Colum McCann - Let the Great World Spin (19 page)

The train shudders and he presses nonchalantly with the palm of his hands on each car to keep himself steady, and the engine gets going, but then stops again with a quick halt, a screech of brakes, and he is shunted sideways, his shoulder taking the brunt of the whack and his leg presses hard against the chains. He quickly checks the camera. Perfect. No problem. His favorite moment, this. Stopped dead. In the tunnel, near the mouth. But still in the dark. He catches the metal lip of the door with his fingers. Rights himself and leans once more against the door.

Nonchalance. Ease. In the dark of tunnel now. Between Fulton and Wall Street. All the suits and haircuts getting ready to pile out.
There is no new rumble from the train and he likes these silences, gives him time to scope out the walls. He takes a quick look down the car to make sure there’re no cops, places one foot on the chains and shunts himself up, grabs the lip of the car, one- arms himself high. If he stood on the roof he could touch the curve of the tunnel—good place for a tag— but he holds on to the lip of the car and peers out over the edge. Some red and white markings on the walls where they curve. A few yellow lights sulfurous in the distance.
He waits for his eyes to adjust, for the little retina stars to leave. Along the rear distance of the train, small bars of color bleed out from the edge of each car and spray outward. Nothing on the walls, though. A tagging Antarctica. What did he expect? Hardly going to be any writers downtown. But you never know. That would be the genius. That would be the point. Buff this, maricón.
He feels the chain jiggle beneath his feet, the first warning of movement, and he holds a little tighter to the rim of the car. None of the bombers ever get the ceiling. Virgin territory. He should start a movement himself, a brand- new space. He looks out along the length of the train, then goes a little higher on his toes. At the far end of the tunnel, he spies a patch of what could be paint on the east wall, a tag he hasn’t seen before, something quick and oblong, with what looks like a tinge of red around silver, a
P
or an
R
or an
8,
maybe. Clouds and flames. He should make his way back through the cars—among the dead and dreaming— and get closer to the wall, decipher the tag, but just then the train jolts a second time and it’s a warning signal—he knows it—he hops back down, braces himself. As the wheels grind, he trills the sighting through his mind, matches it up against all the old tags in other parts of the tunnel, and he figures it’s brand new, it must be, yes, and he gives a quiet fist pump—someone’s come and tagged downtown.
Within seconds the train is in the pale station light of Wall Street and the doors are hissing open, but his eyes are closed and he is mapping it out, the height, the color, the depth of the new tag, trying to put a geography on it for the way home, where he can take it back, own it, photograph it, make it his.
A radio sound. The static moving toward him. He leans out. Cops. Coming up from the end of the platform. They’ve seen him, for sure. Going to drag him out, give him a ticket. Four of them, belts jiggling. He slides open the door to the car, ducks inside. Waits for the slap of a hand on his shoulder. Nothing. He leans back against the cool metal of the door. Catches sight of them sprinting out past the turnstiles. Like there’s some fire to get to. All of them clanging. Handcuffs and guns and nightsticks and notepads and flashlights and God knows what else. Someone’s bought it, he thinks. Someone’s gone and bought it.
He squeezes sideways through the closing doors, holding the camera sideways so it doesn’t get scratched. Behind him, the door hisses shut. A jaunt in his step. Out the turnstile and up the stairs. To hell with the barbershop. Irwin can wait.

It’s Dennis, Gareth, Compton, and me. Dennis is the oldest, almost thirty. We like to call him Grandpa—he did two tours in ’Nam. Compton graduated U.C. Davis. Gareth’s been programming for must be ten years. Me, I’m eighteen. They call me the Kid. I’ve been hanging out at the institute since I was twelve.

—How many rings, guys? says Compton.
—Three, says Dennis, like he’s already bored.
—Twenty, says Gareth.
—Eight, I say.
Compton flicks a look at me.
—The Kid speaks, he says.
True enough, most of the time I just let my hackwork do the talking.

It’s been like that since I sneaked in the basement door of the institute, back in ’68. I was out skipping school, a kid in short pants and broken glasses. The computer was spitting out a line of ticker tape and the guys at the console let me watch it. The next morning they found me sleeping on the doorstep: Hey, look, it’s the Kid.

