Chapter One, The Dive

[Peter David Orr]

Denial will do you no good. You’re really no different than Michael. If you are honest with yourself, you’ll admit it. It has crossed your mind too. You’ve been intrigued by the thought of what it would feel like to hurdle one of those safety barriers, high atop a Manhattan skyscraper. Even if it was only a passing fancy, you’ve allowed yourself to contemplate taking the dive.

Perhaps you stood on the South Tower of the World Trade Center and actually entertained the fleeting notion of what it would be like to throw yourself over the side.

Michael thought about it while gazing out over the greatest city on earth. He even did so on one of the most beautiful mornings of the summer of 2001.

That morning Michael was one among a team of teachers who stood in wonder, standing on top of the world. At over thirteen hundred feet above ground level, they could see for miles on that clear August day. The cityscape was devoid of the typical, morning, summer haze and there wasn’t a cloud as far as the eye could see.

Michael was there with three colleagues. They were there to pick up the tickets that had been reserved for a group of students, two hundred and fifty eighth graders. They were planning to take the students on a tour of the World Trade Center as the capstone to a day of touring the financial district. The elevator ride to the 110^th floor and then on to the observation deck was to be an exiting way to end an educational field trip.

Michael was still a classroom teacher back in 2001. Since then he’d moved on to work in citywide administration as a technology liaison to the Superintendent. He will never forget that morning as long as he lives. Why?

The morning is burned into his memory because of a discussion he had with another fellow educator, Andy Theopolis. Andy was a math teacher. So it was natural for Michael to ask a question, which, in hindsight, will haunt the two as long as they live.

Up on WTC, Tower Two, looking out over the edge of the world’s highest outdoor observation deck, Michael wondered aloud about how long a person would be conscious of their descent to Liberty Street down below if they took the dive.

Andy admitted that he had no idea how long a person would be aware, pleading ignorance about how the fall would affect a person mentally. “Would you black out … before you hit?” Andy shrugged his shoulders, but quickly fell back on his math skills:

“On the other hand I could figure out how long it would take from start to finish.”

Andy reached into his back pocket for a pen, turning to Michael, “How high is this platform?”

Michael got out the brochure he had picked up earlier, “It doesn’t say how high the platform is from ground level, but it does say that Tower Two is 1,362 feet.”

Andy snagged the brochure out of Michael’s hand and began to use it as scrap paper to do some figuring. “The force of gravity, 9.8 meters per second … the height needed to be converted into meters … that would be … about 419 meters. Divide 419 meters by 4.9 … that would be approximately 85.5 … the square root would be 9.25 seconds. Of course, that would be in a vacuum … no drag figured in.”

Michael, amazed at his friend’s mathematical acuity, “So you’re saying that it would be around ten seconds?”

Andy nodded his head while he continued doing some other calculation.

After about thirty seconds, Andy handed the brochure back to Michael and pointed to a three-digit number he had circled, “203.”

“What’s two-hundred and three?” Michael asked.

“That’s how fast you’d be going in the split-second before impact.”

“That’s like being in an Indy car.” Michael shook his head at the very thought.

The two went silent, each to their own thoughts.

What about your thoughts? Can you relate to Michael’s inner monologue at the time?

If you can, you would now be imagining that, in a moment of complete insanity, you actually did it. Over the edge you go.

Initially, you experience a god-like sensation of euphoria, since everybody and everything below is so small and helpless in the face of the spectacle you’ve perpetrated upon them.

There isn’t a sense of speed at first, either. You have temporarily suspended reality through disorientation. You are incapable of taking in your surroundings through a sheer lack of experience coupled to the total disconnect between the beauty of the world around you and the all-encompassing terror of the moment.

Then you recognize the cold steel and glass of the building’s exoskeleton whizzing by and you begin to comprehend the utter hopelessness of your position.

The realization sets in that after a brief splash about you across the front page of the New York Times and a three minute stint on the evening news, entitled, “Why Did He Take the Dive?” that you would shortly be forgotten. Your only real impact on the world, the only thing remembered, would be the momentary terror your little stunt generated.

