Part Three

     Pain can be cathartic. I think that’s why it exists. It forces one to focus on an immediate need while pushing away other concerns. It puts everything in perspective and brings sharp relief to all our joys. Physical pain, emotional pain, even the pain of tedium, they all serve a purpose. As I sit here gazing out at my city, hungry and cold, I know that all the elements around me add color to my drama. Any pain is of my choosing and it only helps me in my role. I’ve been thinking a lot about the pain that I didn’t choose: the pain that brought me here. I’m grateful for it. It made this possible.

     I’m jumping to the present right now because, quite honestly, the years after Malaya weren’t that compelling, even to me. I had three different jobs. I attended school intermittently, with financial concerns dictating the schedule, until it became clear, actually, several semesters after it became clear that I was gaining nothing from the experience. I worked, I watched, I sought out and attended any available auditions, and this went on day after day until it became month after month and year after year. My contentment was the enemy of my art. This is why getting fired was such an epiphany. It woke me from my stupor and brought me an urgency that I hadn’t felt since my youth. It was the spark that got me really moving again after years of running in place. It pushed me to heights I never even dreamed of scaling. Yes, failure, all my failures, brought me here. I stacked them one upon the other and then climbed atop the great pile and decided to make it my stage.

    I’m currently seated just over one hundred feet in the air upon a six inch strip of metal. My perch is about a third of the way up on a 387 foot tall steel lattice tower broadcasting directly in front of one of the local television affiliates. I’ve been up here for just shy of 80 hours during which time I’ve neither spoken nor eaten. I’ve done nothing but write, sleep (with aid of a support cable), observe, drink water and stretch my legs. I have strove to do all of this in the most elegant way possible. Strong winds and occasional light drizzle have helped. That may sound counterintuitive but the fact is I’m well prepared for the elements. I welcome them. They make my gentleman stand out all the more in contrast.

     I’ve constructed a character that I call Tan Man. He wears a beige: sport coat, cargo pants and a fedora of nearly, but not precisely, matching hue. This is accented by the brightest reds I could find in: a dress shirt, socks, sneakers, sunglasses, a plastic watch, a belt and a pocket square. Visibility was obviously paramount in dressing my man but I also wanted him to have a bit of stylish flair, a Tom Wolfe quality. Under my costume, I’m layered well against the February chill with a fleece pullover on top of synthetic dry-wick athletic wear. Relative to my circumstances, I’m comfortable, which eases my effort to stay in character.

    Tan Man is a dandy of sorts. He drinks his water from a coffee cup and appears to read a newspaper as if he were seated at a sidewalk café and not upon a damp steel railing in the sky. His movements are a bit fidgety and overly-mannered. He is haughty and prim, content with his space and desirous that everyone just leave him to it. He has not been blatantly trying to draw attention to himself. Holing to the adage that absurd situations should be played straight, he merely is up here.

    He made his appearance around 4 a.m. on a Thursday and managed to go undetected on that overcast morning until about 9:20. It was then that an employee, a thin brunette, from the TV station walked out to her car, stood next to it smoking, and absentmindedly began surveying the sky. I had watched her arrive with the 7 o’clock group so she must have been on her first break. She seemed to look above me at first, at the peak of the tower but then her eyes drifted down and she locked her gaze on me, transfixed. She started yelling, never looking away. Another smoker, a heavyset man walked over and they both stared together, gesturing wildly. It was beautiful. They got quiet. Everything was quiet. Enough so that I heard the man proclaim: “It’s some kind of promotion. It’s a mannequin.”

    This was my cue. I extended my arms out in a wide stretch and smoothed the lapels of my jacket. I gingerly picked up my cup, pinky extended of course, and took a slow, enjoyable sip.

The man again: “Oh my God!”

Thus, I began my extended performance outside of KQMD Channel 4. The police would come soon. The cameras were, of course, there already.

My crowd is a wonderful tableau of life. There’s an apartment building on the South side with twelve patios, facing my tower. These are stacked three high and there’s nearly always at least one set of eyes from each flight trained on me. The inhabitants are mostly Hispanic families with a few younger people of all stripes mixed in and one elderly black woman on the second floor who spends much of the day, bundled in blankets, watching me with binoculars. This is the Orchestra level of my audience. They are universally supportive and seem pleased to have the best seats for something that’s drawing a great deal of attention. I aim most of my light comedy towards them. I’ll sometimes sit on the South rail above them and struggle in exasperation to read my paper as it keeps crumpling in the wind. Or I’ll pretend to be bothered by a fly and swat at it, casually, then fervently, then manically. This morning, my woman on the second had binoculars for the first time so I performed the following bit of pantomime for her: I took a sip of my water, looked at it suspiciously, shrugged, took another sip, looked at it again for a longer moment and then did a spit take immediately upon the next sip. I couldn’t actually hear her laughter. The crowd below creates a dissonant hum through which only shouting can cut. But she waved her arms in amusement and the pride that flushed over me warmed me at least ten degrees.

To the North is a large call center with shifts starting every half hour from 5 am until midnight. There are thus always people coming and leaving the building and always some number of them watching from the parking lot. From this group come most of my yellers. The younger ones are frequent and encouraging: ‘Toooweeer guy!’, ‘You rock!’ and ‘Whoo!’ being among the most popular calls. Occasionally, and nearly always by an older voice, I’m catcalled with ‘Jackass!’ or ‘You’re wasting taxpayer money aaaassshole!’ Hecklers can be helpful. They keep you from getting too high off the thrill of performance. They remind you that you have to stay focused and work extra hard for those who do appreciate your art.

Across the street from the TV station to the West is a very large parking lot servicing a grocery store, a KFC, a martial arts studio, and several small stores. This is the balcony section where my tailgaters have set up. On the third day, the police managed to remove all trespassers from the KQMD and call center lots and pushed my general audience there to form a watch party. From my vantage point, they exist not as individuals but as a fun loving mob. They offer to me the occasional pleasure of distant music. Sometimes there’s a sound system loud enough to reach me on high and last night, I made out someone playing Spirit in the Sky, Tower of Song and Rocket Man back to back. I took this to be a clever hosanna to me from the back of the hall.

I could never, of course, have gotten this response without promotion from Channel 4. They’ve posted my image with headlines calling me a: ‘LOCAL SENSATION?’, an ‘INTERNET SUPERSTAR!’ and a ‘POSSIBLE THREAT?’ They’ve been giving updates of my non-progress to tens of thousands of viewers. I know this because I’ve been watching their 6pm broadcast on a small portable television carefully concealed beneath my paper. Channel 4 is the only station I can access on their tower but the reception is impeccable.

                This is my audience and I’ve served them thus far with no drama and no narrative (aside from the mere act of holding out and ignoring the police). I’ve been actively engaged in essential non-action, waiting for just the right moment to surprise them with something. That moment will come today at precisely noon. It has to. It’s the morning of my fourth ascended day and my sixth without food. I can deal with hunger pangs easily. I’ve trained for this and I’m fully prepared to suffer for my work but if I wait any longer I’ll be too weak to pull off my first trick. I should have done it yesterday but I was waiting for one last guest to arrive at my event. About an hour ago, I saw them. There was a new white van with the others right next to channel 7. I reached for my binoculars (black, along with my gloves. I couldn’t find a suitable pair of either in red) and I had to restrain myself from pumping my fist with excitement. On the passenger side door were the unmistakable red letters: CNN.

