Colum McCann - Let the Great World Spin

— 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.

— 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.

— 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?

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?

— 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.

— 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.