The Bend of the World: A Novel (16 page)

6

Well, Johnny reasoned, I just happen to have some MXE, and I’ve got plenty of dextromethorphan hydrobromide cough syrup. Might as well give it a shot.

7

Johnny’s strategy was to ride the methoxetamine through a few stages of mild dissociation before augmenting it with enough Robitussin to achieve the fourth plateau and to see where that left him vis-à-vis his personal time index, but the first intramuscular dose of MXE caused him to miscalculate the second dose, and he forgot the precise nature and exact goal of his psychonautical voyage and ended up doing what he usually did when he was fucked up, which was to sit at his computer in his underwear, drink beer, and play
Panzer General II
.

It seemed to him that he needed to keep injecting the anesthetics to ease the pain of improperly healed battle wounds, the many scars of many past campaigns.

And, although the Allied advances on the Western Front appeared like they would overwhelm his positions, he found himself walking along a snowy wooded path with the Führer and Keitel and a number of senior aides. The boughs of the fir trees drooped under the weight of the snow. The sunlight was distant and gray. Keitel tried to tell the Reichskanzler that it was necessary to regroup and retrench. The Allies had no stomach for prolonged combat, but they had superior armor. And what do you think, Generaloberst? Hitler asked Johnny.
Mein Führer
, Johnny said, clasping his hands behind his back, I have allies in England who are awaiting my word. Upon receiving my orders, they will mount a crushing civil uprising that will cripple the will of the Anglo-Americans. Yes, said Hitler, soon England will be ours. Um, excuse me, said Keitel, did you order this pizza? Your neighbor downstairs let me in. Tell that Jew Mussolini he’s next, said Johnny. He motioned to one of his aides. Give Keitel his money, he said. The aide, a chunky young officer who moved, nevertheless, with a certain feline grace through the snow, handed Keitel a crumpled ten and some ones. The Führer knelt in the snow and picked up a stone.
Mein Gott!
he cried. Do you see this? Do you know what this is? Yes, Johnny said. Yes,
mein Führer
! It is the Fist of Odin. Call your allies, said Hitler. The tide is turning. So Johnny called his fascist allies in London. Herr Morrison, he said. The line was poor, but serviceable. Morrison, the tide is turning. Hm, said Morrison, that insufferable British prick, I think I’ve heard that before. The fist of Odin! Johnny cried. Yeah, said Morrison. Bloody jolly goody well. I’ve got to toodle off and Winston my boot in the Pringle lift. THE TIDE IS TURNING! Johnny called, but the line was cut, and the enemy was advancing.

The walls were collapsing. The Generaloberstabsarzt came into his quarters with a syringe. Generaloberst, he said, this is prepared for you, should it come to that. Death with honor, Johnny said, and he stuck the needle into his ass cheek. The Generaloberstabsarzt, a heavy man, almost as fat as Göring, stroked Johnny’s cheek as he fell back onto his bed. He touched his chest, and then set his hand on Johnny’s thigh. How about a hand scan? he said.

Okay, said Johnny.

Relax, the surgeon said. I’m a doctor.

Am I dead? Johnny asked him.

For the time being, the doctor told him.

My throat hurts, he said.

Here, said the doctor. Try some of this cough syrup.

When he woke up, he was in his apartment. The ceiling fan whose blades were stained black at the leading edges from all those passages through the dusty air went around. He was on the couch. Anton was curled on his chest. There were several used syringes on the coffee table, some beers, an empty bottle of Robitussin DM. Squiggles went round and round on his computer screen on the desk across the room. Oh God, he said. A steady, dull pain thudded rhythmically in his head. No, not a pain. The door. He pulled on a T-shirt and answered it. A being—not a man, precisely, but not
not
a man, either, taller somehow and more birdlike, a high peaked chest that stuck far out in front of the rest of its body, a suggestion of wings, though it had no wings, the suggestion of another eye on its face, though there was no extra eye. He—he seemed like a he, anyway—was wearing a white apron with Masonic insignia, or possible bloodstains, or possibly both, and he bore in his huge hands a huge white book from which emanated the smell of burning flesh.

Delivery, the creature said.

Oh God, said Johnny. Oh God, oh God, who are you?

I’m the deliveryman.

You’re Calsutmoran?