                In twenty minutes, I’m going to turn Tan Man into Clock Man with a physical stunt inspired by Harold Lloyd. I’m ready. I’ve kept my West rail dry with a small (red) towel, I’ve kept my shoulders loose with small rotations, and I’ve kept my mind alert with people watching. I’m pleased to see that the first man introduced to Tan Man will be present for my first dramatic act. He’s a middle-aged man named George with leathery orange skin and faded brown/white hair and stubble. He wears a ratty black trench coat and is likely homeless. He was the only other passenger on the 2am bus that brought me here. He was huddled in a seat towards the back and the sight of him gave me pangs of doubt about everything I was about to do. The irony of voluntarily facing the elements and skipping meals while many people endure such things involuntarily was often present in the back of my mind. I had sat a few rows up from him and debated in my mind whether to offer him a bottle of water.

              Back in my restaurant days, I once was once on lunch and saw a man dressed like him sitting in a corner booth with coffee but no food. I approached the man and asked him diplomatically if he would like anything to eat. The man politely declined and a few minutes later, left and came back with a burger and fries. I felt terrible that I may have offended his pride so I ate quickly and went in the back to stock the freezer. I was thinking of that man when George tapped me on the arm.

“Hey” he said in a gravelly voice waving his arm up and down at my suit “I like it. Are you going to a party or something?”

I felt a wave of relief wave over me. I looked up at this gregarious face and felt my face breaking out into a grin. I realized that he would be the first person I’d spoken to in weeks.

“Oh,well, not a party but I’m going to be doing a kind of performance over in front of the TV station on Burlington.”

“Oh, sounds pretty neat. I might come over to see that. When’s that?”

“I’ll be there in the morning and for a few days and nights, probably.”

“Are you a singer?”

“Well, I’m kind of an actor.”

“Oh, neat. I hope it goes good for ya. My name’s George.”

“My name’s Samuel. I hope to see you out there.” I shook his hand and said “Hey, George, I’ve got to walk a little ways and I think I packed my bag too heavy. Would you like any water? I don’t know why I brought so much.”

“Oh, well, sure. I can help you out there. How much do you need to get rid of?”

“Man, as much as you want. It’ll just save me the load.”

“Huh, well, I think I could carry maybe five” He patted his jacket “…eight bottles, if that helps you.”

“Yeah, it would, George. My back thanks you.”

I opened my bag and handed over the water.

“Lotta stuff in there, huh?”

“Yeah, got water, batteries… need any batteries or towels?”

“No, thanks.”

“Ok, um, binoculars, flashlight, cables.”

He seemed to be thinking about this.

Finally, he said “Well, I’ll come by for sure. I bet you put on quite a show.”

“I’m gonna try.”

We rode in silence for a few minutes and he patted me on the shoulder and shook my hand again “My stop, Sam. Burlington, right?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see you there.”

George has shown up on two of my first four days, missing just the first and the third. The parking lot directly In front of the tower has been cordoned off for only the police, media and Channel 4 employees. George manages to wrangle his way in despite this and he’s in the back now leaning up against one of the news vans. He’s helping my nerves. Whatever his circumstances, his life is surely hard and often perilous, far more so than anything I’ll deal with in the course of my performance. Thinking of George reminds me that to allow fear to dictate things up here would be absurd. I also promised him a show. He lived up to his pledge to come. I’m going to honor my end as well.

It’s about one minute till noon. I wipe off my rail again and stand upon it stretching my shoulders, abs and back. This is not only to loosen up but to draw attention, to indicate that something is about to occur. I remove my hat and place it upon the widest section of the rail. I lay my jacket over the top of it. I look directly down, gauging the distance to the ground. For some reason, heights have never bothered me in the slightest. When I was young, I sometimes climbed up on our roof at night. It was comforting to look down at the houses from above, to know that all the dramas of the world were a little smaller and less consequential if you simply pulled back the camera.

I place my hand upon the cross bar above to steady myself. I feel confident in my sense of balance and footing but my hunger has left me susceptible to bouts of lightheadedness which my inversion will only make worse. The wind is low and breezy. Standing, I feel it pleasantly whisk against my body. This is the moment an actor is born for. I stare at my watch as it counts up: 40… 45… 50 and at precisely 11:59.55, I grasp the rail with my right hand, not permitting myself hesitation, and then the left. I grip the rail like a vice and build the tension from my wrists through my forearms, my delts and pecs as I lift my feet into the air and slowly kick them out and then up, tensing every muscle as I strain to position my legs directly above my extended arms, to straighten my body into a vertical hour hand. My abs burn and I’m trembling but completely in control, as I force my legs into a perfect line and hold now for five solid beats, breathing to count them out. 1.. 2.. 3.. 4.. done! I slowly lower my feet and carefully find the rail. I’m only slightly woozy and I feel strong. I pull on my jacket and hat, and sit down and clip on my bungee support cable. I have nearly an hour to summon more strength. I look to the vans. George is clapping. I hear a shout from the orchestra. On the third level, there’s a man of college age with a hoodie and a ball cap, giving me a thumbs-up with both hands. I point to him, more shouting from the orchestra. I point to them. I point to George. There’s shouting now from the East, so I unhook my cable and stand. I’m blatantly breaking the fourth wall but it feels right. A little action feels earned. I feel lightheaded so I grab the rail above and lean out extending my hat in a wide flourish to my crowd. The police are scrambling, the media scurrying in the back but my people are cheering me. This is why I trained so hard. I’m giving them excitement. I’m giving them a moment. My head’s buzzing from the blood rush but also from accomplishment. I sit back down and pick up my paper and my character. I can’t waste too much energy. It’s a resource in finite supply. At least I know now that when I’m at my lowest, I can summon a little more from my crowd.

I’m sure to be visited soon by primary antagonist. He’s a likable young dragon rider by the name of Donnie Ramirez. On the first day, the antagonist role was filled by a pear shaped sheriff in a white hat. He instructed me via bullhorn to come down immediately from my position or face prosecution for trespassing. Repeating this commandment, in between stints in a lawn chair, seemed to be the only tactic in his wheelhouse. Mr. Ramirez showed up on the second day. He showed considerably more sophistication in the art of negotiation. He started with a gift. One of the other officers climbed to about 30 feet below my position and taped up a plastic bag. I retrieved it and found a cellphone inside with four bottles of water and a note:

“Hello, my name is Officer Donnie Ramirez. We need to talk so we can find a way to get you down safely. Please push any number to be connected to me.”

The police phone went off several times throughout the day and I ignored it. I waited until just after 7pm and then, out of courtesy more than anything, pushed 7. After a couple of rings:

“Hi, this is Donnie! It’s great to finally get in touch with you. Who am I speaking to?”

I listened. He sounded like a New Yorker.

“…Ok, I’m assuming you can hear me. We need to figure out a way to get you down. We’d need to know what it is you want and how we can help you…… You’ve caused quite a commotion down here… Ok, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me... I want to help you. Do you believe me?... I’m going to tell you what’s happening down here. We’re waiting on a crane. When it comes we’re going to bring a basket up there to where you are. It’s very safe and we’re going to bring you down in that. You’re not going to be in trouble if we can get you down, but if you refuse to come down, we’re going to need to know why. We need to be certain that you don’t pose a threat. Do you understand what I’m saying?... I’m going to assume that you do. I’m going to let you go now so we can save the battery but as soon as you’re ready to talk, anytime you’re ready to talk, just press a button, ok?...  Goodbye.”