Nowadays I’m here all day, every day, and the truth is I’m the best hacker they got, the one who did all the patches for the blue- box program.
The line gets picked up on the ninth ring and Compton slaps my shoulder, leans into the microphone, and says to the guy in his smooth clip so as not to freak him out: Hi, yeah, don’t hang up, this is Compton here.
—Excuse me?
—Compton here, who’s this?
—Pay phone.
—Don’t hang up.
—This is a pay phone, sir.
—Who’s speaking?
—What number’re you looking for . . . ?
—I have New York, right?
—I’m busy, man.
—Are you near the World Trade Center?
—Yeah, man, but . . .
—Don’t hang up.
—You must’ve got a wrong number, man.
The line goes dead. Compton hits the keyboard and the speed dial kicks in and there’s a pickup on the thirteenth ring.
—Please don’t hang up. I’m calling from California.
—Huh?
—Are you near the World Trade Center?
—Kiss my ass.
We can hear a half- chuckle as the phone gets slammed down. Compton pings six numbers all at once, waits.
—Hi, sir?
—Yes?
—Sir, are you in the vicinity of downtown New York?
—Who’s this?
—We’re just wondering if you could look up for us?
—Very funny, ha- ha.
The line goes dead again.
—Hello, ma’am?
—I’m afraid you must have the wrong number.
—Hello! Don’t hang up.
—I’m sorry, sir, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.
—Excuse me . . .
—Try the operator, please.
—Bite me, says Compton to the dead line.
We’re thinking that we should pack it all in and go back to the graphics hack. It’s four or five in the morning, and the sun’ll soon be coming up. I guess we could even go home if we wanted to, catch a few zees instead of sleeping under the desks like usual. Pizza boxes for pillows and sleeping bags among the wires.
But Compton hits the enter key again.
It’s a thing we do all the time for kicks, blue- boxing through the computer, to Dial- A- Disc in London, say, or to the weather girl in Melbourne, or the time clock in Tokyo, or to a phone booth we found in the Shetland Islands, just for fun, to blow off steam from the programming. We loop and stack the calls, route and reroute so we can’t be traced. We go in first through an 800 number just so we don’t have to drop the dime: Hertz and Avis and Sony and even the army recruiting center in Virginia. That tickled the hell out of Gareth, who got out of ’Nam on a 4- F. Even Dennis, who’s worn his
OCCIDENTAL DEATH
T- shirt ever since he came home from the war, got off on that one big- time too.
One night we were all lazing around and we hacked the code words to get through to the president, then called the White House. We layered the call through Moscow just to fool them. Dennis said: I have a very urgent message for the president. Then he rattled off the code words. Just a moment, sir, said the operator. We nearly pissed in our pants. We got past two other operators and were just about to get through to Nixon himself, but Dennis got the jitters and said to the guy: Just tell the president we’ve run out of toilet paper in Palo Alto. That cracked us up, but for weeks afterwards we kept waiting for the knock on the door. It became a joke after a while: we started calling the pizza boy Secret Agent Number One.
It was Compton who got the message on the ARPANET this morning—it came over the AP service on the twenty- four- hour message board. We didn’t believe it at first, some guy walking the wires high above New York, but then Compton got on the line with an operator, pretended he was a switchman, testing out some verification trunks on the pay phones, said he needed some numbers down close to the World Trade buildings, part of an emergency line analysis, he said, and then we programmed the numbers in, skipped them through the system, and we each took bets on whether he’d fall or not. Simple as that.
The signals bounce through the computer, multifrequency bips, like something on a flute, and we catch the guy on the ninth ring.
—Uh. Hello.
—Are you near the World Trade Center, sir?
—Hello? ’Scuse me?
—This is not a joke. Are you near the World Trades?
—This phone was just ringing out here, man. I just . . . I just picked it up.
He’s got one of those New York accents, young but grouchy, like he’s smoked too many cigarettes.
—I know, says Compton, but can you see the buildings? From where you’re standing? Is there someone up there?
—Who is this?
—Is there someone up there?
—I’m watching him right now.
—You what?
—I’m watching him.
—Far out! You can see him?
—I been watching him twenty minutes, more, man. Are you ...? This phone just rang and I—
—He can see him!
Compton slaps his hands against the desk, takes out his pocket protector, and flings it across the room. His long hair goes flying around his face. Gareth dances a little jig over by the printout table and Dennis walks by and takes me in a light headlock and knuckles my scalp, like he doesn’t really care, but he likes to see us get our kicks, like he’s still the army sergeant or something.
