The Right Triangle by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

26. The Right Triangle (June 2014)

Got time for one more tale from Sidle on N (a perpetually fogged-in, tiny, dive-to-the-depths-of-knowhere [sic] bar in the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco)? It’s just a short one. I sure-really hope that when/if you whisper ‘Oui’ (Yes in French) that no eavesdropper assumes than you are now referring to yourself in the 1st person plural, as they say that it is much worse than referring to oneself in the 3rd person singular. And that Mike guy, well, he should know us. I can sense that one falling flatter than last year’s cooler-compacted pancake.

Ok, enough with the preliminary noodling. I’ll behave from here on out. Well, maybe.

It was a late Friday afternoon in mid-September of ‘92. No, not 1892 at a Haverlys minor league baseball game – a century of change and re-arrange later than that in the city by the bay. 

Dash, the ever-hip, late-20-something, Amerasian M-W-F bartender at Sidle on N, was chatting on his clunky early-1990s bag-phone with his girlfriend Dish. (You know, you can’t make these nicknames up – well, maybe you can. A couple named Dash and Dish, eyes will kid yew in knots.)

I had just third-sipped my off-brand dark beer (today’s $2 impromptu, unadvertised, unannounced special), when Dash hung up his two-pound, scraped-up, bandage-taped, cellular phone by attaching it to a side of the large, dusty, black battery bag. <clunk>

Dash was excited and all a-smile. He quickly and proudly made an announcement: “Dak is going to do it! Yes, Dak is really going to do it!” Dak? Never heard him mention a Dak before.

“Do what?” I asked. “And, who in the whole wide bay area is Dak?”

“He’s going to soar, man. Dak is my computer-whiz friend. He aced the SAT. Well, at least the math and logic parts.” Wow, a little bit better than my 960.

“Very impressive, Dash. So, you’ve got a compu-genius [sic] friend. I would think that is very beneficial to have in this new digital age.”

“I think so, too, Mike. He will be getting his master’s degree from UC Berkeley in only five years.” Not too shabby. A bright diode there.

“Ok, and what will he be doing with all that brain power, Dash?” Binary fusion?

“Dak is going to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge and soar away!” So, the ultra-smart one has an exotic death wish. How sublime.

“Lovely. Just lovely, Dash. Tell him to wait a few years, and then he can be suicide number 1,000. That way his name will be on a bronze plaque at Fort Point. Oh yeah, and then his name will also be the winning answer to trivial bar bets.”

“No, he’s not planning on committing suicide, Mike.”

“Well, that’s what just about always happens when you jump off that bridge. Less than one in a hundred survive the fall. The bridge’s road deck is 245 feet above the bay’s surface. Mean sea-level, of course.” Mean sea-level. Too much.

“Yeah, I know, I know. But, really, Dak has it all figured out. He’s mega-smart. Top of the league.” Too smart for this life?

“Dash, the bridge leapers reach speeds approaching 80 miles per hour. At those speeds, the water’s surface is like concrete. Dried, cured, hard concrete.”

“He knows that. Dak told me that he’s going to take off from the top of the North Tower. He’s done the calculations and has come up with the right triangle.” The right triangle?

“Well, Dash, his chances of surviving just went from 1% to zilch. Those towers are over 700 feet tall. Seven hundred and forty-six feet to be exact.”

“How do you know the exact height of the towers and all these other bridge specs?”

“I took a free brochure from the bridge’s gift shop yesterday. My memory chip has a soft spot for random facts.” 

Dash then handed me a white business card with a right triangle on it in black ink. (Click here to see graphic.)

> [return mark] Thanks for coming back. You know, I was beginning to wonder.

I noted the numerical amounts and terms like Glide Path, Top of GGB North Tower, SF Bay surface and Kirby Cove Beach.

“Wait, did you say take off?” What kind of stunt is this? 

“I sure did. He’s going to have wings, Mike.”

“His arms will be torn off, Dash. Has your genius-pal not done his homework properly? The human body can’t take those kinds of stresses. We’re not birds.”

“He’s done all the math, even triple-checked it. Almost all of the stress is taken by an ultra-lightweight, carbon-fiber, slightly curved, 18-foot beam that will go across his back, behind his shoulder blades. The wing material is some new synthetic, composite material. It all weighs less than nine pounds.”

“You’re kidding me.” This is nutzoid. [sic]

“Man, I have seen his contraption. It’s real, dude. And, it’s really very light, yet super-strong. He’s already done some testing in the Marin Headlands at night. But please, don’t tell anyone.”

“Don’t worry; I won’t. I wouldn’t want to short-circuit the upcoming spectacle.”

“Mike, he can fly with these wings, I tell ya. It’s no joke. It really works. Well, fly is not exactly correct; glide is a better word. He told me that he glided for over 500 feet off a 200-foot-high knoll just a few nights ago.”

“Ok, Dash, let’s just say that I believe that his math is right and his glide-wings will work. That still leaves a big problem: How does he transport an 18-foot-long apparatus to the top of the North Tower without being seen?”

“Inside help, dude. He has a cousin who works in the bridge maintenance division. He will have a key.”

“But, he can’t just walk down the bridge’s sidewalk with that 18-foot wingspan. Hundreds of passing motorists and pedestrians will see him and report him to the police as a suspected terrorist.”