I didn’t answer again. I went about my routine. I wrote and played to my crowd. And then yesterday at around 2pm, the dragon came down the street. It took them three hours just to clear a path and set it in an acceptable position. The dragon is a monstrous green contraption with wide set legs and a scissored neck extending up to a gaping yellow head. Encaged within this head, when it finally rose up to face me, eye to eye, was Officer Ramirez. He looked younger than I expected with a bland yet handsome face. His posture was noticeably nonchalant. He nodded to me with a slight smile as if I was a buddy he had just seen yesterday. I stood to greet him, straightening my lapels and smoothing the brim of my hat. I pulled out the police phone and pointed to it. I typed a text message and sent it to ‘Donnie’, the only name in the address book:

“A SHOW OF FAITH”

I watched him fumbling for the phone is in pocket. He flipped it open and looked back to me. I carefully pulled out all of my pants pockets, showing them to be empty. I removed my jacket and patted it, showing that no pockets existed. I then picked up my backpack and slowly pulled out the contents:

-12 bottles of waters and a small box of Ziploc bags which I stacked upon my rail next to my mug

-A package of 10 AA batteries, a tube of sunblock and a small flashlight, which I displayed and then slid into the left leg pocket of my pants

-My binoculars, a pack of pens and my notebook which I slid into my right leg pocket

-Two red towels which I laid down upon the newspaper

I then patted my pockets with my free hand and scratched my chin in contemplation. Oh, yes! I extended a finger to indicate one last thing and reached down and picked up the paper itself which I shook out to show it contained nothing. It didn’t of course because my television was nestled beneath the towels. I typed into the phone: “WOULD YOU LIKE THE BAG?”

Officer Ramirez looked up from his phone and looked at me with a tilted head. After a few seconds he said: “Hey, what’s your name?”

I typed again: “I AM TAN MAN. I AM HARMLESS.”

He smiled at this. It was genuine. “Well, I am Donnie. I am harmless as well. I’m actually here to help you.”

“I APPRECIATE THAT. I’M DOING OK THOUGH.”

“Well, you’re in a very dangerous place. It’s wet, windy and we don’t want you to fall. We’d like you to come down with us.”

“I CAN’T COME DOWN WITH YOU. BUT I WON’T FALL.”

“How do you plan on getting down?”

“I’M GOING TO COME DOWN BUT NOT RIGHT NOW.”

“Ok, when?”

“DO YOU BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAY I WON’T FALL?”

“Hey, I don’t think you want to fall. I mean, why would you wanna do that? You don’t wanna do that. I can tell. You don’t wanna jump either do you? I bet you want to come down safely.”

“I NEED SPACE.”

“Ok. We can give you space.”

“THANK YOU DONNIE.”

“Do you want food? We can get you food.”

“NO. I NEED SPACE.”

“Ok, you’ve got to be hungry. We don’t want you to get weak from hunger.”

“NO FOOD.”

“Are you cold?”

“THAT’S IRRELEVANT. DON’T WORRY ABOUT THAT. I NEED SPACE.”

“Ok, no problem. So, we can give you space but you have to talk to us. You have to give us something.”

“OF COURSE.”

I pointed at the bag. Nodded and when he nodded back, tossed it across the five foot gap into the yellow mouth of the beast. They descended and I turned off the police phone. They left me alone for the remainder of yesterday night and this morning. I know that they’ll soon be back.

At one o’clock, my hour hand is the simple depiction of a 120 degree angle. There’s a misty rain coming down so I seal all of my electronic devices in double bags along with my notebook. I thoroughly wipe down the SW vertical rail and stand next to it, with hat and jacket still in place, until precisely five seconds to one. I lean out away from it with both hands gripping it, arms slightly bent and my feet planted firmly against it. I hold for five beats and when I’m done my foot slips a bit but only just. I’m able hold myself in position with my arms and carefully pull myself back in. I doff my hat to the crowd and sit back down. There’s a lot of activity below.

At two, I assume the same position but loop one of my cables on the rail so I can grip it and lean a little farther away. The mist is persistent but all goes smooth. When I salute the crowd this time, I see sporadic camera flashes and hear a faint roar from the West balcony. The word is spreading and my new act seems to be going over quite well. Mr. Lloyd famously dangled from the hand of a large clock. I am attempting to personify a clock hand itself. I wonder if anyone has recognized the homage.

I check the police phone: 36 missed calls and 14 text messages. I turn it back off. The dragon is awakening now.

Officer Ramirez is standing, facing me in a bright yellow jacket and a baseball cap. I remain seated. I turn on the phone and type: ”GOOD AFTERNOON.”

“Good afternoon, Tan Man. Hey, we’ve given you space but you haven’t been talking to us. We need you to talk to us.”

“I WILL BUT FIRST I NEED SPACE.”

“You’ve had it but now, we’re worried about you. It’s really dangerous up here and if you keep hanging off the tower like that, there’s a good chance you’re going to fall.”

“I TOLD YOU I WOULDN’T FALL.”

“Ok, we saw you. You almost fell an hour ago. We’ve got a lot of people that are worried about you and none of them want to see you hurt. We’re telling you not to do any more stunts up here. Why have you been hanging off the tower? ”

“IT WILL MAKE SENSE SOON.”

“Well, we need to know now though. Is this a game of some kind?”

“YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS. THIS IS A SHOW.”

He tilts his head: “it’s not a show to me. It’s not a show to any of the people who are trying to get you down safely. It’s a responsibility.” He pauses. “What kind of show is this, Tan Man? I mean, how long is this supposed to go on?”

“I CAN TELL YOU’RE A GOOD MAN, DONNIE. I RESPECT YOU. EXCUSE ME FOR NOT STANDING. IT’S GOING TO BE A HARD DAY. I NEED SPACE.”

He shakes his head just slightly. He allows a little frustration in his voice. “You need space. We’ve given you space. You’ve given us nothing. We need this to be over.”

“I DON’T THINK YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SAY THAT DONNIE. I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN BUT I DON’T THINK YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SAY THAT.”

He tilts his head again and looks at me.

“WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT, IT’S A SHOW. WHERE THERE ARE CAMERAS, THERE IS A SHOW AND YOU’RE RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF IT. THIS COULD END VERY BADLY. IT COULD BE OVER IN A BAD WAY. I DON’T WANT THAT BUT I’M OPEN TO IT. I PROMISE YOU I AM. THE SHOW HAS TO PLAY OUT. IF THIS DOESN’T END BADLY, YOU’LL BE A HERO, DONNIE. YOU WILL BE THE STAR OF THIS SHOW AND YOU DESERVE TO BE. LET’S NOT MAKE IT END BADLY. LET’S GIVE THEM A GOOD TIME.”

He stands and looks at me for a long time. He finally turns and starts talking with his partner at the back of the basket. I wait. The clock ticks away. It’s 2:58. Time and clock man stop for no one.

The mist is coming harder. I stand and wipe down my rail. Donnie calls to me. “Hey, don’t move!... Just hold on a second and talk to me.”

I point to my watch and shrug my shoulders.

“If you continue to put yourself at risk, you’re going to force our hand and you don’t want that!”

This pauses me. He lowers his voice.

“Look, we can be patient. We have been. But if you keep doing risky stunts, they’re going to have to find a way to force you down. We can work with you… we will work with you, but you can’t do this.”

I look at Donnie.

“It’s too slick. If you fall, we all lose. You lose. I lose. The people watching…. they’ll be sad, ok, tan man. So, think about it, please.”

I pick up the phone.

I RESPECT YOU DONNIE. I’LL COMPROMISE. I WAS GOING ALL THE WAY UNTIL TWELVE, BUT IF YOU NEED ME TO, I’LL STOP AFTER THIS. THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN THOUGH.

“Hey, Just, please, don’t do it, ok!  Hey! If you fall it’s all over. Don’t let it end like that. Hey, man… the show must go on!”

I can’t help but smile at that. I take off my coat and hat. One more text:

“EXACTLY, DONNIE! LAST ONE. I PROMISE.”

