Calm Like A Bomb

They ran their fingers along the plunger’s rubber grip. It was just another day on the job, and all in all it was a good job that put hot food on their table.

Still, today felt heavier than most, at least it should have been. It should have been, but against the mess of other shit flashing across everyone’s screens every hour, it was another Tuesday.

In reality, this was a simple job–they’d done demolitions on plenty of larger, more elaborate structures during all their time on the job. This one didn’t feel quite right though, and despite their best efforts, they couldn’t shake the tingling in their fingers. Why were they the only one who felt it? All around them, the rest of the assembly talked in their suits and hard hats and their shitty coffee in cost efficient cups while they waited for the cue to start rolling the cameras.

And it wasn’t like they couldn’t come up with a reason to blow the thing to smithereens. They were smart. They studied their history, particularly the history of architecture. Did the Romans, the Mamluks, or the English think twice in stripping the limestone from Khufu’s pyramid? While it's always nice to integrate the foundational structure in any renovation, it’s not always possible. Old worn foundations often must be purged to make way for the future. At that point, it’s up to the skill and artistry of the new architect. They knew the greats could take elements, iterate, reinvent so that what comes to be translates and transcends what was.

Heck, this structure’s namesake wanted no idols built to him anyway.

There could be greatness in change, but that greatness required a certain amount of reverence. They listened to the group of suits behind them laugh like Floridian Frat boys at World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party.

Their fingers still tingled, annoyingly, hesitatingly. They’d felt that same tug so many times in life: when they hid bad grades from their parents, when the things that interested the boys next door no longer interested them, when they liked the feel of their prom date’s dress more than their own suit as they awkwardly slow danced in a dark hotel ballroom. It was the underlying belief that what is, what was, and what could be were flowing out of alignment. A constant in their life that hung over hope like swirling fog.

“Well Andrew, are you going to do it?” the foreman said, using their deadname.

Sometimes self-preservation required things to stay out of alignment.

They pressed the plunger.

Just like when they sat at the dinner table and mother asked if there was something they needed to talk about, self-preservation once again won out.

Maybe one day, self-preservation wouldn't have to win out. They silently held onto that hope, however foggy it may have been.

The charges at the base of the marble obelisk erupted in a perfectly controlled detonation.

A few short moments later, nothing remained but memories and rubble.

“Think they’ll be able to see it from the Oval? You know, they wanted to put me on Mt. Rushmore–I’m not kidding. They said, ‘look we want you on there, you’re the greatest, but not enough room’. So we'll build here instead. It was ugly an ugly, ugly monument anyway–everyone said so. You’ll see. It’ll be a big, beautiful statue. You’ll see…”

He talked the entire walk back across the Ellipse.

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"This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner".