The Bend of the World: A Novel (12 page)

So what are you doing here? I asked. I don’t suppose you dropped by just to say hello.

No, he said. I had some early meetings, and I have some late meetings, and I figured I’d find your oar down in the slave galley to see how hard they make you row.

I hardly break a sweat. It’s very civilized.

You know what I like about you, Pete? he asked. I raised an eyebrow. Anyone else, he said, would pretend to be murdering himself to complete a hundred and ninety hours of work in a seventy-hour week. I like your nonchalance. I think you were serious about that unemployment thing.

Completely, I said.

Too bad, he told me. I have other plans for you. I’ve been bandying you about upstairs. Preparing the way.

That sounds ominous.

It is. How’s your girlfriend?

She’s well. She mentioned you the other night.

Oh yeah?

Just in passing. Whatever happened to your new friend, I believe, was how she put it. I told her I thought you’d already forgotten me. How’s Helen?

He glanced at his watch. Probably sober, he said. You made quite the impression on her. I tried to find some hint as to his meaning in his face, but he was inscrutable. She asked me to spare you. She said, Leave the poor boy alone and don’t get him caught up in your schemes and conspiracies.

Tell her I owe her one.

Oh no. She’d take it seriously, and then at some future point she’d actually try to extract the favor. Better let it dangle. You can owe me instead. We should all hang out again, however. She thinks we need more friends.

I remember you said you didn’t have friends.

He smiled thinly. Did I? he said. I say such interesting things.

Just then my other visitor arrived. Shit, I thought. De-livery, he said, singsong. Hey, I said. Who’s this? Mark said. I’m the bike messenger, he answered. Your shoes are wrong, Mark said. Shit, I said. Mark glanced between us; his eyes did that thing, that sideways wink, that high-speed scan of the circumstances. He bore his canines and grinned. Peter Morrison, he said. At work, no less. You dog.

14

We stopped at the newsstand on Liberty and Mark bought rolling papers and tobacco, because Mark said he only ever smoked spliffs, and then we walked down to the Point and got stoned sitting on the wide steps between the fountain and the rivers. This was the point of mystical convergence, the weak spot between worlds where Winston Pringle’s byzantine Project was supposed to break through the opalescent barrier dividing one second from the preceding and subsequent seconds, one world of potentiality from the next. Right now it was under construction, the whole sprawling bowl and the stocky pump houses cordoned off by temporary chain-link. There was one forlorn backhoe, and a couple of workmen in hard hats leaned against it as if they had nothing else to do in the world. Johnny would have said the superficial renovation was just a cover for the real construction deep underground, but to me it seemed like the typical Pittsburgh construction project, itself an exercise in a more mundane sort of time manipulation, the hours stretched to days, the days to months. I thought I remembered reading somewhere that the work was scheduled well into 2015. How would the Mayan calendar account for all that?

There was a faint hint of life on the trees in the park and on the trees across the water on the bluff of the West End Overlook—the warm, wet month just past was hurrying the living spring along. A bus crossed the West End Bridge over the Ohio. The West End Bridge always makes me think of the end of the world, I said. How so? asked Mark. He flicked our roach in a high arc; it hit the river and was gone. There were ducks in the water. The winter had been so mild that they’d never left. I don’t know, I said. It looks like it should be a ruin. Well, said Mark, I guess we’ll have to wait and see. Wait for what? The end of the world? I said. He shrugged and leaned back on his elbows. His jacket was across his lap. I don’t think any of us is going to live to see it, I said. Hm, he said. That’s the point, isn’t it? No one sees the end of the world. That’s what makes it the end of the world. The end of the world is like the horizon. The bend of the world, I said to that. Yeah, he smiled. Yeah. That’s good. But, I said, there’s more world beyond the horizon. More horizons, anyway, Mark said, which struck us both as very funny and we laughed for a minute.

Listen, I said, about the other night.

No, he said. I feel bad. I got you all caught up in the craziness with me and Helen. You got swept up in the wake. Sorry about all that.

Well, I said, to be honest, I guess I’m thinking more of the, you know, the whatever it was that we saw up there.

You seem embarrassed.

Maybe. I’m not sure how to broach the subject. Hey, nice to meet you. Had fun partying. Yeah, things got a little too wild, maybe. Oh, how about the UFOs? It’s the last detail, you know?