It’s full rain coming down now. I can’t keep my rail dry. I have a plan for this. I place one my towels against the rail and affix it in place with a bungee cable, wrapping it tightly several times. I wrap another cable at the bottom and check my watch. 40 seconds. There’s doubt creeping up on my body so I tense my muscles and let it slide away. I tell myself that I once was a coward. That’s why I’m here. A brave man would have gone to LA or New York and fought for his dream. A brave man wouldn’t have wasted so many years. A coward did and that coward is dead. Every brave moment is a further knife to his heart. I grip the towel and check my watch. I glance back at Donnie. He’s crouched down with his hands cradling his head. I check my watch. It’s time.

I grip tight and swing my legs out. The mass of my body is suspended in the air. I’m connected to the earth only by thin wet gloves on a thin wet towel on a spire that descends to the ground. Gravity pulls on my body but I push harder. I force my legs into a perfect line, as rigid as my arms until I’m a firm right angle appendage to my metal home. The rhythmic rain is like applause. The burning in my core is like a celebratory fire. I hold for five beats.. six.. seven.. eight.. Nine.. They’re cheering me. I know. They’re snapping pictures. Someone is holding their breath. Twelve.. thirteen.. I’m shaking so rapidly, something’s going to give. I must stop... fifteen... sixteen… I must stop. My arms will cave, my grip will fail. I must stop…… nineteen… twenty. I lower my legs slowly and it feels like my stomach is being pulled apart by two giant hands, as if it were a piece of bread. I lower myself gingerly. I pull my legs in and wrap them around the rail. I wrap my arms around it and hold myself in position for a second. My body burns and the rain is a welcome balm. It’s over. I’m glad I made my pledge to Donnie.

If there’s a roar, I can’t hear it, only the rain. My sunglasses are blurry with drops. I slide my body around the rail and take my seat. I clip on my cable. I pull on my hat. It’s wet and heavy. My coat is as well so I lay it over my possessions to hold them against the wind. I pull the police phone from my pocket, dry it with a towel, and seal it in a plastic bag. Donnie is still crouched, rubbing his hand on his forehead. I tip my hat to him. He waits with me as the rain comes harder. The wind is picking up. I’m cold, and hungry, and triumphant in ascending order, each feeling is superseded by the next. I don’t mind the cold. It keeps me alert. The hunger comes intensely and brings headaches, but water eases it and it goes away for stretches. The triumph won’t last but for now it warms me like a bonfire. When the embers begin to die, I’ll reach out to my crowd and they will stoke it for me anew.

I’m soaked through, the rain is coming down with intensity and it forms a wall between me and everyone below. I’m shivering all over and the wind pushes at my body. I pull my newspaper and my cup from underneath my coat and then use two cables to fasten down everything else. I prop myself up against the SW rail and use a third cable to fasten myself against it. I pick up my paper. It’s a coagulated ball of goo. I carefully pick it apart until I can spread out a several inches from the ball and I then I cross my legs, pick up my cup and slide back into character. To Tan Man, every day is just another sunny afternoon. He must look composed. Never mind the fact that I, personally, am freezing, clutching to a rail in the sky. Never mind that my paper is mush between my fingers and I’m freely urinating in a monsoon.

That last part, I’ll clarify. I’ve been wearing, through the whole of my ordeal, a device that is essentially a catheter tube attached to a condom. The tube runs down my left leg to the cuff and I’ve been regularly urinating into a small indentation in the one of the rails to avoid detection. That is, until now. Now, I’m letting it fly. It’s tempting to make the claim that I’m literally pissing on my critics but I cherish everyone that watches down below. They’re as much a part of this drama as I am and I would sooner disrespect myself than my fellow actors or my crowd. It’s simply, for me, a practical opportunity, and I find it only slightly amusing that the wind is, in fact, blowing north towards the call center.

The rain pours. I fiddle with the paper, time passes and I begin to drift. The page is suddenly illuminated. My soggy remnants of a page, at least, are brightened by a flash of lightning. It’s a glorious moment. I can see myself clearly as if I’m watching from afar. I can see the scene as I imagine it must be to all of the observers. There’s a man in the sky, obscured by the rain, suddenly flashing to life through the darkness, oddly oblivious to the storm. All my discomfort is pleasure if it contributes to the sheer beauty and tension of this scene. Will the tower be struck? Will the wind push the man from his perch? The answers matter less than the questions. Anticipation is the soul of drama. Another flash. I notice that the dragon is gone. I’m alone in the storm and I close my eyes and welcome it. I am now a supporting player in my own story. Nature is taking the starring turn and I am here to provide context. The fury of the wind and rain and thunder can only be fully appreciated when it holds a life in its sway. It needs a generous costar to truly display its range and power. I am honored to be its foil. It chills me, shakes me, cocoons me in darkness and I feel the rush that only great art can give you. I know that this could be not only my pinnacle moment in personal performance but the greatest performance that I will ever personally witness. It all makes sense now. Everything was leading up to this.

I drift again. I nod off and awaken, again and again, to the glory around me. The flashes are hypnotic. The rain and thunder serve as a soothing rhythm and bass. I’m at the center of a grand production of darkness and light, noise and silence. It wraps fully around me and frames me as a simple prop of half-truth and half-fiction. Here and elsewhere people must be watching, feeling something. If only slivers of what I now feel are transferred to them, then I’ve done my job.

I sleep and dream of an ocean that I’ve never seen. I’m in middle of it, being tossed about and I feel my skin stretched from the grin on my face. The waves toss me vast distances without ever letting me go, never letting my head dip below the water. I feel at once weightless and firmly held. There’s nothing but blue around me. I can’t tell where the sky begins and the water ends. It’s bliss.

It’s darker every time I open my eyes. Finally, it’s not. I awaken to warmth and bright streaks of sunlight. This is the first true dawn I’ve seen on the tower. The clouds must have exhausted themselves through the night as they have now fully receded. There are creamy orange and raspberry streaks comingling in the sky with nothing to disturb my view of them. I wish I could share this with someone. I wish there was someone I couldn’t wait to describe this to.

I believe everyone has a place in their mind reserved for someone to shower with romantic thoughts. When a love affair ends we miss, not truly that person but: the sensation of touch, the warmth of affectionate eyes and, especially, the order that comes from having a firm place to direct our daydreams. Dissonance comes when those hopeful feelings have no home. When Malaya left my life, I struggled to replace her, simply to have someone else I could dream about.

There was a girl I worked with back in the restaurant days who liked me. She was a sweet girl, a cute girl, in a wholesome, Midwestern kind of way. She was about my height and petite, with dirty blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes. She was a year younger and she let me know through a coworker that she was interested. I had a few conversations with her but they never rose above the level of small talk. We had little in common. She liked football and horses and had planned to be a professional storm chaser ever since she saw the movie Twister on television. So many youthful goals are formed like that. Since films are the closest things to waking dreams, they often cross over to become actual aspirations. I could only think of Malaya for a year after she was gone. I could have never transferred those feelings to someone so different from her. This girl, Lizzie was the name she went by, was more like me: pale and thin, earnest and unassuming. Two such souls don’t belong together, not in youth at least. It was far too early in life for either of us to settle. I wonder if she’s settled now, in her relationships or in her career. She seemed like someone who could be content settling, for a less exciting job, an unexciting partner. I’d be pleased to find she’s happy, regardless of how her life played out.

 A few other girls, over time, played brief cameos in my life, flirting and teasing the prospect of something, but no one ever came close to filling the empty space. The women that were drawn to me were often merely trying to distract themselves momentarily. They saw me as someone to talk to, briefly, in between more challenging men. They enjoyed the fact that I would listen to them but began fiddling whenever I talked about passions of my own. They’d just dismiss it with ‘good for you’ and ‘you’re talented and I’m sure you’ll do well’ but no one ever cared to actually know what I could do. No one actually knew that I was talented and no one ever actually wished me well. I went through the motions with most of them, talking about life and future plans, waiting patiently for some kind of spark.

