You know you have arrived when you see the chain-link fence and the red solo cups sticking out of it, each section threaded together with reams of poster board and fabric signs. They change every so often; Corporal becomes Sergeant, Johnson become Jameson. Nothing is the same, but everything is similar. All of it is a mirror image of itself--the houses, the stores, the uniforms.
The vibrations reverberate throughout the area and seep into your body, starting nowhere and never ending. You get used to it after a while, I guess. The sounds of exploding shells become as second nature as the ticking of a clock or the hum of a fluorescent light.
Driving through, it’s as if nothing exists. There is one, two lane highway. There are road signs. Cars pass you every so often – but then, you feel a rumble. Not the high frequency rumble of cannon fire… This is a low, deep rumble that trembles the earth. Your car shakes, the pebbles on the road jitter and bounce as if they’re made of rubber. And then you see it.
A tank rolls out of the trees, over the shoulder of the road. The cars stop and yield, engines idling while seventy tons of metal crosses their path. No one honks, no one gets angry. Everyone waits patiently, their breaths synchronizing with the metallic hums.
Those are just the outskirts. The fence compresses the trees, which serve as a buffer between the town and everything else. Beyond the first line of wood, you can hear nothing. You can’t hear the highway, the gates… The sirens of ambulances as they race to the hospital.
The town itself is very small. The base itself is very large, extending a few miles every direction – a perfect circle of solitude. The shops operate almost independently of the housing district just a few blocks away. A gas station, road lights, and some food shops link The Exchange to the barracks and base housing, with more trees settled between.
You can see some of these buildings as you pass on the highway that circles around it, but you can never see much. Only glimpses of the regimented world that lives just beyond a thick stone wall and some soldiers.
There isn’t really much difference between the civilian areas and inside. The buildings are a little different (more cookie cutter and military style, of course,) but everything is the same. McDonald’s is McDonald’s, the pharmacy is the pharmacy. But even then, the feel is different.
I have frequented the base throughout my lifetime--always with my grandma and always on the weekend, but I’ve always been able to tell. I’ve always known the difference--especially when she tells me to not take pictures or to not leave her, because I don’t have identification. I could get taken in or escorted out.
Always make sure to respect the soldiers, she would say. Even though they’re not in fatigues, they’re still working. They’re always working. Their posture is rigid. They observe everything with a sharp eye, looking and waiting and analyzing. Their smiles are charming and kind, but you can see the stress behind the eyes – the same stress that surrounds you and permeates the air. It’s always there, hovering just behind your thoughts… Behind the soldiers that scan IDs at the gate and the guards that watch the security cameras.
The base is etched into the coastal way of life, an obstacle for highway construction and trips home. But it’s detached--thriving on its own, in its own world, separated by the trees and the chain-link fence.