At the same time, a sense of absolute emptiness has become a force greater than the gravity that now grants you your last few seconds. Even in the blink of an eye you come to understand a complete void of desire. Choice is essential for volition and now you have ceded all control to what is beyond your control. All room for purpose, any purpose for your very being, is obliterated --and you aren’t even halfway to the hard, unforgiving, Liberty Street pavement. Your doom is unavoidable and you’ve got a front-row seat to your own death.

Just as panic sets in, you pull the chord and your chute deploys.

Is Michael crazy for contemplating such a terrible thing? Judge for yourself. It isn’t the only example of his escapist thought world.

The truth is that less than three weeks later, when those two planes crashed into the World Trade Center, Michael actually fantasized about what he could have pulled off-- if people had believed that he had gone to visit one of his friends who worked on the 96^th floor of the North Tower.

At 470 miles per hour, Flight 11, under the control of Muhammad Atta, struck WTC One between the 93rd through 99th floors. It smashed directly into the offices of Marsh & McLennan, where his friend worked. If Michael had been there, not a trace of him would remain. Thousands of gallons of burning aviation fuel exploding through the impact zone and erupting out the south face of the tower would have provided the ideal escape route for a person who really hadn’t been there.

That’s right, Michael actually allowed himself to daydream about how he could have taken advantage of this tragedy. After all, if he had even been in the building, on his way to see his friend, who would ever have known the difference? If everyone he worked with and everyone he knew believed that he had been there, he could have seized the opportunity to ‘die’ and start a new life under an assumed identity.

Michael recognized that these ruminations were as twisted as the smoldering remains of the WTC that have been seared into the collective consciousness of every American. Nevertheless, he spent a great deal of time internally considering the possibilities and occasions of somehow pulling off similar disappearing acts.

In the months and years following 9-11, Michael turned this seemingly momentary flight of fancy into a secret, full-time, avocation. Nearly every time he had a few minutes of “down time” he found himself making up detailed schemes involving his ‘death’ and resurrection. Usually, his plans fizzled because he was cautious enough to develop them over weeks and months. Over such a lengthy period, he eventually found the fatal flaw that kept him from attempting to execute the plan. From among two-dozen schemes, spread out over a four-year period, there was only one time that Michael came to the very precipice of carrying a plan to its ultimate conclusion.

What had brought Michael to the edge? How had he turned into someone who devoted so much inner space to escapist fantasies?

Like any self-respecting husband, Michael had always imagined that he would act decisively if his wife would ever stray. At the same time, Michael was keenly aware that Lori would do almost anything to advance her career. She was an aspiring starlet without moral compunction and he knew it going in. Nevertheless, Michael was enamored by Lori and by the overarching sense that he had “married up.”

Truth be told, Lori’s infidelity crept up on Michael in such a way that once he became fully aware of the sordid details he felt unable to act. Rather, he turned inward, ashamed at his inability to stand up to the public disgrace that was certain to follow if he filed for divorce.

Even more disconcerting was the realization that his character was fundamentally flawed. After all, Michael overlooked Lori’s constant flirtations over the years, counting this behavior as the requisite price for the material existence to which they had become accustomed. In fact, all of the small incidents had built up a callous of tolerance, so that when she finally crossed the line Michael reacted with a numb passivity.

Michael caught his wife in the act in the summer of 2001. In Lori’s studio dressing room he came face to face with the awful reality that she was and had been sleeping her way to the top. In that traumatic moment Michael was forced to finally admit to himself that his relationship with Lori had always been skin deep. Moreover, he was also confronted with the shallow man he had allowed himself to become.

Michael sought a new reality and a new identity.

Instead of taking direct, honest, action, Michael allowed an unchecked thought life to take over. He started to believe that the criminal path to the creation of a new identity was justifiable.

He began to take significant steps to cross the line between imagination and reality and it made him feel alive. The realization that he was capable of taking action, even though he knew it to be immoral action, gave Michael a sense of empowerment.

In the first week after the close of school in June of 2005, a perfect opportunity availed itself. The conditions, the setting and all of the equipment were in place.

Michael and his wife Lori had decided to spend their anniversary at their favorite bed and breakfast set in the heart of the beautiful and historic Hudson Valley.