There was an Emma whom I met at college. She was tall and lovely and smart and clueless. I knew her for a month and she talked to me for hours about two things: the absurdity of the university system and whether or not I genuinely, truly, really thought she was pretty.  She was trying on the clothes of an anarchist in the way that someone experiments with tie dye or cowboy boots. She liked to hang around me because I seemed somehow an apt accessory to her role (along with punk music and a copy of The Ego and Its Own) as if merely the sight of her standing next to someone short and unattractive signified a disruption of the natural order of things. When she started dating a guy at a larger school who was pre-law, she and I and Stirner and the Sex Pistols drifted apart.

And there was Kaitlin in my first year at the call center, the only other girl I’ve ever kissed. We met online and discovered that we actually worked at the same place. Such is the intimacy of being stuffed with three hundred others into a giant box. We met for a movie and she alluded to me four times before it started that she had expected me to be taller. The woman in her picture was young, thin and apparently standing in a dorm room. She was a few years, pounds and children removed from that image, so I considered us more than square. I wouldn’t allow my impressions of her to do anything to dim my excitement for the film. I had sought Kaitlin out because on her profile she claimed to love cinema, including foreign films. I had waited to see Tokyo Story for years and when I found it would be playing for a night in an arthouse theater, I had been nearly desperate to find someone to watch it with. I wanted to share film with someone again. I wanted to share a classic that was new to both of us. I had been yearning for years to recapture that specific experience.

Tokyo Story depicts an older Japanese couple who travel to the city to visit their two grown children. The children love their parents but feel that they are far too busy to really spend time with them. The parents are, mostly, left idling upstairs before they are taken on a sightseeing trip by the widow of their deceased son. She is Noriko, played by Setsuko Hara, one of the most enduringly perfect figures in all of cinema. And she grabs you from the moment she appears. Noriko is busier than the birth children but she goes out of her way to get time off so she can show the older couple a good time. She caters to them, serves them sake and tea and gently fans them while they drink. She takes the mother in, rubs her back and gives her spending money. Noriko’s husband was an alcoholic who gave her trouble but she still misses him and gives honor to his parents. She is the embodiment of loyalty and kindness. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, for the rest of the film, for the rest of the night.

After the film we went to eat at a place that I can’t recall. We ate and drank coffee and she talked about Kaitlin’s ex-husband.

“You wouldn’t believe, like… ok, we bought him a brand new truck, not even one year old, ok? He’s drivin’ around in a brand new truck, ok, and I had nothing, ok? And I was pregnant, ok? Do you hear what I’m saying…. On the bus! Do you think any real man would do that to a woman? Do you? I don’t even know you but I can tell you wouldn’t do that to a woman.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I know and he still has that damn think, ok? I’ve never had anything that new. Ok.”

I kept drifting back to Noriko. Noriko had a lousy husband too. It was so unfair. She only thought of others. Who was going to care for her?

“Oh, ok. And he brought this brand new motorcycle jacket. Guess what?... He didn’t even have a bike!”

“That’s terrible.”

I’ve never felt a more sincere performance. She seemed to radiate warmth through the screen.

“Ok, you won’t believe this. He used to stay up at the damn casino so long, he fell asleep up there. Can you believe that? … I came up there lookin’ him and his ass was a-sleep!... In. Front. Of. The machine…”

“That’s awful.”

I have to see her in another film. If she’s the same then I’ll be thrilled to be in her presence once more. If she’s different then I’ll marvel at her range.

“Ok, can I tell you about his mother. Oh, sweet Mary and Jesus, I’m gonna tell you about her.”

She went on in the same fashion for a while. When we left, I walked her to her car and she began to sob. I pitied her. I pitied her for her sadness and the fact that she didn’t realize that no one cared to hear about it. She made a choice to pick that man and she made the choice to stick with him. She continued to choose to fixate on him and not to let him go. Watching her cry, I thought of Noriko. I couldn’t be with her right then but I could try to draw from her. I hugged Kaitlin. I held her and patted her shoulder until her sniffing slowed and she seemed to calm.

“You can do better than your ex-husband. You will. You just have to be patient and respect yourself. Who are you? Do you see yourself the way you want to be seen? You have to see greatness in yourself. Then you’ll be able to choose greatness”

A bit of that advice, I paraphrased from To Sir, with Love 2 the television movie but it was still sincere. She kissed me and buried her face in my neck.

“You’re such a good one. I’m sorry I laughed at you, ok? You’re so small but that doesn’t matter. You’re good. You are good and I need that right now.”

I knew I needed to correct any wrong impressions immediately.

“I want you to find happiness, Kaitlin, but it needs to be with someone who’s precisely right for you. I know because I’m in love with someone. I know they’re right for me. I realized it when I was listening to you talk tonight. I realized that the right person is someone you shouldn’t let go of and the wrong person is someone that you should. I know I’m not right for you and you do too but that guy is out there… and he’s waiting for you.”

She sniffed and took this in. I stepped back and began to walk backwards, nodding my support.

“One last thing, Kaitlin.” I spoke loudly punctuating my words with both hands “You just gotta let go of the past. That’s it. When you do... I promise that the future is beautiful!”

She yelled back: “That’s… really, nice. Thank you.”

“It’s from Swingers. You’re, money, Kaitlin, and I know you’re gonna do great.”

I got in my car and drove straight to the only rental place with a decent Japanese film section, arriving twenty minutes before it closed. I got Late Spring and Early Summer, then spent the rest of my night and the first few hours of the next day with the new joy of my life.

Ms. Hara is a wonderfully subtle actress who can convey contentment and genuine affection, as well as loneliness, through polite smiles. When she emotes overtly, it’s a plausible extension of what she’s already shown beneath the surface. She has lovely expressive eyes but by the time of Tokyo Story they had weariness around the edges, life lines that suggest a wise and nurturing spirit. In earlier films, her skin was smoother, her features sharper and she was even more striking but, even then, hers was a passive approachable beauty. There’s something deeply calming and comforting about her. We love her because we believe she could so easily love us, accept us and care for us.

In Japan they call her The Eternal Virgin and through her films she remains a fantasy of goodness and unassuming grace. She even exited the stage as perfectly as she walked upon it by abruptly retiring from public life to peaceful seclusion in a small city. You can find her only on screen and there she will always be vivid and alive. Through her films, I fell for her, longed for her and yearned to know more about her. I often think of her when I need hope or encouragement, or when I think of someone to love and care for who could truly compliment my life. She is who I think of now. She is someone I can share this with: my moment in the sun.

It’s time for an inventory. There’s a bit less of me and less of my possessions today than there was pre-storm. I had the foresight to carve out extra holes in my belt when I conceived of Tan Man and I cinch up another notch to keep my pants from drooping off of me. The wind has taken my flashlight and five bottles of water (leaving me with four), as well as the Ziploc bags. However, my television, phone and batteries, which I centered beneath the straps, are still in place and, double bagged to seal out the rain, appear to still be in working order. My binoculars and sunblock remain. My paper blew away at some point but, somehow, even napping, I never lost grip on my mug.