Yes, the angel boomed, and he swept past Johnny into the apartment. I am Calsutmoran, a Seraph of the Lord Crown Ein Sof, borne out of the Pleroma in the flying Ophanim, bearing unto you the
Book of Judgment
and the
Book of Life
.

Oh shit, Johnny said.

Oh shit indeed, said Calsutmoran.

Did you come out of the hollow earth? Johnny asked.

Do I look like I came out of the hollow earth? trumpeted the angel.

Well, said Johnny, honestly? Kinda.

Calsutmoran tossed the book on the coffee table and sank into the couch. LeVay hopped on next to him and nuzzled his fingers. You know, Calsutmoran said, that’s what I fucking hate about you people. It’s the subtle racism. You think we all look alike, don’t you?

Well, said Johnny.

What’s with all the needles?

I’ve been injecting methoxetamine and ketamine.

You think I can get some of that?

You want some of my drugs?

I’m off. Why the fuck not? You got any beers? I don’t need a needle, though. I only insufflate. I’m not a needles guy.

I’ve got beer.

Oh, and listen, I’m going to need you to make a list of who lives and who dies.

Everyone?

Yeah, sorry.

Okay.

Johnny fell asleep in the middle of the C’s. When he woke, Calsutmoran was playing
Wolfenstein 3D
on his computer. Best first-person shooter ever, he said.

Yeah, Johnny, I said after he’d recounted his version of all this. I’m pretty sure that that was me. Like really.

You’re Calsutmoran?

No, I said. I mean, you called me. I’m your fascist ally. Who’s Calsutmoran?

You sure are, he said, and not without a measure of affection. He was due to be released the next morning. He was off the IV and eating solid food, but he was pale, paler than usual, and he seemed shrunken and dry, like an apple that’s been sitting uneaten in the fruit bowl for a week too long. How did I even know how to use the phone?

I’m not sure you really did. I mean, you seemed to forget. Also, you kept rhyming. It was annoying.

Hm. I don’t remember rhyming. Man. I was pretty convinced that I was actually fighting World War II. Fucking RPGs. They get into your head. I was also really convinced that Calsutmoran—the DXM angel, by the way, which you should know—came to visit me and judge me for my sins. Although that may have been the pizza guy. I’m pretty sure I kept ordering pizzas.

I’m really not familiar with Calsutmoran.

Google that shit, he said. He’s like, oh, an androgynous emissary from another dimension who’s often reported by people returning from a fourth-plateau dex experience. I’m pretty sure that’s how I ended up at the museum.

An angel took you?

No, Morrison. Christ. I took the 54. God only knows how. I remember being really worried that the driver wouldn’t take reichsmarks.

I laughed. I had to. What else would I do? Exact change, I barked. Johnny laughed, too.

Oh man, he said. When those cops came to get me, I swear to God they were Asgardian warriors coming across the rainbow bridge on their goddamn white horses. I guess that was probably just the squad car.

I guess, I said.

Well. He shrugged and sipped at a little plastic cup of orange juice on the tray beside his bed. All’s well that ends well, I guess.

And I probably should have disagreed, should have given him the you’re-fucking-up-your-life route, but I just said, Yeah, and then I sat and watched TV with him until he fell asleep, mouth open, about halfway through an episode of
Ancient Aliens
on the History Channel.

8

At work, people had somehow become aware of my new role, whatever that was, and I found myself suddenly copied on a new volume of internal emails. They were mostly disputes between the Solve Teams and IT, or between finance and purchasing, and I couldn’t figure out why my name kept appearing on the cc lists until I mentioned it to Mark, who’d returned from wherever he’d been traveling and seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time hanging out at my desk and taking me to lunch. They perceive your power, he told me. They see you as an avatar of the higher powers around here. When Joe Blow emails Jane Doe to tell her that his motherfucking network printer still won’t scan to email, he includes your name to let her know that Others Are Being Informed.

Jesus, really? I said.

You never copied the mothership to let some dick know you mean business? Christ, Pete, what are you, like, moral or something? Self-possessed? I think I’ve found a gem in you. I think you understand the power of discretion.

Thanks, but I really don’t feel especially powerful, I said.

Shit, son, Mark said, you’re locked and loaded. What you really ought to do is start randomly responding. One-sentence emails. Has this been resolved? and that sort of thing. It will scare the shit out of everyone, and enhance your reputation as a stone-cold fucker. Huh, I said.