—I told you, shouts Compton.
—Who’s this? says the voice.
—Far out!
—Who the hell is this?!
—Is he still on the tightrope?
—What’s going on? Are you messing with me, man?
—Is he still there?
—He’s been up there twenty, twenty- five minutes!
—All right! Is he walking?
—He’s going to kill himself.
—Is he walking?
—No, he’s stopped right now!
—Standing there?
—Yeah!
—He’s just standing there? Midair?
—Yeah, he’s got the bar going. Up and down in his hands. —In the middle of the wire?
—Near the edge.
—How near?
—Not too near. Near enough.
—Like what? Five yards? Ten yards? Is he steady?
—Steady as shit! Who wants to know? What’s your name? —Compton. Yours?
—José.
—José? Cool. José. ¿Qué onda, amigo?
—Huh?
—¿Qué onda, carnal?
—I don’t speak Spanish, man.
Compton hits the mute button and punches Gareth’s shoulder. —Can you believe this guy?
—Just don’t lose him.
—I’ve seen SAT questions with more brains than this one. —Just keep him on the line, man!
Compton leans into the console and takes the mike again. —Can you tell us what’s happening, José?
—Tell you what, man?
—Like, describe it.
—Oh. Well, he’s up there . . .
—And?
—He’s just standing.
—And...?
—Where’re you calling from, anyway?
—California.
—Seriously.
—I am serious.
—You’re fucking with me, right?
—No.
—This a hoax, man?
—No hoax, José.
—Are we on TV? We’re on TV, ain’t we?
—We haven’t got TV. We’ve got a computer.
—A what?
—It’s complicated, José.
—You telling me I’m talking to a computer?
—Don’t worry about it, man.
—What is this? Is this
Candid Camera
? Are you looking at me right now? Am I on?
—On what, José?
—I’m on the show? Ah, come on, you’ve got a camera here somewhere. Come clean, man. For real. I love that show, man! Love it!
—This is not a show.
—Are you Allen Funt, man?
—What?
—Where’re your cameras? I don’t see no cameras. Hey, man, are you in the Woolworth Building? Is that you up there? Hey!
—I’m telling you, José, we’re in California.
—You’re trying to tell me I’m talking to a computer?
—Sort of.
—You’re in California . . . ? People! Hey, people!
He says it real loud, holding the receiver out, and we can hear voices chattering, and the wind, and I guess it’s one of those pay phones in the middle of the street, covered in stickers with sexy girls and all, and we can hear some sirens going in the background, big high whoops, and a woman laughing, and a few muffled shouts, a car horn, a vendor roaring about peanuts, some guy saying he’s got the wrong lens, he needs a better angle, and some other guy shouting: Don’t fall!
—People! he says again. I got this nutjob here. Guy from California. Go figure. Hey. You there?
—I’m here, José. Is he up there still?
—You’re a friend of his?
—No.
—How did you know, then? If you’re calling in?
—It’s complicated. We’re phreaking. We hack the system . . . Man, is he still up there? That’s all I want to know.
He pulls the phone away again and his voice sways.
—Where you from again? he shouts.
—Palo Alto.
—No kidding?
—Honestly, José.
—He says the guy’s from Palo Alto! What’s his name?
—Compton.
—The guy’s name is Compton! Yeah, Comp- ton! Yeah. Yeah. Just a minute. Hey, man, there’s a guy here wants to know, Compton what? What’s his last name?
—No, no, my name is Compton.
—What’s his name, man,
his
name?
—José, can you just tell me what’s happening?
—Can I have some of what you’re on? You’re tripping, aren’t you? You really a friend of his? Hey! Listen up! I got some whackjob on the phone from California. He says the guy’s from Palo Alto. The tightrope walker’s from Palo Alto.
—José, José. Listen to me a moment, please, okay?
—We got a bad line. What’s his name?
—I don’t know!
—I think we got a bad connection. We got some nutjob. I don’t know, he’s jabbering, man. Computers and shit. Oh, holy shit! Holy shit!
—What, what?
—Holy freakin’ shit.
—What? Hello?
—No!
—José? You there?
— Jes- us.
—Hello, you there?
—Jesus H.
—Hello?
—I can’t believe it.
—José!
—Yeah, I’m here! He just hopped. Did you see that?
—He what?
—He, like, hopped. Holy freakin’ shit!
—He jumped?
—No!
—He fell?
—No, man.
—He’s dead?
—No, man!
—What?
—He hopped from foot to foot! He’s wearing black, man. You can see it. He’s still up there! This guy’s awesome! Holy shit! I thought he was a goner. He just went up on one foot and the other, oh, man!
—He hopped?
—’Zactly.
—Like a bunny hop?
—More like a scissors thing. He just . . . Man! Fuck me. Oh, man. Fuck me running backwards. He just like did a little scissors thing. On the wire, man!
—Far out.
—Can you freakin’ believe that? He a gymnast or something? He looks like he’s dancing. Is he a dancer? Hey, man, is your friend a dancer?
—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.
—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.