I never suspected there was a direct correlation between height above sea level and all-in weirdness. Not much chance of getting high in flatland Tel Aviv. Not without drugs, anyway.
At first the Hawk and I just went, not too fast but steadily, over everything in our way. We merrily squashed through what looked like the entire content of a butcher shop, the tires making nice sucking noises over the ludicrous amount of raw beef. No matter, I bet it was kosher anyway — and I prefer my food to be free of the tyranny of religion. Then we went through one of those little Cafés that litter Dizengoff Street, and it was all sloshy and bubbly, and I was enjoying the thought of meat mixing with milk on the Hawk’s tires. This was all pretty normal.
Then there was the tourist bus. It was green, heavy, and looked brand new. It was stuck vertically in the road’s asphalt, standing on its grille, like a pencil shoved into a belly button. I saw, despite its darkened windows, some people crawling inside it.
I didn’t slow down. I went right at it, anticipating a nice audiovisual effect when it fell. I was more disappointed than annoyed when the Hawk and myself went right through it without making a sound.
I stopped. I looked back. The Hawk’s rear part was still burning quietly, though the flames looked closer to the cabin now. This was somehow reassuring.
In the background of the relative silence, I now noticed the return of the static. I looked at the radio unit, which appeared to be on, despite me remembering distinctly that I shut it off.
“Oh, God,” I said. “Not again.”
“I am thy . . .”
“Shut up.”
There was a second of quiet. Then the static whispered something like, “Put thy hand upon thy bosom.”
“So now you’re in love with me too?”
“And it shall come to pass, if they will not believe thee, neither hearken to the voice of the first sign . . .”
“So all this is a sign now? I don’t buy that. I don’t buy you,” I said.
“Ciao,” I added, and moved my right hand to gently squeeze the power button off.
I touched it, and the static was cut off for a second, then returned at full volume, and the world boomed out of existence and into something else.
The cabin was in flames. I was in flames. They smelled cold and tasted yellow and were bittersweet in my ears, like cheap red Chinese sauce. I still sat in the Hawk’s cabin, but not on the seat.
Instead, I hovered in the air, my head touching the ceiling. Out of the windshield I saw only flames, and a red-red sky.
I looked sideways, and saw the world turning slowly around me.
Below me. I saw the top of the mountain now, the ruined Dizengoff Center, from above. The Hawk was flying.
“Thy hand upon thy bosom . . .” said the static, and suddenly the Hawk jolted crazily forward, upwards, accelerating, crashing me into the seat.
In the haze of blood going to my head, just before losing consciousness, I remember just one thought:
This God person is actually real?