Colum McCann - Let the Great World Spin

— 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 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?

— 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?

— 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.

— Excuse me, she says.

— What’s going on?

— Well, there’s a couple of helicopters. They’re getting very close.

— How close?

— I hope they don’t blow him off.

— How close are they?

— Seventy yards or so. A hundred yards, at most. Well, they’re backing off right now. Oh, my.

— What is it?

— Well, the police helicopter backed off.

— Yes.

— Goodness.

— What is it?

— Right now, this very moment, he’s actually waving. He’s bending over with the pole resting on his knee. His thigh, actually. His right thigh.

— Seriously?

— And he’s fluttering his arm.

— How do you know?

— I think it’s called saluting.

— It’s what?

— A sort of showboating. He bends down on the wire and he balances himself and he takes one hand off the pole and he, well, yes, he’s saluting us.

— How do you know?

— Oops-a-daisy, she says.

— What? You okay? Lady?

— No, no, I’m fine.

— Are you still there? Hello!

— Excuse me?

— How can you see him so clearly?

— Glasses.

— Huh?

— I’m watching him through glasses. It’s hard to balance glasses and the phone at once. One second, please.

— She’s glassing him, says Dennis.

— You’ve got binoculars? asks Compton. Hello. Hello. You’ve got binocs?

— Well, yes, opera glasses.

— Getouttahere, says Gareth.

— I went to see Marakova last night. At the ABT. I forgot them. The glasses, I mean. She’s wonderful by the way. With Baryshnikov.

— Hello? Hello?

— In my handbag, I left them there all night. Fortuitous, really.

— Fortuitous? says Gareth. This chick’s a hoot.

— Shut the hell up, says Compton, covering my mike. Can you see his face, ma’am?

— One moment, please.

— Where’s the helicopter?

— Oh, it’s way away.

— Is he still saluting?

— Just a moment, please.

It sounds as if she’s holding the phone away from herself for a moment, and we hear some high cheers and a few gasps of delight, and suddenly I want nothing more than for her to come back to us, forget about the tightrope man, I want our opera-glasses woman and the rich sound of her voice and the funny way she says fortuitous. I’d say she’s old, but that doesn’t matter, it’s not like a sexy thing, I don’t like her like that. It’s not like I’m getting off on her or anything. I’ve never had a girlfriend, it’s no big deal, I don’t think that way, I just like her voice. Besides, it was me who found her.

I figure she’s about thirty-five or more, even, with a long neck and a pencil skirt, but, who knows, she could be forty or forty-five, older, even, with her hair sprayed into place and a set of wooden dentures in her purse. Then again, she’s probably beautiful.