At eight o’clock, I conceal my set with a towel and turn on the Channel 4 morning show. They’re talking about me and they’re cheerful today. This is clear without sound. I usually watch with the volume off. I want to know if I’m being discussed without knowing too much about what specifically is being said. The danger in taking in too much of the buzz around you is that you will react more to that than to your actual surrounding. It’s clear though that they’re more amused by my performance than they were before. Two days ago, they slid into their serious anchor faces before showing video of me. Today the young blonde is smiling and shaking her head. To her right the middle-aged man with the salt and pepper hair exhales and smiles. They show a blurry close-up of my face over the caption: “How long can this last?” My cheeks are sunken and my face is darker so the freckles aren’t visible. It doesn’t really look like me. Tan Man has a different face. They show video for a few seconds of me, fully extended perpendicular to the tower. They cut to footage of me, blanketed by rain, leaning against the rail, presumably asleep. The man and woman again shake their heads. Officer Ramirez is shown talking with a stern expression on his face. I shut it off. I feel the warmth of accomplishment all over my skin. Inside I feel hollow as if my body is eating itself from the inside, but the inside doesn’t matter. An actor is what they present and everything else is merely in service of that.

I mime sipping from my mug and look through my binoculars. As I sit growing thinner, the crowds are growing thicker. As the morning hours roll by, the balcony fills with cars facing my street, I notice that someone has put out a sign advertising ten dollar parking and there are a number of other homemade signs. Among them:

‘Our tower guy!’  ‘Wave to Me!’  ‘You’re a disgrace’  ‘You are wasting the resources of the city’   ‘Come down, Jackass’  ‘This isn’t funny’   ‘This is hilarious!’

Two additional vans have pulled up in the media section and the call center parking lot is fluttering with activity. My orchestra section has a number of new faces and a couple of signs as well:

“Hang On Tower Guy!” and “DAY FIVE- STILL ALIVE!”

I’ve become a hot ticket and I feel the weight of expectations. I know it can be harder to keep a crowd’s attention than to win them over.

The sun is warm and the breeze is pleasant. I enjoy the view and think about my next moves. I do some more writing and it makes me sleepy. I’m taking a nap when I feel vibrations from below. There’s a man on my tower again. I pocket my essentials: notebook, phone and water bottles and stand in anticipation. There’s a man rapidly climbing up towards my position. He’s young, early twenties, thin like a marathoner with pale skin and a dark goatee. He has a small backpack slung over his shoulder and he climbs with a smile on his face:

“Don’t worry!” He calls out. “I’m a friend, don’t worry!”

He slows just beneath my rail and extends the bag towards me:

“I’m a friend from Channel 7. Please take this. We’d love to talk to you.” I take the bag and fasten one of the straps over my above rail. I nod deeply and tip my hat.

“Ok, call us, ok. Please call us.”

He nods and smiles. He descends the rail and when he reaches the bottom, he puts his hands up and goes to his knees. He’s quickly surrounded, cuffed and pulled into a crowd of officers. I speculate that this man must be a fantastic employee. Perhaps, he’s an intern looking to prove himself. Regardless, I’ll have to call, if only to justify his sacrifice. They’re warming up the dragon again.

Officer Ramirez greets me with a smile.

“That was a pretty intense storm. We’re really glad you made it through.”

I text to him:

“THE PHONE BATTERY IS DYING BUT I’M NOT GOING TO. THANKS FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND PATIENCE.”

“Of course. You’ve put on a great show and we’d like it to have a good ending. We’d like to bring you down today.”

“NOT TODAY. SOON.”

His expression doesn’t change. “You had a visitor today. We need to know what he brought you. We have to make sure it wasn’t anything dangerous, just to reassure the public, you know.”

“OF COURSE.”

I unclip the bag and discover its contents along with Officer Ramirez. I pull out a blanket, five bottles of water, three deli wrapped sandwiches and a cell phone. He looks like he’s trying to hide his irritation with a smile.

“OH, GOOD. THIS PHONE IS CHARGED.”

“Yeah, you definitely can call us on that phone as well. We want you to be able to reach us at any time.”

“WOULD YOU LIKE THE BAG?”

“Yes, we would.”

“OK, I HAVE ONE REQUEST. IF YOU BRING ME A COPY OF TODAY’S PAPER BEFORE MIDNIGHT, I’LL GIVE YOU THE BAG NOW. I TRUST YOU. DO WE HAVE A DEAL?”

“Ok, which paper would you like?”

“YOUR CHOICE AS LONG AS IT’S TODAY’S PAPER. MINE BLEW AWAY AND IT’S HARD TO KEEP UP WITH CURRENT EVENTS UP HERE.”

“Ok. Anything else, you’d like.”

“NO THANK YOU.”

“Ok, you said soon. Does that mean tomorrow.”

“NOT TO BE RUDE, BUT I’LL TALK TO YOU AGAIN WHEN I GET THE PAPER. IF YOU KEEP TALKING TO ME NOW, I’LL NOT RESPOND AND EVENTUALLY CLIMB UP. YOUR CRANE CAN’T GO MUCH HIGHER.”

He tilts his head and looked at me for a minute.

“Why do you think that? We have other cranes at our disposable but what makes you think that this one won’t reach?”

This, of course, was reported on the news. They quoted an unnamed officer who was concerned that I would climb up further and be beyond the grasp of the police. I place the sandwiches and the blanket back into the bag and toss it across to Officer Ramirez. He looks perplexed.

“I ALWAYS KEEP MY WORD, DONNIE. I KNOW YOU WILL TOO.”

I tip my hat and gather my belongings. I climb around to the opposing rail, facing East, and sit gazing out on the tall buildings far off in the distance. It’s a lovely view and I’ve scarcely looked at in my five ascended days. It’s March now and today feels like not only a new month but a new season. All biological requirements notwithstanding, I think I could stay up here for several seasons more. It’s a wonderful perch from which to view the world. I love my new perspective. Even my hunger, after several years of gluttonous contentment, feels refreshing. I feel as if I’m not only portraying something now but becoming a new man. Perhaps, this is what all great thespians feel when they climb deeply enough into a role. I won’t call Channel 7 tonight. I’ll save that for tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will transform again. Tonight, I just want to savor the last vestiges of this stage in my development. I know I still have their attention for now, so I write, I think, I enjoy my time on a rail that feels slightly offstage. This is the first sunset I’ve watched since I ascended.

Three miles in this direction, just off the interstate sits “Lou’s Better American Cars”- my father’s business and sanctuary. If he had never fallen on hard times financially and personally, he would have never possessed anything that belonged solely to him. Now he does. He is entombed in debt but by creating a business without the support of his father or my mother, I suspect he’s earned a bit more respect from both. I’ve seen him in television ads and the costume now fits the man. He dresses in jeans, boots and flannel shirts that seem apt for his frame. He obscures his swollen face behind a full beard which lends him a more rugged, survivalist look. My father has never been capable with his hands or any kind of an outdoorsman, but looking like someone who could be either is the closest someone of his appearance will ever come to a kind of sex appeal. By foregoing the suit, he’s found a niche for which he’s well-suited. It’s like seeing a failed leading man who could never quite fill the part discovering a second career as a character actor.  Claude Rains come to mind. He is, I suppose, actually rugged in some sense. If he were to be tossed alone in the wilderness, I suspect he’d find a way to get by. It is essentially what he’s doing now. Denial is an underrated quality. When it’s leads to failure, it’s considered a fatal flaw. When it leads to success, it’s considered a triumph of the power of positive thinking. Given time, I predict that my father will succeed.

                I remain in limited contact with my mother through invitations received and declined. I used to ignore them but then realized that they constituted the weak lifeblood of our relationship so I began to send notes of polite refusal. They are solely advertisements for charitable events- per plate affairs that are unrealistic on my budget, regardless- but once I started sending back ‘thank you but no’ correspondence, the invitations started coming with little personal notes and anecdotes. We have become occasional pen pals in brief. About once every four to eight weeks, she’ll send me something nice and monogrammed to let me know that (should anyone inquire) she’s doing quite well and that she still cares deeply about suffering in general. The personal notes used to mention things like the acquisition of a new car or the delightful renovations being done to the garden in her new home (she remarried six months after clearing the paperwork with my father) and I would respond tersely that I was happy for her. Then one day, I received the following at the bottom of a Cancer Awareness invite:

“I finally watched Lilies in the Field the other night for the first time. You were RIGHT! I cried from happiness, Sam! Thanks for recommending it.”