Aren’t UFOs the new thing around here? Don’t you read the papers? Pittsburgh is like space invaders central.

I guess, I said.

You know what your problem is, Mark said, though not as a question. You’re jaded, but it’s self-imposed. How old are you, thirty?

Twenty-nine.

Close enough. Listen, how many people get to see a genuine flying saucer in their lives? Not many, which is why no one believes they’re real.

As opposed to: they’re just not real.

Who cares if they’re real? Give credence to the incredible. He turned toward me, propped on one arm. You saw them. They exist. Whether they’re real or not.

You saw them, too.

Yes.

Well, do you think they were real?

I think that’s the least interesting question you could possibly ask.

You’re not interested in whether those things exist or not?

Well, that’s not the same thing, is it? Obviously they exist. We saw them. That doesn’t mean they’re real.

So they’re, what, hallucinations? Illusions?

Probabilities, Mark said. When there’s a ten percent chance of rain, and it rains, is the rain unreal?

I said, But you can prove it rained.

How? The rain disappears. It gets absorbed. It evaporates.

I don’t know, I said. You can record it. You can collect it in a jar.

Didn’t Archimedes say, Give me a jar big enough, and I will bottle a UFO?

That sounds right, I said.

So let me ask you a related question, Mark said.

Shoot.

What are you doing at Global Solutions?

How is that related?

Whatever. Pretend it isn’t. The question remains.

It’s my job.

Do you like it?

I don’t know. Do you like yours?

I don’t have a job. I am a job. I’m the mere human avatar of something wholly inhuman.

Are you an alien?

Mark laughed and said, You have no idea. I’m a lawyer. That’s worse.

I thought you said you were a sort-of lawyer.

I’m a sort-of alien.

You know, I said, my friend Johnny doesn’t believe in aliens. He thinks the UFOs are visiting from another dimension.

That’s still alien, isn’t it? said Mark.

True, I said.

Anyway, you’re not answering the question.

Making money, I said. Working. Getting by. Not all of us are lucky enough to be the human avatar of something wholly inhuman. I giggled. Some of us are just trying to pay the rent.

Now, that, Mark said, is depressing.

Let me ask
you
a question, I said.

Fair enough.

What are
you
doing at Global Solutions?

Technically, I’m not at Global Solutions.

Your Honor, I said, please instruct the witness to answer the question.

Oh, good, Mark said. Lawyer jokes. I told you. I represent the entity that’s going to eat you. You are the giant squid, squidling around in the depths, feeling bigger than everything else. But Moby-Dick is heading for you. You’ve been pinged. He’s got you in his sonar.

You’re the whale? Or the sonar?

Oh no. Just a minor tooth.

You lead a very metaphorical existence, I said.

Yeah, he said, I do. What time is it? I am literally starving.

Around eleven, I said.

Close enough for lunch. How do you feel about Thai?