Set phasers on You’re Fired, he said.

I’ve never fired anyone.

We all gotta lose our cherry sometime, Mark told me. By the way, what are you doing on Friday? Helen and I are having a little dinner thing. Bring that cute hippie of yours. What’s her name?

Lauren Sara.

She’s probably a vegan or some shit.

Sometimes, I said. She’s currently pescatarian.

Dairy?

Yes. Usually.

Let me give you some advice. Never date a woman with dietary restrictions. Eating disorders are negotiable, especially if she’s got dental. Oh, on an unrelated note, there’s going to be a series of emails going around that say don’t talk to the press about the merger. I’ve had them phrased in the most blandly unthreatening language possible, all very in the interest of easing the transition period and in order to speak in one consistent voice we ask that you refrain, etc. So of course everyone will freak the fuck out. Anyway, my point is, you should feel free to ignore this. If you should feel like anonymousing around.

I don’t really talk to the press, I said. I don’t think I know any press. I don’t think the press is very interested in me.

He shook his head in wonder. Pete, he said.

Yes?

Never mind. You hungry? Let’s go grab some lunch. How do you feel about titty bars?

Really? I said.

Christ, don’t tell me you’re that sophisticated. Blush has a midget. And a decent Reuben, if you can believe it. Similarly priced, too.

9

When he was sufficiently recovered from his hospital stay—surprised to find that more than a week had passed, so maybe there was something to this time travel thing after all—Johnny took the bus over to East Liberty to visit Mustafah Elijah, the One True Prophet and sole proprietor of the Universal Synagogue of the Antinomian Demiurge as well as Elijah’s Afrikan Shop for the Body, Mind, and Spirit. There were a few women browsing dresses and beads in the front, and the usual dreadlocked clerk reading a
High Times
behind the jewelry case. The cover read, Federal Government Dope: the FDA’s Secret Stash. The store always smelled like incense and something slightly fetid: not rotten, but a little overripe. Hey, Scooty, Johnny said. Is the rabbi around?

Scooty pointed toward the back.

Johnny went through the doorway and down the two steps into the back room, which was overflowing with tables and bookshelves full of conspiracy tracts and trade sci-fi and old VHS documentaries and newspapers and magazines and cassette tapes on every shelf and every available surface. A young white woman with tangled hair and feather earrings and a full-sleeve tattoo of tigers and birds was crouching at a low shelf paging through a glossy exposé on chemtrails. Is this shit for real? she asked Elijah. Girl, he barked, you want to live in a dream world forever?

Uncle! Johnny said.

Nephew! Elijah answered. They bumped fists. What’s happening? You look skinny. For you.

I died and was reborn.

No shit? Well, that’ll take it out of a man. I been going to spinning. You ought to see those Shadyside bitches when I roll up. Ahahaha. You died, huh? How’d you do that?

Powerful drugs.

Hoo, Nephew. You got to watch that shit. I keep telling you. You know what Isaiah had to say about it: Woe to those who get up early to pursue intoxicating liquor; who stay up late at night, until wine inflames them. Sounds like you got a little taste of Sheol. Your ass will end up among the Rephaim.

Aren’t the Rephaim giants?

They’re giants
and
they’re dead motherfuckers. Anyway, you ain’t so small yourself, Nephew.

Yeah, but I’m surprisingly graceful.

Shit, underwater maybe.

The white girl said, Excuse, how much is this book?

Elijah glowered at her. What’s it say on the price tag?

There’s no tag.

It’s six dollars. With the white person discount, it’s ten dollars.

Um, sorry, how much?

Ten. Dollars.

Oh, okay, that’s cool. Do you take debit cards?

Elijah looked at Johnny, like, can you believe this shit? He turned back to the girl. Do I take debit cards? he said. Do I take Confederate currency? Do I invite the FBI to my house to watch me take a shit? Hey, Scooty! he called out to the front room. Do we take debit cards?

Does a nigger tan? Scooty said.

Jesus, the girl said. Sorry.

Get the fuck out of here, Elijah said. This ain’t a goddamn sideshow. I’m not here to entertain your ass.

Sorry, she said again.

Take the book, Elijah said. Go on. Take it. For free. Maybe your ass will learn something.

Oh, said the girl. Are you sure?

Fuck, no, I’m not sure. Leave the book. Use the door, he said, which she did.