Jeremy Bushnell - The Weirdness

“So The Ingot doesn’t exist?”

Laurent shrugs. “It exists as much as any literary magazine that hasn’t brought an issue to press can be said to exist. You could approach it as a philosophical question, very philosophical.”

“So the reading? You set that up to — lure me in?”

“To observe you,” Laurent says. “We didn’t realize, though, that the supernatural attention around you was approaching a major spike. A Category Six Adversarial Manifestation? That’s just … that’s just off the charts, really.”

“So you didn’t invite me because you thought I was a good writer? Because you were … a believer? In my work?”

“Billy,” Laurent says. “I’m sure your work is fine. But clearly there are more important things operating at the moment than your respective level of talent or lack thereof.”

“So, wait,” Billy says. He clenches his eyes shut and presses on them with his fingers. “You’re telling me you didn’t even read my work?”

“Not read as such,” Laurent says. “No.”

Billy can feel the little badge of honor, the one he affixed over his heart last night, being pried away. It hurts. Even on top of everything else, that still manages to hurt.

“Well,” he says, “at least you’re honest.” Only not really very honest , he thinks to himself, and at that moment he makes up his mind to go. He has a life that needs fixing.

“I want my stuff,” he says.

“I can’t do that,” Laurent says.

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We threw it away.”

“You threw it—? Where? Here?”

“Not here,” Laurent says. “You have to understand that it would be foolish to retain those materials here, on-site. Their presence would—”

“Shut up,” Billy says. “Just tell me where.”

“Our team probably put them right in the Dumpster. Behind Barometer.”

“I have to get over there.”

“By now,” Laurent says, “I’m sure they’re—”

“Shut up,” says Billy, staggering to his feet. “How do I get out of here?”

“You said you’d hear me out,” Laurent says.

“I’ve heard enough,” Billy says. “Thanks, but I really do believe that I have.”

He looks around for an exit. He spots a glowing red sign; he spots a door set into a cinder-block wall, and he sets off toward it.

“We won’t keep you here against your will,” Laurent calls after him.

“Because it would be wrong,” Billy says.

“We won’t keep you here against your will,” Laurent continues, “but I want to be clear that it’s not safe for you out there. The Adversary has an interest in you and we don’t know why. He’ll come after you again. He won’t stop until he’s gotten what he wants. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that you can bargain with him. The only thing you can do is hide, and the only place you can hide is with us. We have a secure room. We could make you comfortable in there until we get your new identity set up—”

“I don’t want a new identity,” Billy says, turning to look Laurent in the face. “I like my life. Or at least I did, before you clowns started to mess with it.”

He is a little bit surprised to realize that he means this.

Laurent regards him with a look of inconsolable disappointment. Billy turns to go. He has his hand on the door when one final question occurs to him.

“Actually,” Billy says.

“Yes?” Laurent says, eagerly.

“What about God?” Billy asks. “If the Devil exists, that implies the existence of God, right? And you guys know about the Devil, you have fancy names for when he appears and all that, so: What about God? Do you know about God?”

“I’m glad you asked that, Billy,” Laurent says. “We have some of our best people working on that problem, the Absent Benefactor problem. We have a machine. It’s got these meters on it, lights, it’s fantastic, just fantastic.”

“A God machine?” Billy says.

“A God detector ,” Laurent says. “Banks of lights. I think there’s, I don’t know, 777 LEDs. Magnificent to behold. It’s on constantly. Staffed round the clock. It’s designed so that if we detect Benefactor activity the thing will go off like a Christmas tree, if you’ll pardon the joke. I can take you up there, if you want, it’s on three, in our secure room. You could have a look.”

“Does it ever — has it ever lit up?”

Laurent’s smile fades. “No,” he says.

“Then it’s just a box, isn’t it?” Billy says, with no small sadness.

Neither of them says anything for a moment. Finally Billy turns again, to go, this time for real.

“At least take my card,” Laurent says. “So that when things get really bad you have a way to get in touch with me.”

“I don’t want your card,” Billy says. “I just want cab fare.”

“I’ll give you one if you take the other.”

And this, at last, is a proposition to which Billy can agree.

WHEN NOT TO TIP LEAVING YOUR MARK • YOUR DIGGING THROUGH GARBAGE GAME • DESTROY ALL GOLFERS • BEAUTIFUL MACHINES • SIMPLE PLANS • MAGIC VS. SHOTGUNS • COMPOST FLAVOR • GOING TO FLORIDA • NOT GOING HOME • INTO THE VESTIBULE

Before long Billy’s back in Brooklyn, at Barometer. He opts not to tip his cabbie, which he feels pretty bad about, but at least it leaves him with three bucks in his pocket. Three bucks is not really enough to do much on if he can’t find his shit, but he’ll at least be able to get a MetroCard, or use a pay phone: reach someone, begin explaining things.

The numbers of everyone he knows, of course, are stored in his phone.

As he hurries around to the weedy alley behind Barometer, hobbled by the insistent pressure of his bladder, he tries desperately to remember Denver’s number. He cycles through all the Queens exchanges he can recall in the hopes that one might jog his memory. 264? 267? For some reason, the number that keeps bobbing up, unbidden, is the Ghoul’s: it has a certain playful rhythmic character that keeps it bouncing around in Billy’s skull, like a billiard ball ricocheting around a china shop, annihilating every other phone number Billy has ever known.

Once he’s marginally shielded from the street, he’s finally able to take that piss. He luxuriates in the experience. It may be the grandest piss he’s ever taken. In a burst of exuberance he opts to write his name in giant cursive across the pavement: he gets all the way through BILLY and about halfway through a magnificent R before he finally empties out. Mine , he thinks with satisfaction, as he looks over the result.

Okay: Take a Piss is officially off his list. Now for everything else. Let’s see: Denver hates him, everyone else thinks he sucks, he’s losing his job probably right now , he’s locked out of his apartment, he can’t afford his rent, Jørgen’s still missing, and, oh yeah, the world is still supposed to perish by fire.

First things first. Phone, wallet, keys. Hope you brought your Digging Through Garbage game , he tells himself grimly as he advances on the Dumpster, you’re going to need it .

He doesn’t actually need it, he quickly learns, because a long iron security bar prevents the Dumpster’s lid from being opened more than a single inch, keeping out the curious, the needy, and the desperate alike. Turns out Billy actually needed to bring his Lock-Picking game. He doesn’t, of course, have any Lock-Picking game to bring.