The Bend of the World: A Novel by Jacob Bacharach Page B

answered.
    Anyway, I told Leonard that I’d seen a UFO, and he said, Did you, now? There’s supposed to be some real weird shit going down this year. How do you mean? I said. Oh, you know, the whole Mayan apocalypse thing, he said. I didn’t know you believed in that sort of thing, Leonard. Shit, I don’t, but Elijah’s got my girl into it; she’s always making me watch those documentaries about ancient aliens and whatnot. Elijah, I said. Yeah. He’s got that store in East Lib. My girl’s real into authentic Africana, so that’s where she goes for her clothes.
    Believe it or not, I said, but I think my buddy Johnny knows him.
    Is your buddy into weird shit?
    It’s his main hobby.
    Then they probably do know each other. People who are into weird shit always find each other. It’s addictive behavior. Leonard was in recovery and believed deeply and zealously in everything but the anonymity. It’s the same as addicts, kid, he went on. When you’re an addict, you’ve got to find other addicts because they accept and understand your irrational behavior. To a crazy person, other crazy people are normal, and normal people are crazy. That was my main realization when I got sober. It’s not the spiritual shit, or the higher power shit. That shit’s important, but it’s not the main shit. The main shit is when you figure out that I’m not crazy because I’m on drugs, I’m on drugs because I’m crazy. That shit is the necessary diagnosis. Until you pinpoint that shit, everything you try is treatment for the wrong disease.
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    But I wasn’t worried about Johnny’s addiction to weird shit; I was worried about his other proclivities. I hadn’t heard from him all week other than one phone call early Wednesday morning. Silence otherwise, which was troubling, because he usually couldn’t go six hours without at least texting. The call had come at three-thirty in the morning. Your phone is ringing, said Lauren Sara with her eyes closed. I reached over blindly and silenced it. It rang again. I picked it up this time to look at the screen, saw Johnny’s name, and silenced it again. It rang again. Jesus Christ, I said, do you know what time it is?
    Morrison, he said. Mooooorison.
    Johnny, I said.
    Morrison. Morrison. Lessison. Someison. Floorison, Doorison, Poorison, Goreison, Snoreison. Bore ison.
    Johnny, I said, what do you want?
    What do I want? What do I want?
    Yeah, what do you want? I was awake now, my feet slung over the edge of the bed, scratching idly at a shoulder that didn’t itch. It was raining, slowly and steadily, each drop against the windows the soft echo of a distant bell.
    Morrison.
    Fucking what? I snapped. I closed my eyes and felt the deep desire of my whole body and being to keep them that way.
    Listen, he said.
    I’m listening. I opened my eyes again.
    Listen.
    Yes. I’m listening. What?
    My mind is a quantum computer.
    Oh yeah?
    My mind is a quantum computer.
    Right. Will it still be a quantum computer during normal business hours?
    A quantum hologram.
    Oh, so not a computer.
    Shut up. Listen. Shut up. Listen. A computer and a hologram.
    Yeah, I said. Okay. What’s the upshot?
    The upshot? he said. The upshot? He turned the word over like a plum pit you haven’t spit out yet, sucked on it as if it still had some sweetness attached. The upshot?
    You sound like you could use an upshot yourself.
    His voice changed. Wouldn’t it be cool, he said, if we could project a quantum hologram over Heinz Field for the Super Bowl? When I say his voice changed, I mean he sounded lucid in spite of the sentiment.
    I rubbed my nose. A hologram of what? I asked.
    A hologram of a hologram.
    Johnny, I said, I’m going to hang up. I’ve got to go.
    Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.
    Yeah, I’m going to leave you. Why don’t you try to get some sleep and call me when you’ve come down or whatever? Preferably at a more civilized hour.
    Listen, Johnny said. The tide is turning.
    I think you may have