Let the Great World Spin (30 page)

—He’s not really my friend, José.

—I swear to Christ he must be tied to something, or something. Tied to the wire. I bet he’s tied. He’s up there and he just did the scissors thing! Far freakin’ out.

—José. Listen up. We’ve got a bet going here. What’s he look like?

—He’s holding it, man, holding it.

—Can you see him well?

—Like a speck. Like a little thing! He’s way the fuck up there. But he hopped. He’s in black. You can see his legs.

—Is it windy?

—No. It’s muggy as shit.

—It’s not windy?

—Up there it’s gotta be windy, man. Jesus! He’s, like, all the way up there. I don’t know how the fuck they’re going to get him down. They got pigs up there. Lots of ’em.

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—Huh?

—They got cops. Swarming ’round the top. On both sides.

—They trying to get him?

—No. He’s way the fuck out there. He’s standing now. Just holding the bar. Oh, no way! No!

—What? What is it? José?

—He’s crouching. Check this shit out.

—Huh?

—You know, kneeling.

—He’s what?

—He’s sitting now, man.

—What d’you mean he’s sitting?

—He’s sitting on the wire. This guy is sick!

—José?

—Check it out!

—Hello?

There’s another silence, his breath against the mouthpiece.

—José. Hey, amigo. José? My friend . . .

—No way.

Compton leans in closer to the computer, the microphone at his lips.

—José, buddy? Can you hear me? José? You there?

—Untrue.

—José.

—I ain’t shittin’ you . . .

—What?

—He’s lying down.

—On the wire?

—Yes on the fucking wire.

—And?

—He’s got his feet hooked in under him. He’s looking up at the sky.

He looks . . . weird.

—And the bar?

—The what?

—The pole?

—Across his stomach, man. This guy is unfuckingreal.

—He’s just lying there?

—Yup.

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—Like taking a nap?

—What?

—Like a siesta?

—Are you trying to mind- fuck me, man?

—Am I . . . what? ’Course not, José. No, no way. No.

There’s a long silence on the phone, like José has just transported himself up there, alongside the tightrope walker.

—José? Hey. Hello. José. How’s he going to get back up, José? José. I mean, if he’s lying down, how’s he going to get back up? Are you sure he’s lying down? José? You there?

—Are you saying I’m a liar?

—No I’m just, like, speaking.

—Tell me this, man. You’re in California?

—Yeah, man.

—Prove it.

—I can’t really . . .

Compton mutes himself once again.

—Can someone pass me the hemlock?

—Get someone else, says Gareth. Tell him to give the phone to someone.

—Some guy who can read, at least.

—His name’s José and the dude can’t even speak Spanish!

He leans right back in.

—Do me a favor there, José. Can you pass the phone along?

—Why?

—We’re doing an experiment.

—You calling from California? No shit? You think I’m a retard? Is that what you think?

—Give me someone else there, will ya?

—Why? he says again, and we hear him pull the phone away from his mouth again and there’s a crowd around him, jabbering away, oohs and ahhs, and then we hear the phone drop, and he says something about a freakball, and something else faint and whispery, and then he’s shouting as the phone swings around, and the voices get caught in the wind.

—Anyone want to talk to this fruitcake? He thinks he’s calling from California!

—José! Just pass the phone, man, will you?

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The phone must be swinging in the air but it’s getting slower, the voices steady, and behind them, some sirens, someone shouting now about hot dogs, and I can see it in my mind’s eye, they’re all down there, milling about, and the taxis are stopped and the necks are craned upwards and José is letting the phone swing at his knees.

—Oh, I don’t know, man! he says. It’s some dipshit from California. I don’t know. I think he wants you to say something. Yeah. About it, like, what’s happening. You wanna . . . ?

—Hey! José! José! Pass it along there, José.

After a second or two he picks up the phone and says: This guy’s gonna talk to you.

—Oh, thank Christ.

—Hello, says a guy in a very low voice.

—Hi, this is Compton. We’re out here in California . . .

—Hello, Compton.

—I’m just wondering if you could describe things for us there.

—Well, that’s difficult right now.

—Why’s that?

—Something terrible happened.

—Huh?

—He fell.

—He what?

—Smashed to the ground. Terrible commotion here. D’you hear that siren? You can’t hear that? Listen.

—It’s hard to hear.

—There’s cops running through. They’re crawling all over the place.

—José? José? Is that you? Did someone fall?

—He smashed here. Right here at my feet. It’s all blood ’n’ shit.

—Who’s this? Is this José?

—Listen to the sirens, man.

—Get outta here.

—He splattered all over the place.

—Are you shittin’ me?

—Man, it’s horrible.

The phone slams, the line goes dead, and Compton looks around at us, eyes bugging.

—You think he bought it?

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—Of course not.

—That was José! says Gareth.

—That was a different voice.

—No it wasn’t. It was José. He was doggin’ us! I can’t believe he dogged us.

—Try the number again!

—You never know. Could be true. Could’ve fallen.

—Try it!

—I’m not paying any debt, Compton shouts, unless I hear it live!

—Oh, come on, says Gareth.

—Guys! says Dennis.

—We gotta hear it live. A bet’s a bet.

—Guys!

—You’re always welching on your bets, man.

—Try the number again.

—Guys, we’ve got work to do, says Dennis. I’m thinking that we could maybe even get that patch tonight.

He slaps me on the shoulder and says: Right, Kid?

—Tonight is already tomorrow, man, says Gareth.

—What if he did fall?

—He didn’t fall. That was José, man.

—The line’s busy!

—Get another one!

—Try the ARPANET, man.

—Get real.

—Get a pay phone!

—Bounce it.

—I can’t believe it’s busy.

—Well, unbusy it.

