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Tuesday, August 6, 2002
Hydrochloric
By Paul Ford
Hey, I said, this bottle won't - ah - what is it? 6 molar hydrochloric acid - won't open. I am 15, it is a bad time, I have just been thrown out of the house and also recently had a kidney infection which I thought was VD, unfair, I thought, to have VD before I was kissed. I lift the plastic acid bottle away from the beaker and look at it, trying to figure out why I can't get the drops out. Why the hell won't it - I squeeze and it all comes out at once, straight into my eyes, down my face, on my jacket.
Everything but the people turns invisible in New York. The skyline is filled with thousands of naked people, hanging in rectangular grids like atoms in a massive engineered molecule. The humans are elements, and accountants and janitors have different atomic weight than publicists or graphic designers, but all are bound by economic valence, bound by lightlines. Atoms pour in and out of tunnels and bridges. The flow of people, the looseness of their bonds indicates that business is not solid, but liquid.
Ah, God, I say. I put my eyes under the water, and the liner of my flannel jacket melts. I am sent to the nurse, but I end up fine.
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