“Do you hear that?”
“Yeah … it sounds like a tornado siren. That doesn’t make any sense, though, because the sky’s perfectly clear. And it’s Sunday, not Wednesday when they run the test sirens. You think maybe it malfunctioned?”
Glen Franklin and Frieda Kimmelman were no strangers to taking cover during ominous weather. And while they always feared the damage it might do, they actually looked forward to spending time in the “Falldown Shelter.”
The pair moved into a 1950s-era fixer-upper on the outskirts of Asheville, North Carolina, several years earlier. It was a two bedroom, one bath model, with a screened-in back porch that offered a view of the woods. It also had an old-fashioned fallout shelter, which Glen jokingly called the “Falldown Shelter” because of all the liquor he stored there.
Fortunately for both, Glen did more than stock the dull grey bunker with booze. Frieda frequently got product samples from work – she was a regional manager with Gas N’ Grits, a high-end convenience store chain – and the shelter seemed as good a place as any to store them.
And Glen always left the monthly trip to the Discount Superstore with more than he needed, so there was plenty of bottled water, cereal and canned goods to put on the metal shelves.
Throw in a generator, portable radio, three lawn chairs, two bunk beds, an RV toilet (which had – thankfully – never been used), a dartboard and pop lights in case the generator failed, and the Falldown Shelter was a useful little hideaway in an area often plagued by tornadoes.
And considering the cacophony created by all the alerts, this one must be an F-5.
“We better head down to be on the safe side,” Frieda said. “I still think maybe there’s just some kind of screw-up with the warning system, though. Either way, you and me will make the best of it. I’ve lost count of how many tornado retreats we’ve gone on down here. Best part is, I get to kick your butt at darts again.”
Glen majored in computer programming at King’s College in Charlotte. After graduation, he was hired on at Carolina CyberTech in Asheville, where he would be sent to various businesses to troubleshoot their IT woes.
He enjoyed what he did well enough.
“A job is a job is a job,” he liked to say. “Especially when it leads directly to direct deposit.”
And he got along well with people he worked with, most who enjoyed his offbeat sense of humor.
And it was that job that allowed him to meet Frieda, a couple years younger than him and a Knoxville transplant with an associate’s degree from Pellissippi State Community College. A former high school basketball player, she was ambitious and took her working life very, very seriously.
She had a “hard” look – her face was weathered beyond her years and she sported an almost constant expression of concern. And she was always very “business-like” – smart suits, smart shoes and closely cropped hair.
But despite her conservative appearance, she loved to laugh, and Glen was always able to make her chortle during his trips to Gas N’ Grits. And when she did, she’d turn slightly red, cover her mouth as she cackled and say, “You’re terrible!”
On the outside looking in, they were an odd match.
While she was big and somewhat intimidating, Glen had thinning, ginger hair and a scraggly beard that refused to fill out. He stood just under 5-7 and sported a beer gut that made him look about three months pregnant.
But he was a huge basketball fan, and his style of flirting often involved talking up the South Carolina women’s dynasty or impressing her with his better than casual knowledge of the WNBA.
And after flirting became dating and dating became serious, they got married. A Hollywood glamor couple they were not, but they loved each other passionately and completely.
They had a low-key wedding at the courthouse (their store-bought wedding cake said “Congradulations Glenn and Freeda,” so it cost only $3 because of all the typos) and the couple was headed for a textbook middle class life.
But that life was occasionally interrupted by civil defense sirens, and this was one of those times.
Alerts that set off every alarm in greater Asheville – and specifically the ones on their phones – convinced the couple to head underground despite blue skies.
After the pair were settled in, Glen looked down at the darts.
“I assume you’ll be throwing the green ones again,” he said.
“You know it,” Frieda replied with a smile. “You’ve never beaten me when I used the greenies. Come to think of it, I’m not sure you’ve ever beaten me, period. You’re really, really not good.”
Glen laughed.
“Well, you’re the athlete, not me,” he said. “Remember, I’m the guy who threw my back out farting that one time.”
Glen gave Frieda a quick peck on the check, poured a generous splash of Wild Turkey into two plastic cups, and handed her one.
“Lemme turn the radio on and check the news and see what the sirens are about,” Glen said.
DEFCON1 … I repeat, the United States is at DEFCON 1 … there are unconfirmed reports that nuclear explosions have occurred in Moscow, Washington, Pyongyang and Beijing and that engagement is ongoing. Take shelter immediately. This is not a test. This is not a test. Please stay tuned for official updates.
Freida and Glen stared at each other in disbelief.
“What do we do?” he asked.
Frieda sipped her whiskey, took aim at the board, and promptly threw a triple 20.
“We’ll do what we always do, my love,” she said. “Enjoy each other’s company.”