Oppenheimer Goes to Work, Los Alamos, 1943
Everyone in my house is quite mad. A man called Boris wants to take a few of us on a little boat ride, torture us in international waters, and throw us over the side. My wife asks over the bugged line what the FBI would like for dinner. The mountains scab over with another summer’s scrub. Winter bandages the wounds. Morning checkpoints. A smile and a gun. Plutonium slugs. The Gita of Implosion. I’m Mr. Big Boss—just look at my I.D. Beyond the barbed wire, a coyote announces itself in the tenebrous fog of 6 a.m. See, everyone knows me around these parts.