“The Willows” had become a tradition. It is a restored Colonial farmhouse, located just outside of Hyde Park. Lori had discovered this little treasure while working as a producer of a television show for the Food Network. It was through this program that she met one-half of the husband and wife proprietorship, Lee Fraitag, when he was featured on an episode called “The Ultimate Pancake.”

Over a period of four years, Michael and Lori had become fast friends with the Fraitags, the proprietors of the B & B. They had many reasons to return year after year. Their wedding anniversary was usually the excuse.

Michael and Lori discovered that Lee is a culinary master and his wife, Lisa, is a consummate hostess and interior designer. They particularly enjoyed the homemade breakfasts. Lee whipped up the most delicious homemade sausages and frittatas stuffed with vegetables Lisa grew in her garden. They also loved the cozy atmosphere of the place, with its wide planked floors and exposed, hand hewn, beams. There are only two guest rooms, so they would have to reserve one, months ahead of time. Michael chose the “Green Room” this time around, because it was Lori’s favorite--decorated in a country Victorian style featuring a Hitchcock, king sized bed, love seat and wing chair.

This time around, Michael had made quite an effort to hide his real intentions from his wife regarding their little getaway. For nearly three months he played the role of a man who really wanted to rectify their marriage. He played the forgiving husband.

For this reason Lori had no inkling of Michael’s plans. Outwardly, Michael appeared to be a man resigned to salvage the marriage. Inwardly, her latest infidelity had driven him to cross the line between the realm of fantasy and the deployment of real plans. Michael was able to refrain from entering into any verbal spats with his wife for two months. He was planning to end that streak with the greatest performance of his life.

They had argued many times before. But she had never had an argument with a finer actor than Michael. Despite the fact that Lori had many years’ experience with actors in her capacity as a television producer, she was entirely unprepared for how Michael went from Jekyll to Hyde as they drove the Taconic State Parkway.

His intent was to provide a shocking contrast to his prior attitude and it worked.

Of course, Michael was angry. That made the acting part easy. All he had to do as he drove erratically that evening on their way to “The Willows” was to convince his wife that he was on the verge of snapping. He had to act as if he was out of control, overcome with a depression that manifested itself in a vitriolic defense of his very identity “as a man.” He confronted Lori about her latest affair with a blitzkrieg of words and questions unlike anything she had ever experienced before.

At about the time when Michael made a left on to route 115, at the Salt Point Turnpike exit, his initial ten-minute outburst turned to indignant silence.

When he came upon a sign pointing the way to Hyde Park, Michael floored it (as if coming out of a trance) and took an abrupt right on to route 41, treating the next three miles like his own personal racecourse. Eventually he came to a screeching halt, intentionally just beyond the left-hand turn he should have made on Gretna Road. He missed the turn on purpose so he could add a bit of drama.

Without coming to a complete stop, Michael threw the Lincoln Navigator into reverse.

The transmission thumped and shuttered something awful, but Michael had already hit the gas again so the SUV burned rubber and swung violently backwards and to their right. The sound of the spalls and gravel along the brim of the road being kicked up wildly, striking the undercarriage, added to the intensity of the moment.

When the SUV came to a complete stop, Michael ripped open the center consul and pulled out a can of Beck’s.

“Oh my God! You’re crazy! You’re going to kill us! Put the beer away!” Lori shrieked, holding on to the dashboard for dear life.

In that split second Michael could feel a wave of panic radiating from his wife and it honestly made him feel evil. He was enjoying himself.

He slapped the Navigator into drive and sped off with reckless abandon and fury, making an abrupt left on Travis Road. Using a voice reminiscent of Jack Torrence in “The Shining,” he finally answered Lori’s command to put the beer away: “I’d rather be drunk and not know that I’m married to a harlot!”

After that the couple drove in silence, Michael gripping the steering wheel like it was an axe and Lori still white-knuckling the dashboard with both hands.

At the first left on Travis Road Michael slowly pulled into the second driveway and up to the front door.

“Click, click” Michael locked Lori’s door as she attempted an escape.