15

On Friday, I got promoted. John Bates and Sylvia Georges called me upstairs, which had never happened before. He was the CFO, and she was the general counsel. If you’d have asked me, I’d have doubted they even knew who I was. We met in a conference room with a view through a gap between buildings to the Allegheny and the North Shore and the first steep rise of the North Hills. An assistant offered me coffee and water. I was such a fool that I thought they were going to fire me, as if either of them would do that themselves. There was another woman there whom I didn’t recognize. This is Jennifer Swerdlow from Metzger Richards, Bates said. Peter Morrison, I said, and we shook. Bates said, You may have heard rumors that the company is for sale. Sure, I said. These are only rumors, Sylvia said. She was in her fifties and looked like she played three matches of tennis every morning. Yes, I said; absolutely. However, Bates said, they happen to be true. His shirt was open at the collar; he had a bit of a belly; you could tell he liked a drink or two. Generally true, Sylvia said. True in a limited and strictly defined sense of the word true, said Jennifer Swerdlow, who was round, though not fat; who might have been the host of a cooking show were it not for her eyes, which suggested that you not look away if you happened to catch them. Right, I said. Let’s say instead that we’re entering into a new partnership, Bates said. A deal, Sylvia said. An arrangement, Swerdlow offered. An arrangement, I repeated. In effect, Bates told me, an equitable merger of entities is being set up to ease a period of transition. However, Sylvia said, the autonomy of one of these entities may, upon the occurrence of certain . . . other events, be terminated, in which case, the other entity will take on a more proprietary position vis-à-vis the prior equal partner. Okay, I said. It seems, Bates said, that you’re acquainted with one of the principal movers in the other entity. He asked for you, Swerdlow said, by name. She picked at one of her nails. She sounded neither pleased nor displeased. I didn’t say anything. Our feeling, Sylvia said, is that, given this existing relationship, and given this person’s clear confidence in your abilities and, moreover, in your discretion in re: the matter at hand, you could very adequately serve as an ongoing liaison until such time as those other events occur. You’re talking about Mark Danner, I said, from Vandevoort. We’re talking in the abstract, said Swerdlow. Right, I said. Well, in the abstract, what happens to me after, uh, the occurrence of these other events? Assuming any of these events occur, said Sylvia, and assuming you take part in them as we’ve just laid it out for you, you would be, along with the group of us managing the transition, insulated from any potential negative outcomes that might accrue to less directly involved employees. Insured, Bates said. Indemnified, Swerdlow said, with emphasis. So this is a promotion, I said. For me. It’s a transition, said Sylvia. What about Ted? I asked. Who? said Bates. Ted, Sylvia told him. That veep I mentioned to you. The forty-year-old? Bates said. Yes, she said. Oh. Bates shrugged. He’s your boss? he asked me. Yeah, I said. Currently. Fuck him, said Bates. He’s a zombie. He’s a nice guy, I said. He’s a zombie, and you’re still human. It doesn’t matter what he was. Keep the shotgun handy. Swerdlow stood up. Are we good here? she asked. I’ve got another thing. Sylvia looked at me. Are we good here? she asked. Then I did something I didn’t know I had it in me to do. How much? I said. What? said Bates. How much money? I said. For me, I mean. Oh. He looked at Sylvia, who shrugged. How’s a buck ten? A what ten? I couldn’t believe it. Sylvia laughed. Obviously sufficient, she said. Great, said Bates. He took my hand in his meaty paw. Welcome aboard. If you say anything to anyone before we tell you, I’ll chop your fucking head off. Karla will call you on Monday to get all the HR shit ironed out. They left me in the conference room alone.

16

I called Lauren Sara and said, Let’s have dinner tonight. I can’t, she said. I’ve got Patra’s opening. Who? I said. My roommate, she said. Which one? No, she said. Not at the house. At my studio. Skip it, I said. I can’t, she said. I promised. Plus, I’m hanging out with Tom, who’s still mad at you, by the way. A woman scorned, I said. What? she asked. Nothing, I said. She said, How about tomorrow night? I’ve got the opera, I told her. Well, after, she said. We can get a drink. Aren’t you going with your parents? You’ll need one.

That’s true, I said, and it was agreed.

I tried Johnny and he still wasn’t answering. I tried Julian, suggested we play a few games of racquetball and have a beer. Love to, he said, but I have to go to some art thing with Tom. He said Lauren Sara was going to be there. You’re not going? I don’t do art things, I said, when I can help it. Lauren Sara doesn’t mind? No, I told him, she prefers it that way. Your girlfriend is a miracle, he told me. Then I’m fucked, I said. I called Derek. I’ve got to meet someone later, he said, but I’d have a beer. We met at the Thunderbird on Butler Street, where a bluegrass band played a distracted set against the din of a lot of assholes who didn’t care. Someone even turned on the jukebox at one point, until the bartender noticed and pulled the plug.

What’s new in the private sector? Derek asked me.

I am, I said. Promotion.

No way. Let me buy you a shot.

I will indeed.

How the hell did you get promoted? I always figured you and Johnny just IM’d all day.

I know all the right people.

So it was an inside job? He caught the bartender. Two Maker’s, he said.

A conspiracy, I said.

Well, congrats. The shots arrived. We raised them. Yinz and yourn, Derek said. Cheers, I said. We touched the glasses to the bar and then drank. So, he said, what’s the new job?

No idea.

Sounds like your old job.

Exactly, I said.

I’m ashamed in the shadow of your ambition.

You’re ambitious. You went to law school.

Law school is the opposite of ambition. Also, I think if they offered me a promotion, I’d turn it down.