Sorry, Wrong Revolution
The Phone Phreaks. My God, they look like some paradigmatic Bronx High School of Science class on the lam. Their sweat is acrid, uncosmetized: It reeks of shorted wires and ozone. Ungainly at the hip. Holsters there: a slide rule, a pair of pliers, wrenches from crayfish to lobster size. It’s a wonder the weight doesn’t ring them like doomed trees. Maybe it does: They don’t walk, they shuffle. Knee joints calcified. Bright, promising young men. Except for one thing: They wear masks. It’s a hot day to be incognito; there’s no airconditioning in the Hotel Diplomat Grand Ballroom.
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