Lori glared at Michael with all the ferocity she could muster, but she was unable to hide the fear expressed in her trembling hands and lips as she pointed at Michael, “Don’t you dare act like a maniac in front of those people. Calm down, damn it! You’re acting like a crazed idiot.”

“Click.”

Michael depressed the button opening the rear hatch, stepped to the back of the SUV and flung Lori’s suitcase and Gucci bag to the sidewalk by her feet.

“Stop it, they’re gonna hear you,” Lori angrily pleaded.

“I don’t care” Michael growled, “Just the thought of having to share a bed with you makes my skin crawl.”

“Well, then go find somewhere else to stay the night. Get the hell away from me. All you’re going to do is embarrass me anyway!”

“Fine!” Michael retorted, slamming his door and the car into reverse almost simultaneously.

Lori’s door was still open, but he didn’t care. It only added to the drama. By decisively putting the Navigator in drive after swinging wildly out into the road backwards, Michael allowed his forward momentum to slam the door for her.

He then tore down the road, spun around and headed back toward Gretna Road.

In under a half-mile Michael took a left onto Netherwood Road. At that juncture the act ended, although his heart was still pounding in his chest as if the whole thing had been real.

“Now is the time for calm,” Michael counseled himself. “Without complete control you’ll never pull this off.”

Michael made a right on North Quaker Lane, continuing on this road for another four miles until he came upon Hollow Road. There he took a left.

He had driven the entire route a half-dozen times during the last month, so he knew exactly where he could pull off of the road and not be seen.

Switching off his headlights as he found the enclave, he carefully departed Hollow Road and entered a path that lead down a slope and behind a decrepit, stone, wall. There, Michael was able to begin staging his demise without the fear of being seen by passersby.

Michael popped the hatch and walked to the rear of the SUV, where he laid his suitcase flat and unzipped it. Tucked neatly under his clothes was “The Wizard.”

Michael took his time and repeated the procedure he had practiced probably fifty times over the last month. He harnessed himself, stepping into the articulated leg straps and securing the fit of the webbing and chest strap. “The Wizard” is a Velcro-closed, single parachute, harness-container system. Michael had done his research. He had surreptitiously acquired BASE-jumping equipment perfectly suited to his purpose—taking a dive off of the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge.

After triple checking everything, Michael repacked his suitcase, closed the rear gate and re-entered the Lincoln from the driver’s side.

Next he opened the center consul where he had five cans out of a six-pack left. He then emptied one of the cans on the passenger side seat and floor, waiting for it to soak into the fabric completely before going on to drain the remaining four cans in a nearby stream.

Returning to the SUV he crushed the empty cans and tossed them into the back seating area.

Before pulling out again onto Hollow Road Michael went over the entire remaining portion of the plan in his mind.

Taking a deep breath he gently accelerated onto Hollow Road making certain not to pull out until the coast was clear.

Approximately one mile up the road Michael made a right onto route 9G, remaining on that highway for another 8.7 miles until making a left on to route 199. In the distance he could see the lights of the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge, spanning the Hudson.

Michael brought the car up to 55 mph, not fast enough to be noticed by potential law enforcement units, yet fast enough to crash through the temporary barrier that was his ultimate target.

The New York State Bridge Authority was in the middle of a three-year refurbishing of the bridge. At the moment, the condition of the bridge suited Michael’s purposes to a tee. About 16,000 feet of old steel railing was in the process of being replaced by a cast-in-place concrete parapet system.

As he approached his ultimate destination Michael knew that there was a 200 foot section of the bridge that was essentially without permanent railing. That was the vulnerable span. He could drive his Navigator right off the edge by crashing through a lightweight, temporary, construction barrier.

Michael looked at his wristwatch in the light of the dashboard. It was now 10:51 PM and there wasn’t another set of headlights in sight, so he pressed the button to lower the driver-side window and set cruise control at 55 mph.

Next, he hoisted himself to a seated position, straddling the open window. His entire upper body and his left arm and leg were now outside the vehicle.

