ANDREW ZILBAUER Forty Tons of Concrete

FORTY TONS OF CONCRETE

By Andrew Zilbauer

This piece contains explicit language and may not be suitable for younger or sensitive audiences

She walked quickly away from the parking garage, her nondescript black sneakers and gray hoodie in stark contrast to the bright white lights of the garage, which created a shadow in front of her. She turned the corner and began to think about the bomb going off in 3 minutes and 19 seconds. She had just parked a white van filled with explosives, a mix of fertilizer and C4 connected to a timer, adjacent to the wall of the ground floor of the bank building. She was now three blocks away from the garage. She thought about the security guard she passed on the way out, how he had greeted her in a pleasant manner and told her to have a good evening. He was an elderly man in his sixties, possibly an ex-cop. He probably had a family who loved him. But in 2 minutes and 35 seconds, he would be underneath 40 tons of concrete. If his remains were found, it would be a closed casket funeral.

She turned another corner and passed by a bar that was teeming with life. She looked up at the televisions and saw the baseball game. Whoever the home team was is winning 4-1. The bar patrons would have their night disrupted by the sound and shock of an explosion in 2 minutes and 17 seconds. She thought of the camera crews and reporters that would be swarming them and asking the same question of, “What did it feel like?” while the patrons would try to fight off tears and drunken tendencies. At least they weren’t the security guard, she observed. 2 minutes and 2 seconds.

She crossed 45th Street and began to think about the reason for her current situation. She remembered the tears of her parents when they received the letter eight years ago that had large red letters that spelled, “FORECLOSED.’ She remembered the arguments between her parents that often turned violent.

The weapon of choice for both of them were her father’s halfempty bottles of Jack Daniel's, something that he had shoehorned into their stretched budget the day after the letter came. She remembered hating the fact that she would watch television or go online to see that only the people running the banks were getting richer. Her misplaced sense of justice convinced her that her plans for the night were just that, justice. But she also realized that most people, including a jury of her so -called, “peers,” were convinced it was a form of domestic terrorism.

She checked her black digital watch and saw that it would be 1 minute and 36 seconds until all of downtown would be deafened. She turned the corner and crossed 8th Avenue. She began to think about the stay in prison that would likely await her. It would probably be at a federal super-max prison, in a cell nestled in between the Unabomber and Robert Hanson. She pretended not to care about this possibility, but honestly, the thought of that level of isolation terrified her. 1 minute and 10 seconds.

She heard sirens. Police sirens.

Oh shit, oh shit.

Her split-second scare transformed into insurmountable terror when she saw three police cars going the direction of the garage at Mach speeds down 39th Street. She began to jog, which then transformed into a full sprint down the sidewalk just as she passed by the grocery store she went to as a child, The Market Garden. 41 seconds. She started thinking about that prison cell next to Unabomber a bit more seriously now. She thought that it would be a race against time for the police, as they had 32 seconds to disarm the bomb or become a part of 40 tons of concrete just like the security guard. She was now 10 blocks from the parking garage, but the further she ran away, the louder the sirens would get. She continued to

run. 15 seconds. Pure adrenaline began to mix with her blood, numbing the pain that was resonating in her feet. 8 seconds. She envisioned the security guard one final time, and how he was about to become an unknowing sacrifice in her descension to infamy. 3 seconds. She stopped thinking about anything and everything. 1 second. She tensed her body for the explosion. 0 seconds.

Nothing. She was terrified, and relieved, and confused all at the same time. What the hell happened? And then she remembered. She forgot to arm the bomb. The security guard had startled her with his pleasantries and caused her to leave in a haste. She began to nervously laugh, knowing that the 40 tons of concrete would be safe in its designed form for another night. She began the long walk back to the garage, going at a much more leisurely pace than before. On 40th Street, she passed by a 1998 Nissan Maxima surrounded by police cars, the trunk filled with what appeared to be an abundance of cocaine, and three men sitting in the back of separate squad cars. The scene was illuminated by the red and blue lights that were supposed to be for her. She walked by the bar that was still teeming with life, its patrons unaware of what was supposed to happen in 6 minutes and 35 seconds ago. No cameras in their faces tonight. She looked up at one of the televisions and saw the home team was now winning 6-3. She looked down again, gazing at a piece of clear plastic stuck to the top of her shoe, and noticed how it mirrored the streetlights perfectly onto her watch. She approached the garage and paused across the street. She began to think of how her watch might have glitched, how she didn’t actually forget to set the bomb to arm and was about to join the security guard in a final resting place of concrete. The thought of leaving the van in the garage crept into her head.

She shrugged this thought off, knowing that someone would raise suspicions about the white van that smelled like fertilizer sitting on the first floor. It would be very easy to trace the bomb back to her at that point. She entered the garage. The security guard saw her and greeted her again. She nodded politely. She unlocked the van and stepped inside, ensuring that the explosives were still there, in case of a rainy day. She started the van and drove onto the street that had hosted her shadow 12 minutes and 13 seconds ago. She began to think about how nice the Unabomber might be, and smiled.