“He’s way ahead of you, Mike. It’s no problem. It all folds up into six three-foot-long sections. He’ll re-assemble it in the top of the tower, just under the hatch.” Just under the hatch? What?!

“If your Dak pulls this off and lives, I’ll give you five Malloy-approved lottery numbers.” Mike knows Malloy?

“Only five?” Dash laughed. “Listen, Mike, he already has a special duffel bag for it with a customized logo: SoarFree.” I’ve heard everything now. This place never fails to amaze.

“Dash, your test-genius friend is too smart for his own, dumb, good health.”

Dash was unfazed by my remark. “Oh, I forgot to tell you this: He wants me to film his epic Golden Gate glide from Battery Spencer.”

“Oh, so you will be the videographer who documents this poor guy’s death. I’d be careful with that video tape, Dash; you could get called into a courtroom.”

“Relax, Mike; it’s going to work out fine. Dak is an all-world genius; he’s not some corn-fed rube.” Where did that come from?

“Is he an epik [sic] with a k all-leaguer?” I think my American friend has had enough drink for today. I will politely cut him off. He won’t miss the alcohol. I think that he has ingested some of those ‘granules of grandeur’ that are going around.

“Mike, my crazy art-friend, he has done stunts like this before. Many times. And, get this, his record is perfect. No mishaps. No accidents. No injuries. No, not even a scratch. His preparation is always ultra-meticulous.”

“Ok, ok, Dash. Just for non-argument’s sake, I’ll believe every single word that you have just said. However, there is still a problem. A big all-engulfing problem. I’ll give you a hint: three letters, begins with the letter F.” 

“Fog?” Wow! He guessed it on the first try. Just like in a short story.

“Yes, fog, Dash. The seemingly ever-present, summertime, pea-soup fog. How will he be able to see where he is going? And, how on Earth will you be able to film him in flight?”

“I hear you loud and clear. But, have you noticed that the fog is getting thinner, and is sometimes not even present at dusk anymore?”

“Color me oblivious to it.”

“There have even been some sunsets this week where you could actually see the Pacific Ocean.”

“All the way out to Seal Rocks.” I guffawed.

“No, not the surf. I mean like seven miles out. We’re getting out of the dense summer fog season.”

“So, he is just waiting for a fog-free evening?”

“Fog-free and wind-free. A calm twilight.”

I swilled down the last two ounces in my dark brown beer bottle and got up to leave. “Dash, call me the day that Dak decides to take his leap of faith.”

“I will.”

“Give me at least four hours of lead time.”

“You got it, man. You still want my sister’s phone number?”

“No, I already have it.” What?! He does?

“You fucking dog! Get the hell out of here.” He was laughing.

“Just one last question before I go: Have you seen Malloy [a character in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco and in the short stories A Search for Sidle on N and Vermont Street] lately?”

“He was in last Tuesday. He told me that before he won the lottery he won the treble.” What?

“The treble? Isn’t that a European soccer term that refers to winning three trophies or cups in one season?”

“Yeah, I think so. But in Mr. Malloy’s case, his treble was divorce, foreclosure and bankruptcy. And in that order.” Ouch!

“I wouldn’t call that winning.”

“He said that it set him up to win the lottery.”

“Malloy is just one lucky bastard. One very amusing old loon. I love how he rationalizes his most propitious stroke of chance, and makes it seem like anyone can win if they follow his golden precepts. Lovely lunacy.”

“Yep, yep, yep,” Dash said, mimicking Malloy perfectly.

I exited with a grin. However, when I looked across Judah Street, I saw the back of an N train climbing the incline. Drats! Just missed it. Well, can’t make them all.

Next, I decided to walk down to Lava Peach for a cappuccino to pass the wait time for the next train.

Business was brisk at Judah & La Playa. The strong coffee was just what I needed. (I was running on feral fumes.)

I then looked around for something to read and found a folded sheet of paper in a basket with a story on it – one very similar to the one that you are reading right now.

An idea flashed across my interior screen: Maybe I should do some zany little quadra-folds like this someday.

I finished my cup o’ joe as the MUNI streetcar came into view. The fog is thinning, just like Dash said.

The ride back to Market Street was pleasantly uneventful, except for the man who kept looking for something on the floor. Maybe mentally ill.

Days passed with me and Sidle on N in separate worlds. To be honest, I forgot about the upcoming Dak event.

Then at three on Sunday afternoon, October 4th, Dash called me. Tonight was the night.

I met Dash at Battery Spencer at 7:07 PM. With my binoculars I saw the be-winged Dak atop the North Tower. Wow! There he is with his wing-set. It looks like he is really going to do this. Is he going to fall like a winged boulder?

Then he leapt. He glided like a giant black raptor. He curved a little and quickly came towards us. Fast. Very fast. And, he zipped right by us with a tight-lipped grin. Wow! It’s working. He’s zooming right along!

Dak, however, overshot Kirby Cove Beach and disappeared into a fog bank to the west. Where’d he go?

Dash and I never found him that evening. We just assumed that he glided a few hundred yards out to sea. Since he had a wet suit and life jacket on, we figured that he would be ok and float back in. And tomorrow he would tell us the astonishing details.

However, later, on the 10:00 PM local news, the Chinese American anchorwoman led off the broadcast with: “Wing-suited man crashes into Point Bonita Lighthouse and dies.”

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