The SUV was now on the bridge and with the crosswinds it was becoming progressively difficult to hold a straight line. Michael did his best to retain control by moving the steering wheel only a fraction with every adjustment. Not swerving was nearly impossible, mostly due to the change in perspective. Handling --with one hand-- a vehicle at 55 mph, with the wind nearly blinding him, was not an easy task.

Up ahead, about 200 yards away, Michael could see the beginning of the construction zone. All it would take now to plunge the SUV over the side of the bridge was a fluid, yet decisively executed, right turn in order to breach the temporary railing that had been erected just beyond the second orange barrier. The plan was to pull the rip-chord, deploying his parachute, as soon as he went careening off the side of the bridge. According to the specs he had found on the New York State Bridge Authority website this weak spot on the bridge was elevated exactly 152 feet above the river. That isn’t a lot of time as far as the intricacies of BASE-jumping are concerned. Therefore, the need for immediate separation was paramount in Michael’s mind. He certainly needed to avoid any contact with a five thousand five hundred pound SUV! That meant he had to begin pulling away the instant that he cleared the bridge. This required him to make absolutely certain to release the guide chute prior to the point of collision. Its drag was essential. He couldn’t afford to hit his head, or any other part of his body for that matter, on the vehicle.

These thoughts and others raced through Michael’s mind as he began his final approach. He pulled up his right knee and placed his right foot firmly on the driver’s side elbow rest in order to facilitate a different initial flight path by pushing off after contact with the barrier. But at the very moment when he began to turn toward the side of the bridge he saw something completely unexpected.

Perhaps only fifty feet beyond his bright orange target, someone hopped over the median dividing north and southbound traffic. This person then darted across the road in front of him and jumped up on the edge of the temporary railing.

Michael didn’t have time to evaluate the situation. Operating on instinct alone he slid back into the Navigator and turned off cruise control.

Every fiber in his body informed him that this person intended on jumping off of the bridge.

Michael depressed the brake and came to a quick stop, overshooting the spot where the jumper was by about 30 feet.

Michael had pulled off on the shoulder so he was out of the way of traffic enough to open his door. As he stepped out Michael noticed a minivan sitting idle without any occupant, directly opposite from the person who had sprinted out in front of him.

In a split second Michael had somehow forgotten about his entire plan.

“Stay away … or I’ll do it!” the college age man warned, his voice shaking so intensely that it detracting from the conviction of his words.

Michael froze in place.

“I won’t come any closer … OK? I promise … let’s just talk. Do you mind talking?”

“It won’t …do … any good. This… isn’t any of …your business!”

The jumper’s manic tone felt like an opportunity. The peculiar rhythm and out of place pauses in the guy’s response lacked conviction. He spoke with an awkward staccato. Michael instinctively went on the offensive, feeling that if he became abrasive that he might be able to destabilize the guy enough to make him susceptible to commands later, down the line.

“You know what … this really pisses me off! You don’t know it, but you’ve ruined my chances of taking a dive off of this very spot tonight!”

Michael started walking toward the jumper again.

“What? Don’t try any reverse psychobabble on me. It won’t work …Hey, I told you to stay where you are! I mean it … one more step and I’ll jump.”

“Go ahead then … do it. What do I care … like I said, you ruined my chance of taking the dive myself. I was planning on crashing my Navigator right over the edge where you’re standing now.”

“You’re a liar. Do you get some kind of sick thrill … stopping to tell people who are about to end it all to ‘just do it’?”

“Look at me!” Michael commanded, “Why would I be wearing this?” He thumped his chest where the straps cut across and spread his arms, raising them above his head while doing a slow 360degree turn.

“Is that a parachute?”

“You’re damn right it is!” Michael snarled.

“And you were going to drive that beautiful SUV off the bridge … and parachute to the river? Why would you tell me?”

“Well, dead men don’t tell tales now do they?” Michael responded, moving even closer to the temporary railing where the jumper stood.

Since the jumper didn’t react negatively, Michael walked all the way to the railing until he stood about ten feet away from the jumper. Then Michael leaned his entire upper body over the railing and pointed down into the dark Hudson, “You won’t survive the fall my man. You won’t live to tell anyone what I’m up to. So I might as well tell you. I was going to fake my death and start a new life under a false identity. Can you imagine that? If it weren’t for you being here, I’d already be far downstream from here.”

