’re in a fallout shelter, but if somehow you survive it certainly won’t be painless.”
I swallowed hard and twisted my scrunchie on my wrist as others nodded and, in a way that resembled a Sunday morning service, screamed, “Amen.” This was a come-to-Jesus meeting to the tenth degree.
“If you stare at the flash, you will be blinded if you’re lucky. If not, your eyes will literally melt out of your skull. And that’s just before—or the eve of the destruction, if we’re thinking thematically. Looting will occur after. Rape and pillage will be the norm . . .”
He described in great detail what would happen to the body. I was queasy.
“Some believe that being prepared for a nuclear war would make the event more likely. Apparently if we were adequately prepared, we would no longer fear such a war as much. We need a nuclear freeze. You there,” the man said, pointing at a girl in the front row. “Tell me, why are you here?”
“All I want to do is grow up, not blow up,” she said.
Chant: “We don’t want a nuclear war in 1984.”
He asked a few more people, and they responded in the same manner, though with slightly different words. I thought about what I would say if he pointed at me. I wanted to live. Grown-ups were the ones who created the bombs, but maybe we kids should be the ones to speak up and say enough was enough.
“No more nukes,” a boy said. “If I’ve got fifteen minutes, I don’t want to think about what I could have done.”
The crowd cheered, clapped, and nodded.
“We don’t want Ronald Raygun to put Pershing II and Tomahawk missiles in Europe. We need a nuclear freeze. We need to make a statement to show the politicians in this country that we don’t want a nuclear war in 1984,” said another guy.
Everyone got a red balloon. We walked quietly out of the building and onto the lawn. We stood on the grass that had turned brown for the winter. Loudspeakers played “99 Red Balloons” by Nena, first in English and then in German. But it no longer felt like an upbeat dance tune; it had an eeriness to it.
The leader of the Don’t Nuke Me group on campus raised his arm in the air and counted down with his fingers. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. And as a group we released every single red balloon into the sky. Red filled that blue sky. A symbolic act—because every single red balloon could be a missile.
“We don’t want a nuclear war in 1984 . . .”
Though I felt sick to my stomach, it still growled. I pulled into McDonald’s. I ordered a chocolate milkshake and a large fry. If the bombs had gone off, that would have been my last meal.
“Laura, is that you?” a man asked from a corner booth.
“Pops!” I said, picking up my tray from the counter.
“Scoot over for my grandchild,” he said, gesturing to the man at the end of the booth.
I sat and began unwrapping the straw and sticking it in my milkshake.
“What do you have there?” Pops asked.
“Milkshake and fries, the lunch of champions.”
“Why aren’t you in school?”
“I got suspended.”
“What did my grandchild do to get suspended?”
I wasn’t really his grandchild. Not biologically. Pops was Dennis’s dad. Terrence’s grandfather. But even though I wasn’t blood, Pops called me his grandchild. His new granddaughter by marriage. His only granddaughter.
“Long story. Let’s just say it was totally worth it.”
He laughed and so did his buddies. They all tipped their hats with an introduction. Pops would come here every weekday and sit in this booth and drink his coffee with sugar and talk to his friends. They would stay until the lunch crowd arrived, which was now. I think they stayed later because I was here. But they were in deep discussion about the movie Eve of Destruction. One of Pop’s buddies was lending his barn to the film and another was lending his law office, though the location director wasn’t sure if they would need them or not.
“I’m going to be in it,” I said, smiling.
“Well, ain’t that a thing.”
I took the top off my milkshake and started dunking my French fries. “I get to invite a guest, and I asked Terrence if he wanted to go with me. He said yes.”
“I’m glad you two are finding solid ground. You’re making your pops proud.”
When Terrence’s dad and my mom got married, it was Pops who helped me feel welcome. I didn’t have a grandfather who was alive, so he filled that role. It felt weird having a grandparent who was nice and didn’t have a flaw—like giving hundreds to thousands of dollars to a testiphony.
“You and Terrence will have a lot of fun. You’ll remember this time for the rest of y’all’s lives,” Pops said, grabbing a fry and dipping it in my milkshake. “Yum. Next time I’ll have to get one for myself.”
With the last fry on my tray eaten, the men grabbed their coats, straightened their hats, and said their goodbyes.
