I suppose any sort of campus that has a lot of buildings probably has some network of utility tunnels or corridors underneath, for pipes and conduits or for moving freight around or just to keep the gnarly stuff out of the public eye. They’re the stuff of legend at places like MIT, but in my college and grad school years, I never managed to spelunk my way into one. In DC, though, they were an essential part of our operation, and not just because of our desire to get around without being seen (thus the affinity for freight elevators wherever possible).
In my current employment, I didn’t really grasp that I could make use of those tunnels until 2016, when they sort of emerged in my consciousness as a response to the release of Act IV of Kentucky Route Zero. Given that the whole act takes place on a subterranean river with its own community and various stops along the way, it made sense that I would seek a little reflection of that in my own life as the world steadily slouched toward collapse – and when it finally all imploded on November 9, being underground was suddenly an enormous comfort.
It would be another couple of years before my office got relocated to the basement – by a management that said at the time that they didn’t want it to feel like they were sticking IT in the basement – but I was frequently in that space to leverage their coffee machine, and would then duck out and troll up and down the corridors. Here, a set of double doors that led to a short passage which opened on an atrium – underground, but with four or five stories of office rising up to the skylight above, a very weird sensation. Here, a turn that led off to a taqueria and coffee spot that inexplicably stocked lots of weird European candy bars. There, off another turn, an elevator all the way to the third floor balcony with Peet’s. But mostly, just quiet hallways with abandoned equipment or stray freezers plugged in or the occasional single restroom, a realm where you could be assured of being left alone and going mostly unseen.
It’s remarkable to think about how much of the last fifty years has been spent looking for a hiding place – under the bed, under the bleachers, off to the side of the backstage, in a forgotten basement laundry room, behind a protective wall of Pelican cases, or just unnoticed in plain sight at the pub. Like trying to make a deal – I promise to leave the world alone, and not meddle in its business, if it will only be so kind as to return the favor. Going back down those corridors this week has just reminded me how badly I needed that deal – and how little the world holds up its end.