Colum McCann - Let the Great World Spin (20 page)

—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

—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.

—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.

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 salut ing us.
—How do you know?
— Oops- a- daisy, she s ays.
—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.
Dennis is over in the corner, shaking his head and smiling. Compton’s doing the finger- circling thing and Gareth is cracking up. All I want to do is push them out of my chair and stop them using my stuff—I got a right to my own stuff.
—Ask her why she’s there, I whisper.
—The Kid speaks again!
—You okay, Kid?
—Just ask her.
—Don’t be a drip, says Compton.
He leans backwards and laughs, covering my mike with both hands, starts bouncing back and forth in my chair. His legs are kicking up and down and the pizza boxes are scattering at his feet.
—Excuse me? says the lady. There’s noise on the line.
—Ask her how old she is. Go on.
—Shut up, Kid.
—Shut up you, your goddamn self, Compton.
Compton smacks my forehead with the heel of his hand.
—Listen to the Kid!
—C’mon, just ask her.
—The beloved American right to the pursuit of horniness.
Gareth starts laughing his ass off and Compton leans into the mike again and says: Are you still there, ma’am?
—I’m here, she says.
—Is he still saluting?
—Well, he’s standing now. The policemen are leaning out. Over the edge.
—The helicopter?
—Nowhere near.
—Any more bunny hops?
—Excuse me?
—Did he do any more bunny hops?
—I didn’t see that. He didn’t do any bunny hops. Who did bunny hops?
—From foot to foot, like?
—He’s a real showman.
Gareth giggles.
—Are you taping me?
—No, no, no, honestly.
—I hear voices in the background.
—We’re in California. We’re cool. Don’t worry. We’re computer guys. —As long as you’re not taping me.
—Oh, no. You’re cool.
—There are legal issues about that.
—Of course.
—Anyway, I really should...
—Just a moment, I say, leaning all the way across Compton’s shoulder.
Compton pushes me back and asks if the tightrope walker’s looking nervous and the woman takes a long time to answer, like she’s chewing on the whole idea and wondering whether to swallow it.
—Well, he looks rather calm. His body, that is. He looks calm.
—You can’t see his face?
—Not exactly, no.
She’s beginning to fade, like she doesn’t want to talk to us much anymore, evaporating down the line, but I want her just to hang on, I don’t know why, it feels like she’s my aunt or something, like I’ve known her a long time, which is impossible of course, but I don’t care anymore, and I grab the microphone and bend it away from Compton and I say: You work there, ma’am?
Compton throws his head right back to laugh again and Gareth tries tickling my nuts and I mouth the word
asshole
at him.
—Well, yes, I’m a librarian.
—Really?
—Hawke Brown and Wood. In the research library.
—What’s your name?
— Fifty- ninth f loor.
—Your name?
—I really don’t know if I should...
—I’m not trying to be rude.
—No, no.
—I’m Sam. I’m out here in a research lab. Sam Peters. We work on computers. I’m a programmer.
—I see.
—I’m eighteen.
—Congratulations, she laughs.
It’s almost like she can hear me blush on the other end of the phone. Gareth is bent over double with laughter.
—Sable Senatore, she says finally in a voice like soft water.
—Sable?
—That’s right.
—Can I ask . . . ?
—Yes?
—How old’re you?
Silence again.
They’re all cracking up, but there’s a sweet point in her voice, and I don’t want to hang up. I keep trying to imagine her there, under those big towers, looking upwards, opera glasses around her neck, getting ready to go to work in some law firm with wood paneling and pots of coffee.
—It’s eight- thirty in the morning, she says.
—Excuse me?
—Hardly time for a date.
—I’m sorry.
—Well, I’m twenty- nine, Sam. A little old for you.
—Oh.
Sure enough, Gareth starts hobbling around like he’s using a walking stick, and Compton is doing little caveman howls, even Dennis slides up against me and says: Loverboy.
Then Compton shoves me sideways from the table and says something about his bet, he’s got to get the bet resolved.
—Where is he? Sable? Where’s the guy now?
—Is this Colin again?
—Compton.
—Well, he’s at the edge of the south tower.
—How long’s the distance between the towers?
—Hard to judge. A couple of hundred . . . oh, there he goes!
A great big noise all around her and whooshing and cheering and it’s like everything has become undone and is lapsing into babble, and I think of all the thousands off the buses and the trains, seeing it for the first time, and I wish I was there, with her, and I get a wobbly feeling in my knees.