“Fair warning,” Pops said. “Watch out for the speed trap down on Hunt Road—that hill toward the Piggly Wiggly. There was a cop hiding by a bunch of overgrown bushes.” He turned to me. “That’s where I got my umpteenth speeding ticket—by not paying attention to gravity.”
“Love you, Pops.”
“I love you too, Laura.”
* * *
28 The metaphorical clock is maintained by the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. It all started back in 1947 as a way to predict how close the world is to global destructio
n. The original setting was seven minutes to midnight. Today it’s three minutes to midnight.
29 The tagline for Days of Our Lives, a soap opera on NBC.
30 A show on CBS that premiered this year.
31 An older government program that helped citizens in times of possible Soviet attack. They were responsible for the creation of duck-and-cover drills and the Bert the Turtle mascot, because you know when you see the flash, you’re supposed to duck and cover. My mom was told to hide under their desks in case of atomic attack, but today? We’re pretty much told not to bother. It was replaced by FEMA in 1979.
WANTED: EXTRAS FOR
EVE OF DESTRUCTION FILM
Little Rock, Ark.—Curious about the end of the world? Here’s your chance to take part in the apocalypse. In Eve of Destruction, it’s 1954, and a Red Warning is looming over the country. A nationwide drill is set for 10 a.m. across North America. What happens to an American city when the unthinkable happens . . . FOR REAL?
All ages welcome. Locals with pre-1954 vehicles are needed. Dates: November 26–December 6.
Refreshments and snacks provided.
Reader Poll: War and Peace
Headed your way to a movie theater near you is Eve of Destruction, the story of a world on the brink of annihilation. The nation fears a Red Warning, so to be prepared for the worst, the United States declares the first nationwide Civil Defense drill. Set in Arkansas in June 1954, the story follows four teenagers as the town of Pikesville stages a mock attack.
Even in 1984, people have nuclear war on their minds. Do you think there will be a nuclear war in your lifetime? Do you think if there is a nuclear war, you will survive? Do you favor a nuclear freeze? Please answer honestly. Once done, drop off your surveys at any of the following locations: Ellis Grocery, the post office on Main Street, the town hall (the local FEMA location) on Hatcher.
Results will be published in an upcoming issue of the Arkansas Telegram.
1. What are the chances of a nuclear war?
■ High
■ Low
2. Do you think a nuclear freeze will happen in your lifetime?
■ Yes
■ No
3. How often do you think about a nuclear war happening?
■ Several times a day
■ About once a day
■ Almost once a month
■ Almost never
4. Given that the state is a prime target, how prepared do you believe we are in case of attack?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
5. If a nuclear war occurs, do you believe one side will emerge as a “winner”?
■ Yes
■ No
6. What are your chances of surviving a nuclear war?
■ None
■ Poor
■ Good
■ Excellent
Your Age
■ 15 or under
■ 16 to 21
■ 22 to 30
■ 31 to 45
■ 46 to 60
■ 61 or above
Your Sex
■ Male
■ Female
Chapter Seven
Mom dragged Dennis to the hotel to fix a few issues that had been plaguing the staff of the Flat Inn, Terrence was at a pickup basketball game down at the Y, and I was at Max’s house trying to decipher my handwriting. Max’s room was the natural place for the creative process, strewn with his own drawings, action figures, and costumes from Halloweens past. Last year we went as Batman and Robin. I was Robin, of course. I never got to play the lead.
“I think we need a female lead,” I told Max.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because they keep canceling the ones that have one, like She-Hulk.”32
He didn’t answer. I got to work on the origin story of my girl while Max got to drawing.
“I want her to be strong and independent and speak her mind but not be too bossy,” I said.
“Okay, how about a name?” he asked.
“Penny,” I answered, my eyes on my notebook. “Penny Star.”
“Is that too on the nose?” he asked, sharpening his pencil.
“Really? Too on the nose? Like Flash or Firestorm—”
“Okay, I get your point,” he said.
“Thank you very much.”
“Well, does it not sound like a stripper?”
“Uh, fine, I’ll change the name.”
A loud, piercing sound came from the living room. Max’s older sister, Erica, was home from college, watching soap operas. When she was done screaming—it didn’t last long—she turned down the volume. She was thoughtful that way. “I only want to hear that tone blaring in the end-times,” I said, pulling my knees to my chest.
