It was a Sunday when they cordoned off the street and imploded the building. The building was 35 stories high–made of concrete, metal, and glass. It collapsed into itself and great billows of dust rushed forth and swirled upward and out–out onto the streets, the cars, the buildings that were close by.
The huge pile of rubble set for a week, untouched. No one went near it. It shifted and settled. Finally, men in machines came. The machines were great yellow things with claws that opened and closed. Even so, compared to the mountain of debris that was once was headquarters of the electric company, the bulldozers and loaders looked like toys. Every day they nibbled away at the pile of concrete and metal. A bite here, a bite there was loaded into trucks that hauled it away–piece by piece. The building so carefully planned–first from blueprints, renderings, and drawings of every component–from the structure to electrical, plumbing, exterior, and interior, weights and measures, balances, and counter-balances to the actual building of the structure, pouring of concrete, laying of foundations, erection of walls, steel, and glass, heating and cooling, roofing and signage–the building–was now a pile of disorganized debris. Slowly, day by day, it was disappearing.
We used to work there. It was not a fun place. The people were very strange. They were intimate with each other and hated each other. And the projects were equally strange–pieces parts. Was there a big picture where it all fit together? No one knew. Everyone did a piece, nibbling away at something we were never sure of.
In the end, we walked away. It was just as well. Look at it now.
© Glenda Kotchish