—He lay down? asks Compton.
—No, no, of course not. He’s done.
—He stopped?
—He just walked right in. He saluted again and waved and then walked right in. Very fast. Ran. Kind of.
—He’s done?
—Shit.
—I win! says Gareth.
—Aww, he’s done? You sure? That’s it?
—The police at the edge are taking him in. They have the pole. Oh, listen.
There are huge hoots and a tremendous round of applause from near the phone. Compton looks annoyed and Gareth snaps his fingers like he’s snapping money. I lean in and take the microphone.
—He’s finished? Hello? Can you hear me?
—Sable, I say.
—Well, she says, I really must . . .
—Before you go.
—Is this Samuel?
—Can I ask you a personal question?
—Well, I guess you already have.
—Can I get your number? I ask.
She laughs, says nothing.
—Are you married?
Another laugh, a regret in it.
—Sorry, I say.
—No.
—Excuse me?
And I don’t know whether she’s said no to giving me her number, or no to being married, or maybe both at once, but then she lets out a little laugh that flutters away.
Compton is digging in his pocket for money. He slides a five- dollar bill across to Gareth.
—I was just wondering . . .
—Really, Sam, I must go.
—I’m not a weirdo.
— Toodle- pips.
And the line goes dead. I look up, and Gareth and Compton are staring at me.
— Toodle- pips, roars Gareth. Get a load of that! He’s poised!
—Shut up, man.
—That’s fortuitous!
—Shut up, asswipe.
—Touchy, touchy.
—Someone fell, says Compton with a grin.
—I was just messing with her. I was just fooling.
— Toodle- pips!
—Can I get your number, please?!
—Shut your mouth.
—Hey. The Kid gets angry.
I step over to the phone and hit the enter key on the keyboard again, but it just rings and rings and rings. Compton’s got this strange look on his face, like he’s never seen me before, like I’m some sort of brand- new guy, but I don’t care. I dial again: it just keeps ringing. I can see Sable, in my mind’s eye, walking away, down the street, up into the World Trade Center towers, to the fifty- ninth floor, all woodwork and file cabinets, saying hello to the lawyers, settling down at her desk, putting a pencil behind her ear.
—What was the name of that law firm again?
— Toodle- pips, says Gareth.
—Forget about it, man, says Dennis.
He’s standing there in his T- shirt, hair all askew.
—She ain’t coming back, says Compton.
—What makes you so sure?
—Women’s intuition, he says with a giggle.
—We got to work on that patch, says Dennis. Up and at it.
—Not me, says Compton. I’m going home. I haven’t slept in years.
—Sam? How about you?
It’s the Pentagon program he’s talking about. We’ve signed a secrecy agreement. It’s an easy enough thing to do. Any kid could do it. That’s what I’m thinking. You just use the radar program, key in the gravitational pull, maybe use some rotation differentials, and you can find out where any missile will land.
—Kid?
When there’s a lot of computers going all at once, the place hums. It’s more than white noise. It’s the sort of hum that makes you feel that you’re the actual ground lying under the sky, a blue hum that’s all above and around you, but if you think about it too hard it will get too loud or big, and make you feel no more than just a speck. You’re sealed in by it, the wires, the piping, the electrons moving, but nothing really moving, nothing at all.
I go to the window. It’s a basement window that doesn’t get any light. That’s one thing I don’t understand, windows in basements—why would anyone put a window in a basement? Once I tried to open it, but it doesn’t m ove.
I bet the sun is coming up outside.
— Toodle- pips! s ays Gareth.
I want to go across the room and hit him, a punch, a real punch, something that’ll really hurt him, but I don’t.
I settle down at the console, hit Escape, then the N key, then the Y key, leave the blue- box hack. No more phreaking today. I open up the graphics program, use my password.
SAMUS
17. We’ve been working six months on it, but the Pentagon’s been developing it for years. If there comes another war, they’ll be using this hack, that’s for sure.
I turn to Dennis. He’s already hunched over his console. The program boots. I can hear it clicking.
There’s a high that you get when you’re writing code. It’s cool. It’s easy to do. You forget your mom, your dad, everything. You’ve got the whole country onboard. This is America. You hit the frontier. You can go anywhere. It’s about being connected, access, gateways, like a whispering game where if you get one thing wrong you’ve got to go all the way back to the beginning.