—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?
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—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.
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—How do you know?
— Oops- a- daisy, s he 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.
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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?
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—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 beg
inning 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.
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—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 McCa_9781400063734_4p_03_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:34 PM Page 195
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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 . . .
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—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 G areth.
—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 gravita-McCa_9781400063734_4p_03_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:34 PM Page 197
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tional 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 G areth.
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. SAMUS17. 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.
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They didn’t let me go to Corrigan’s funeral. I woulda walked the bakery line to get there. They put me back in the pen instead. I weren’t crying. I laid straight out on the bench with my hand over my eyes.
—
I saw my rap sheet, it’s yellow with fifty- four entries. Typed up not so neat.
You see your life with carbon copies. Kept in a file. Hunts Point, Lex and Forty- ninth, West Side Highway, all the way back to Cleveland. Loitering.
Prostitution offense. Class A misdemeanor. Criminal possesion controlled substance 7th degree. Criminel trespass 2nd degree. Criminal posession narcotic drug, Class E felony. Prostitution solicitation, Class A, Misdemeaner Degree 0.
The cops musta got a D in spelling.
The ones in the Bronx write worse than anyone. They get an F in everything except pulling us up on our prop’rties.
—
Tillie Henderson alias Miss Bliss alias Puzzle alias Rosa P. alias SweetCakes.
Race, sex, height, weight, hair color, hair type, complexion, eye color, scars, marks, tattoos (none).
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—
I got a taste for supermarket cakes. You won’t find that on my yellow sheet.
—
The day they arrested us, Bob Marley was on the radio, singing, Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights. A funny- ass cop turned the volume higher and grinned over his shoulder. Jazzlyn shouted: “Who’s gonna look after the babies?”
—
I left the spoon in the baby formula. Thirty- eight years old. There ain’t no prizes.
—
Hooking was born in me. That’s no exaggeration. I never wanted no square job. I lived right across from the stroll on Prospect Avenue and East Thirty- first. From my bedroom window I could see the girls work. I was eight. They wore red high heels and hair combed high.