Not long after I turned 13, I found myself living with my father on the 11th floor of a Virginia apartment 20 minutes from downtown Washington, D.C.

One morning, shortly before departing for his secretive Pentagon job, my father announced he’d be gone for an extended stretch of time due to growing concerns a nuclear war with the then-Soviet Union was brewing.

As he packed an overnight bag he suggested that in the event I saw a blinding flash of light from the east I should sequester myself in the apartment’s lone bathroom. “Fill the tub and turn off the toilet,” he said helpfully, “because you’ll need water. You’re not going to be able to come out for at least six weeks.”

He continued: “Move fast, move all the canned food into the bathroom and don’t forget the opener. Oh, and put a wet towel along the bottom of the door to keep radiation from leaking in.”

And then he left.

The Balcony of Dreams

I’d only lived in the place a few weeks. My Iowa mother had understandably, and with good cause, sent me packing to my dad’s. As it turned out, he didn’t want me either and soon enough I’d be shipped off to military school.

Anyway, the balcony. I’d stand out there in the morning and think about stepping off into empty space. I’d imagine stepping off into empty space.

Two potentialities kept me from doing it. First, I’m pretty certain we’ll just have to come back and do it all again so what’s the point of checking out early? Second, the hedgerow below left me with the disquieting idea I’d survive the fall but end up paralyzed. No thanks.

Most mornings I’d stand out there eating my cereal and watch the building’s residents trudge to their vehicles for the commute into the city. On this particular day I felt very different about them. Where before I felt sympathy – after all, I was dreading my morning destination as well – now I felt anger.

To my early-teen mind, they were all complicit in creating an insane world where nations literally pointed thousands of nuclear weapons at each other. To escape that reality they drank (or toked, this was the mid-70s after all) and screwed and brought more poor souls into the mix.