—I’m not God.

—Then find someone who is, man.

—Aww, brother. They’re all just ringing out!

Dennis steps over the pizza boxes on the floor and passes the printout machine, slaps the side of the PDP- 10, then thumps his chest, right by his OCCIDENTAL DEATH.

—Work, guys!

—Ah come on, Dennis.

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—It’s five in the morning!

—No, let’s find out.

—Work, guys, work.

It’s Dennis’s company after all and he’s the one who doles out the cash at the end of the week. Not that anyone buys anything except comics and copies of
Rolling Stone.
Dennis supplies everything else, even the toothbrushes in the basement bathroom. He learned everything he needed to know over there in ’Nam. He likes to say that he’s in on the ground level, that he’s making his own little xerox of Xerox. He makes his money on our hacks for the Pentagon, but the file- transferring programs are his real thing.

One of these centuries we’re all going to have the ARPANET in our heads, he says. There’ll be a little computer chip in our minds. They’ll embed it at the base of our skulls and we’ll be able to send each other messages on the electronic board, just by thinking. It’s electricity, he says. It’s Faraday. It’s Einstein. It’s Edison. It’s the Wilt Chamberlain of the future.

I like that idea. That’s cool. That’s possible. That way we wouldn’t even have to think of phone lines. People don’t believe us, but it’s true.

Someday you’ll just think something and it’ll happen.
Turn off the light,
the light turns off.
Make the coffee,
the machine kicks on.

—Come on, man, just five minutes.

—All right, says Dennis, five. That’s it.

—Hey, are all the frames linked? says Gareth.

—Yeah.

—Try it over there too.

—Have tone, will phone.

—Come on, Kid, get your ass over there. Call up the blue- box program.

—Let’s go fishing!

I built my first crystal radio when I was seven. Some wire, a razor blade, a piece of pencil, an earphone, an empty roll of toilet paper. I made a variable capacitor from layers of aluminum foil and plastic, all pressed together using a screw. No batteries. I got the plans from a Superman comic. It only got one station, but that didn’t matter. I listened late at night under the covers. In the room next door I could hear my folks fighting. They were both strung out. They went from laughter to crying and McCa_9781400063734_4p_03_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:34 PM Page 188

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back again. When the station kicked off the air I put my hand over the earphone and took in the static.

I learned later, when I built another radio, that you could put the antenna in your mouth and the reception got better and you could drown out all the noise easily.

See, when you’re programming too, the world grows small and still.

You forget about everything else. You’re in a zone. There are no backward glances. The sound and the lights keep pushing you onwards. You gather pace. You keep on going. The variations comply. The sound funnels inwards to a point, like an explosion seen in reverse. Everything comes down to a single point. It might be a voice recognition program, or a chess hack, or writing lines for a Boeing helicopter radar—it doesn’t matter: the only thing you care about is the next line coming your way. On a good day it can be a thousand lines. On a bad one you can’t find where it all falls apart.

I’ve never been that lucky in my life, I’m not complaining, it’s just the way it is. But, this time, after just two minutes, I catch a hook.

—I’m on Cortlandt Street, she says.

I swivel on the chair and pump my first.

—Got one!

—The Kid’s got one.

—Kid!

—Hang on, I tell her.

—Excuse me? she says.

There’s bits of pizza lying around my feet and empty soda bottles. The guys run across and kick them aside and a roach scurries out from one of the boxes. I’ve rigged a double microphone into the computer, with foam ends from packing material, the stand from a wire hanger. These are highly sensitive, low distortion, I made them myself, just two small plates put close to each other, insulated. My speakers too, I made them from radio scrap.

—Look at these things, says Compton, flicking the big foam ends of the mike.

—Excuse me? says the lady.

—Sorry. Hi, I’m Compton, he says, pushing me out of my seat.

—Hi, Colin.

—Is he still up there?

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—He’s wearing a black jumpsuit thing.

—Told you he didn’t fall.

—Well, not exactly a jumpsuit. A pantsuit thing. With a V- neck.

Flared trousers. He’s extremely poised.

—Excuse me?

—Getouttahere, says Gareth. Poised? Is she for real?
Poised?
Who says poised?

—Shut up, says Compton, and he turns to the mike. Ma’am? Hello?

It’s just the one man up there, right?

—Well, he must have some accomplices.

—What d’you mean?

—Well, surely it’s impossible to get a wire from one side to the other.

On your own, that is. He must have a team.

—Can you see anyone else?

—Just the police.

—How long has he been up there?

—Roughly forty- three minutes, she says.

—Roughly?

—I got out of the subway at seven- fifty.

—Oh, okay.

—And he’d just begun.

—Okay. Gotcha.

He tries to cover both mikes at once, but instead draws back and circles his finger at his temple like he’s caught a crazy fish.

—Thanks for helping us.

—No problem, she says. Oh.

—You there? Hello.

—There he goes again. He’s walking across again.

—How many times is that?

—That’s his sixth or seventh time across. He’s awfully fast this time.

Awfully awfully fast.

—He’s, like, running?

A big round of applause goes up in the background and Compton leans back from the mike, swivels the chair sideways a little.

—These things look like goddamn lollipops, he says.

He turns back to the microphone and pretends to lick it.

—Sounds crazy there, ma’am. Are there many people?

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—This corner alone, well, there must be six, seven hundred people or more.

—How long d’you think he’ll stay up there?

—My word.

—What’s that?

—Well, I’m late.

—Just hang on there a minute more there, can you?

—I mean, I can’t stand here talking all the time . . .

—And the cops?

—There are some policemen leaning out over the edge. I think they’re trying to coax him back in. Mmm, she says.

—What? Hello!

No answer.

—What is it? says Compton.