I was fourteen when I fell under the spell of that movie. I watched it at least a dozen times over the course of a week and talked about it to anyone who would listen. My mother told me in a note, a decade after the fact, that she had heard me. I hadn’t felt so close to her since I discovered who she was. I responded with genuine gratitude for her enjoyment of the film and I recommended Quiz Show to her. About a month later, on a request to attend a dinner party promoting the repeal of Prop.. something, she responded:

“I loved Quiz Show! What business does Redford have being as gorgeous behind the camera as he is in front of it? I like how all three of the main characters took turns stealing the movie. I found myself rooting for all of them equally. What do you suggest next?”

                I know that my mother is a manipulator. I know that one of the easiest ways to manipulate anyone is to feign interest in something that they care deeply about. I don’t mind. six or eight times a year, I recommend a movie to her and she takes the time to watch it. I enjoy carefully choosing a suggestion and I enjoy the fact that she seems to enjoy each one. This is one positive thing in my life. I have not recommended Tokyo Story or anything with Setsuko because most people have at least a partial aversion to subtitles and because I’ve never introduced my mother to any woman that I truly cared about before. I’m not inclined to start now. Our movie club is enough.

When my tower vibrates again, I glance behind me to watch an officer climb up and retreat. A paper wrapped in a plastic bag is taped below my main stage position. I smile and internally thank Donnie. I’ll sleep on this side tonight. I set my watch for a 6 am alarm. Tomorrow, I will call the only currently accessible number in my new phone and ask to speak only with Judy Monroe at the Channel 7 morning show. I’m sure that she’ll be thrilled to converse with me. I’ll be posing as the most charming man in the world.

I didn’t make the cover of USA TODAY or the second page. I may though have been featured on page 3 or 4 of the A section. That’s what’s missing, although the attached pages 9 and 10 are as well. I’m pleased either way. I’m reaching more people than my mildest expectations ever predicted, although my wildest ones, to be truthful, exceed even this. I feel slightly strange about bypassing Channel 4 after they’ve given me such wonderful exposure and quite literally provided me with a platform, but I resolve that I’ve likely brought them strong rating in return and that I really do owe something to the thin climber who went to jail for me. So, after a number of vocal exercises and muttering myself into comfort with my accent, I call Channel 7. The man whom I reach is skeptical that the warm, slightly British sounding voice could possibly come from the crazed man, starving himself in the sky. I tell him to ask me to do something on the tower. He suggests I drop my pants and I call him a ‘simple buffoon’. I suggest that I will stand and doff my hat the prescribed number of times that he asks me too. He requests thirteen and so, to ferry along the process, I do this absurd feat. I stand and tip my hat three times in each direction and then once more to the front. He puts me through on the air.

Cary Grant’s accent is Trans-Atlantic, not quite English and not quite American. His voice belongs to both and to neither. It is superior in an understated way. He is more sophisticated and suave than you could ever be but he’s not really hung up on that fact and neither should you be. He is, of course, what women want and what men want to be, but in a tone that’s casual, friendly and curious. He is cool. And on this morning, shortly after seven, I will be trying my best to invoke him. They put me on hold and I pull my jacket off, and use it like a tent around my head and shoulders to block out the wind noise. After about two minutes I hear a familiar voice.

“Hello, this is Judy Monroe from Seven in the Morning! Who am I speaking with?”

Miss Monroe is in her early forties. She has a pleasant and unthreatening face, a friendly twang and the kind of effortless positivity that only certain people can begin to summon before dawn. I respond in cheerful kind:

“Hello Judy! Juday, Juday, Juday, I bet you’ve heard that line before. How are you this morning?”

She laughs.

“I’m doing great! Thanks for asking. How are you doing? That’s what we’d all like to know down here.”

“Well, I’m pretty good. I’ve nothing to complain about. I get up in the morning and at night I go to bed. In between I try to occupy myself as best I can.”

“Why, that’s certainly one way to put it! You’ve got the attention of the entire city right now. Is there anything you’d like to say?”

“Actions speak louder than words.”

“Um, ok, would ya like to elaborate on that?”

“Well, I’d like to but that would defeat the purpose, you see. I’d like to show the people something instead of saying too much. I hope I’m not being too vague, but it’s the truth. It’s a little hobby of mine, the truth.”

“Wow, ok. That’s really interesting! You seem to have an accent. May I ask your name and where you’re from?”

I decide to give my identity dead away to anyone familiar with the actor.

“My name is Archibald Leach and I was born in Bristol, England but I’ve lived in this fine country since I was a teenager. May I ask where you’re from originally, Judy?”

“Ok. Well, I’m originally from Plano Texas.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve wondered about your accent. I hope you don’t mind a few personal questions. You have a very fetching voice, Judy. It’s as lovely as you are and I’ve been a fan of your work on television for quite some time. Tell me, how does a girl like you get to be a girl like you?”

An audible blush.

“Well… thank you! I don’t know quite what to say to that.”

“Oh, Judy, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I hope you understand that it gets rather lonely squatting on a tower all day and you’re the first civilian I’ve spoken to in days. I know you obviously have a job to do and you must have some questions for me so I’ll answer whatever you’d like.”

“Ok, how did you get there? What made you decide to climb up on that tower in the first place?”

“It’s rather a long answer..”

“We have plenty of time.”

“Alright, get set for the story of my life… or perhaps just a small part of it. I came across the ocean as a stilt walker... Actually, I came in a boat but, you see, I was part of a company of performers that travelled here from Britain and my specialty was stilt walking, which before you were born, Judy, was quite fashionable. I joined the vaudeville circuit and then moved on to Broadway. When I knew I was ready, I travelled to Hollywood-“

“-I’m sorry, did you say vaudeville?”

“Yes, when I was much younger.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m old enough to be your father, Judy, and that’s a masterpiece of understatement. I don’t feel my age though. I think the only people who grow old were born old to begin with.”

“Wow! Well how are you able to do such physical feats at your age?”

“Judy, I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Of course you can.”

“Well, here’s the secret to life. You pretend to be the person you want to be until finally you become that person or he becomes you. I pretend to be a younger man than I actually am and then my body just follows that misdirection.”

“That’s really interesting. You’re a fascinating man, Mr. Leach.”

“Mmmhmm, and that’s just the start of it, Judy, but to hardly know me is to know me well.”

“We’d love to continue talking with you but we have to take a break. Can you hold on the line for us, Mr. Leach?”

“I’m afraid not, Judy. I do have some business to attend to but I may be in touch again.”

“Ok, um, hold on then. We can talk more. We have to hear how you came to be on that tower in the first place.”

“No, Juday, Juday, I think that’s enough for today. You need to go and so do I. We’ll meet again, I’m sure. It’s been lovely but as I said, I have to attend to some things. I’d like to tell you one last thing though before I go.”

“Uh, well, yes, but can’t we talk a little bit more?”

“No, but always remember, you’re the smartest girl I ever spent the morning with on a tower. Goodbye, Judy.”