Michael paused to allow his words to sink in.

“You know what else? I was going to take the dive because I want a new beginning. I bet you can relate to that feeling. Oh, by the way, you might as well know my name. I’m Michael Charon. What’s yours?”

“Phil.”

Michael didn’t skip a beat. He started in again with his version of “shock and awe.”

Bowing the upper half of his body over the railing as if he were daring the Fates, Michael wondered aloud: “You know … it is 150 feet to the water from this spot. When you’d hit, it’ll be like hitting a hard surface. Trust me, I know. It hurts hitting the water with a parachute deployed. You’ll probably break a few bones. Perhaps even your neck. Oh, you’ll feel it all right. Maybe you’ll be spared the pain if the impact stuns you. If you remain unconscious … that would be the best thing for you. Then you could drown and not even know it.

Michael paused for affect.

“No … I’ve changed my mind … you probably won’t die that way. You’ll be aware of the pain, no doubt about it. You will most likely have broken legs so even if you change your mind about wanting to die, you’re not going to be able to make a swim for the river’s edge. The currents are too strong. If you broke your back you’d be paralyzed. Obviously then you could change your mind but not your situation. Can you imagine the feeling of hopelessness you’d have then?”

The jumper didn’t attempt an answer. Of course, that’s exactly what Michael intended.

Phil’s body language started to change. His shoulders went from slumped to angular, as if he was now internally defending himself. His eyes darted back and forth between Michael and the abyss below, displaying a curious mixture of defiance and nervous tension. It was apparent that Phil wanted to talk now, but didn’t want Michael to know that he was having second thoughts about taking the dive.

Michael could sense the indecision cropping up, so he continued his efforts to destabilize. The irony of keeping Phil off-balance while he literally stood on the railing, balancing himself boggled Michael’s mind. The whole scene was surreal.

Then Michael had a crystal clear vision of how to proceed.

“Phil, I’m going to leave now. On the one hand, I can’t just stand here and watch you throw yourself over the edge. On the other hand, I’d be a hypocrite if I tried to dissuade you. After all, I’m only here because I was planning to do practically the same thing. Who am I to judge you?”

There was still no response by Phil who now seemed transfixed by the ghostly murmur of the water below. The red lights lining the underside of the bridge made the surface of the Hudson glow like a darkened city window situated underneath a neon sign.

Michael continued, changing his tone to match the complete sincerity he now began to feel.

“It’s a shame that we didn’t meet up under different circumstances. My first impression is that we could have been friends. Well, I’ll be going now.”

Michael matched his words by extending his hand as if to say good-bye.

Whether Phil actually reached down to shake Michael’s hand out of pure habit, or whether Phil appreciated the offer of one last touch of human dignity, is irrelevant.

The instant Michael clasped Phil’s damp hand the whole scene came to an abrupt end. Michael’s friendly gesture turned into a vise grip accompanied by an unexpected heave, behind which Michael put his full weight.

Phil lost his balance and fell from the railing to the temporary metal grating, where Michael made sure that he remained by placing him in a sleeper hold. After a rather unconvincing struggle, Phil was out like a light.

Michael had to move fast. Fortunately Phil was only about 165 pounds at the most and Michael was able to put him over his shoulder. He carried Phil across the bridge to the other side, where the minivan was still idling with the driver’s side door hanging open.

He removed Phil’s belt and propped him up in the seat. As Michael used the belt to tie Phil’s hands behind the driver’s seat he noticed a cell phone on the passenger side seat.

Phil was beginning to regain consciousness.

Michael pulled the keys from the ignition and moved around the outside of the van to the front door on the passenger side. He opened the door and dialed 9-1-1. When he got through to the Kingston Police he gave a description of the vehicle and it’s location. Pretending to be Phil he told the dispatcher that he was going to kill himself by jumping off the bridge. Then Michael took the cell phone and keys and tossed them into the Hudson.

Scampering around to Phil’s open door, Michael hit the single button that would lock all of the doors. Then he shut Phil’s door, ran back across the road and made his escape.
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Peter David Orr: All Rights Reserved, 2007