“Like now?” Max said.
“They’re doing more tests lately, aren’t they? Should we be worried?” I asked.
“We’re just getting our origin story.”
“I went to a meeting yesterday at Tech about the end of Star Wars,” I said.
“The movie?”
“No—nuclear arms race,” I said. “We set off ninety-nine red balloons in protest.”
“When did you get political?” he asked.
“I’m not.”
“You do know red balloons are not great for the environment.”
“Do you think there’s going to be a nuclear war?” I asked.
“No. No one is that stupid,” he said. “What does your dad say?”
“My dad?” I asked.
“You know, your dad knows all about this nuclear weapons business?”
“He doesn’t talk about it.”
“You mean, he can’t talk about it.”
“Yeah, can’t.”
It was a lie. Dad once talked about it.
My dad was a member of the 374th Strategic Missile Squadron, the United States Air Force unit that was assigned to the 308th Strategic Missile Wing, stationed at Little Rock Air Force Base. The 374th Strategic Missile Squadron was equipped with the LGM-25C Titan II Intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM), with a mission of nuclear deterrence. The squadron was responsible for nine missile sites. Well, eight now. The ninth was at 374-4 at the underground missile launch facility near Damascus, Arkansas, population three hundred.
The missile they were “guarding” until they got the orders to “deploy” was a silo-based, liquid-propellant ballistic missile. It was the largest ICBM ever deployed by the US Air Force. It carried a W-53 9.0 MT nuclear warhead. The missile had a diameter of 3.05 meters, a length of 31.30 meters, and a launch weight of 149,700 kilograms. The missiles had a two-stage liquid propellant design and reached a speed of twenty-five times the speed of sound by the time the engines cut off. Meaning kaboom rather quickly. After the “incident,” it was found later in a ditch. On that day three years ago, the Damascus site became decommissioned and disassembled. Now there were nine ICBMs33 that Dad’s unit was responsible for.
Dad lived on base now, full-time since the divorce, and he couldn’t really call, so he wrote. The government liked to leave me with my imagination running wild, since there were a lot of black marks on his letters. Once he said he had been at the site at Damascus, and the United States government messed up one time and blacked out Arkansas instead. One time he let it slip after too many beers (this was after Mom’s illicit affair with Dennis was found out) that when (he said when, not if) a nuclear war happened, he would be in the bunker. He was the one who typed in the codes and turned the key to annihilation. The next morning, he asked if he’d said anything incriminating. I lied because I didn’t want my dad to get in trouble, but he could tell I was lying. I didn’t want my dad to be transferred because he couldn’t keep a secret.
And I could. I knew the secret eight-digit code.
“Can you imagine the big red button sitting on the president’s desk, ready to be pushed?” Max asked.
I glanced up from my notebook and scowled at him. “I don’t think it’s a big red button, and it’s certainly not on the president’s desk.”
He winced dramatically, as if he’d just been slapped. “I know . . . but it’s funny to imagine.” He laughed.
“It’s just keys and codes.”
“How do you know?”
“Um, the beginning of WarGames.34 You remember the beginning of WarGames,” I said, changing the subject.
“Yeah, the beginning of WarGames.”
“So—our script,” I said, hoping he’d finally take the hint.
I couldn’t tell Max what my dad had said while piss drunk. My dad could have been tried for treason. It was an accident, what happened at Damascus. A socket fell in the silo and hit the side of the missile, causing a major leak of flammable rocket fuel, and it nearly went BOOM. He didn’t die, but he could have. He still worked on the ICBMs. And the ICBM was six hundred times more powerful than the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. My dad didn’t have anything directly to do with the “accident,” but he was on location with the ICBM at the time. And he still worked on them. If he had everything to do with it, they wouldn’t keep him on, right? Right?
“What if the government is hiding something from us?” Max asked out of nowhere. Well, not out of nowhere. He was smart.
“Like before?” I asked.
“Didn’t your dad get into trouble?”
“It was an accident,” I said.
“Accident? I’m sure it was the Russians,” he said with a wink.
“It was an accident.”
“Sure it was, Laura. How many times have we accepted these ‘accidents’?” he asked, using finger quotes. “We should be a part of the resistance, not a part of the propaganda machine.”