                I hang up and turn off the phone. I’m pleased with my performance. I feel that the great man himself would have enjoyed my tribute. I pick up my paper and my notepad and my routine. Stage actors often talk about the thrill they get from the immediate reaction of a crowd while lamenting the ephemeral nature of their work. Screen actors talk about the frustration of delayed feedback while expressing satisfaction in the endurance of what they create. These perspectives have me thinking about whether it’s better to play to the crowd before me who have been with me since the beginning or to focus on plotting my next big move for television. I should probably wait and see how my last stunt plays before I overthink things. The very act of thinking is becoming occasionally taxing and I’ve found that I often have to rewrite my paragraphs multiple times to get them right. This is no real problem. Time is something I definitely have in abundance.

                The morning rolls on. They must have dissected my Cary Grant impression by now. They must be talking about the chameleon in the sky. I’m slowly revealing myself to them, pulling back the curtain just enough to allow them to see the craft behind it. I have to show them something else now, something new. The wind is still strong but the day is beginning to feel warm. I could take off a layer underneath but I might need it come the night and sliding in and out of my costume would only harm my mystique. The dragon is still. I’m finally realizing that the wind keeps it grounded. I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me before now. Perhaps it’s because I enjoy the wind and I have come to think of it as an ally. Perhaps, the hunger is getting to me. This is surely true but it doesn’t have to weaken my performance. From Raging Bull to Castaway to The Machinist, great actors have used hunger to magnify their acting. It is a vital part of my character, one of his most defining characteristics, so I welcome it, yearn for it, I embrace it like a lost love. Hunger makes Tan Man real. I don’t desire food at all, only a response from my people. They’re oddly quiet and sparser than yesterday. Perhaps the authorities, unable to stop my performance, have tried to take my audience away.

Without them, I’m admittedly growing weaker. I want to turn on the news but I know I should wait. I need to. I can’t become more watcher than watched. At 1pm there’s a midday broadcast. I put away my notebook and pick up the set, covering it and turning it on. There are two commercials and then the anchors appear sitting on a couch. Their looks are stern. A brunette man furrows his brow and nods lightly. A young black haired woman is stressing her point in exasperation tapping her hand on her knee. The screen fills with text, apparently from viewers:

“This has gone on long enough. This man is not a victim, he’s a jerk looking for attention and he should be forced to pay back all the money the city is wasting on his ridiculous stunt.”

Another:

“They should have brought this guy down with a tranquilizer yesterday before he got a chance to get on TV!”

Another:

“I love this guy! He’s a genius!!! Finally, something happened in this city that everyone in the country is paying attention to.”

Another:

“I feel bad for him, he’s obviously sick, but at some point, you have to end this and if it ends badly, he has only himself to blame.”

I turn off the television. I’m stung a bit but I rationalize. I gave an exclusive to Channel 7. It’s understandable that Channel 4 would spin things not entirely in my favor. Backlash is inevitable and tension is essential for drama. Only in the end will my performance be truly and fairly evaluated. If some hate me now, I have plenty of time to win them over, at least some of them. Still, their anger hangs on me like a weight.                                                                                                                               

Am I built for the criticism that comes with being a public figure? I spent so many years longing for an audience while never considering if I could handle the fever that would come from their judgmental eyes. In the lost years, I used to walk the street mimicking the people that I passed. I would observe a man or woman with a distinctive walk and try to quickly pinpoint the distinctive features of it. I would challenge myself to see whether I could pick up essence of their gait within just a few seconds, whether I could recreate it in the same span of time. I couldn’t have been doing this for anyone but myself. I still had an overpowering compulsion to do it. I read that Marlon Brando used to make elaborate prank phone calls later in his life. At a time when he was scarcely acting, he still was compelled to work his muscle, to stay sharp. For him, that seemed enough. For my mother, it seems enough to exercise her gift of acting without any direct recognition for her talents as an actress. For me, it wasn’t enough. I’m sure that it never would have been.

For much of my life, I was a person more defined by the things I hadn’t done than by those things that I had. I rationalized to myself that actual experience, at least of the cliché variety, was not only overrated but possibly hurtful to a great actor.  I never experienced my high school graduation for instance. Most people do experience this, experience it once and then over the years they experience it obliquely dozens of more times through films, television and books. Because fiction at its most effective can strike people as more true than things that actually happen, most people will be more influenced by fictional depictions of graduations they have seen more recently than the singular hazy incident they witnessed in youth. Whether we realize it or not, our memories mold themselves together towards the great communal essence of a graduation that is relatable to all. If my only reference point as an actor was the great communal graduation then I could naturally come closer to creating an experience relatable to all. This is nonsense I know now. The most relatable thing of all is something specific because it draws on human nature. It’s as Fitzgerald said: “Start with a real person and you may create a type. Start with a type and you’ll create absolutely nothing.” Until the day I ascended, I wasn’t experiencing anything and I wasn’t sharing anything. I was creating absolutely nothing and doing that more efficiently was never going to ease the dissonance in my mind. I’m now creating and any reaction that comes from that is wonderful as long as they are there. I need to remember this. I will try my best to remember this.

                I focus on mindfulness until I drift off to sleep.

I awaken to vibrations on my rail. There’s another climber who brings me to my feet. He’s descending already, a police officer in a bright yellow jacket. There’s another bag hung about thirty feet below my position. It’s likely another phone. I’m tired but I’m well aware that my water supply is getting low and if more bottles can be found with the phone then I’ll be grateful enough to give Donnie a courtesy call in return. I carefully ease down the rail towards the bag when I hear yelling from my orchestra: “NO! WATCHOUTWATCHOUT!”

I look to a young man pointing frantically at the ground and I glimpse below me and see what appears to be a small net. Something thuds against the rail. Suddenly, my eyes are burning and shut. I’m coughing, sneezing furiously and it’s hard to breathe. I cling tightly to the rail and begin to blink. I know exactly what has happened. I actually prepared for this. It felt absurd at the time but I did it. A week before my ascension, I applied pepper spray to myself. I blink furiously and began to climb back up by feel. I know that water won’t help but that crying will. I prepared for that as well. I’m coughing and every inhale seems to take air away, but I’m careful to breathe as normally as I can. I focus on climbing, hand over hand, foot over foot, recalling the distance back to my rail. I am calm, surely calmer than they expect me to be. I am Tan Man. I am unshakeable.

I didn’t feel anything hit me directly so the ball must have only discharged close. I reach my rail. I pull myself upon it and I feel for my possessions. I’m back to home base. They failed to bring me down and the show will go on, indeed. I reach for my right shoe. I have a pair of tweezers fastened snug within the laces. I’ve never been able to cry, so I stashed them there as an aid in case the situation called for my character to affect sobbing. This is clearly that time. I find the tweezers with my fingers and remember to secure myself to the rail. I grope around for my safety strap and hook it upon the belt loop of my pants. I then began meticulously yanking hairs from the inside of my nose until tears are streaming down my face. My eyes are obscured but I can see myself clearly. It’s a powerfully emotive moment: the protagonist breaking down. My physical pain is now three fold. My hunger is surpassed by the burning of my eyes, nose and mouth. The burning is surpassed by the sting of each follicle ripped from my nasal cavity. All of this is surpassed by my appreciation of the joyous irony that has me laughing aloud. The prepared actor is truly prepared for all that a scene can throw at him. If I had failed in my preparation, I might have literally fallen upon my face, but anticipating this possible curveball, it’s now just something to use. I’m grateful for this new addition to the drama. It only makes my job easier. Physical pain on the stage is not the same as real pain, the kind you have to bear alone. This is my tower, my world, my matrix and I can take their tangible obstacle and turn it to fiction, fixing it with a mere tweak of the script. I’m amending the script now. I’ve taken their best shot and I’m laughing and crying it out of existence.

The pain is gradually easing. I’m beginning to see through blurry eyes. I’m focused on the vibrations below me and no one else has tried to climb up. They’re surely plotting their next move and I’m plotting mine. As soon as I recover sufficiently, I’m going to take up a higher position.