There I was: very cold, very drunk, and standing on top of a 250 foot pole being whipped by the fierce San Francisco winds. The two questions that immediately sprung to my mind is "What the hell am I doing here?" and ?How the hell am I going to get down??
Indeed.
But please allow me to backtrack about six hours, before Zokie, Basura, Spitball and I found ourselves in that pickle.
See, Spitball and I are cousins by default, because we essentially grew up together, and share Zokie as a common cousin (Zokie's mom & my mom are sisters, Zokie's dad and Spitball's mom are siblings). As things happened, Spitball and I both found ourselves attending very prestigious rival Universities in the San Francisco bay area at the same time(if you are so inclined as to find out which Universities they are, there are clues contained herein, or you could just read my profile page and then do the math). One week in the heart of February, our mutual cousin Zokie decided to pay us a visit. The plan was that he would first stay with Spitball, and later the three of us would hook up in the city. Basura, who is a friend of mine from high school, tagged along because he had nothing better to do.
When the time came to meet, Spitball told us that he and Zokie would be at a small Scottish pub called The Edinburgh Castle. He was very eager for us to meet there, because he had just recently been turned on to single malt scotch, and this joint apparently had one hell of a kick-ass selection.
The pub was barren aside from us, and a very weatherbeaten old man who sat at the bar. The bartender was named Liam, and was from Liverpool. On a quick tangent, never believe anyone who tells you that Liverpudlians as a lot are a jolly people. Liam was probably the saltiest bastard I have ever met, and that is saying something.
But I digress. When Basura and I arrived we found a tiny, dilapidated stink hole with barely enough room to puke in, and an odor that would knock over a dung beetle from a hundred yards. Inside Zokie and Spitball were sitting at an abused table, each with a glass in front of them half filled with a pale golden liquid. As we reached the table Spitball gestured to the bartender, and before we knew it, Basura and I had similar glasses in front of us. Spitball told us that what was before us was some of the finest single malt scotch ever produced. He told us that what we were drinking was Laphroaig, distilled in Scotland by masters who were considered as near deities by the alcoholic denizens of that ancient Pictish land. He further explained that the essence of the scotch we were about to sample had been released with the addition of a tiny amount of water, which would enhance our drinking pleasure. As far as I was concerned the big treat was that Spitball was buying, so I was drinking for free.
Spitball wanted to make a toast, so the four of us raised our glasses. Before he could begin, Zokie (who had already had a glass) warned me not to take too healthy a swig. Naturally I poo-pooed his warning. After all, he may be two years older than me, but I was sure I was wiser in the ways of the world. Spitball gave some short spiel about something or other -- certainly nothing worth committing to memory and repeating lo these fifteen or so years later -- and ended by saying "Slainte" very loudly, and slamming the entire contents of his glass. Seeing that, I knew that the competition was on, and although I could see a mixture of fear and interest play across Zokie's face, I threw my head back and took the entirety of the glass like a man.
It was then that I pitched forward, lost my balance, hit my head on the table, and saw a flash of blindingly bright yellow light. For what seemed like an hour, but was really only a few seconds, I was able to hear color. When the light faded I still could not make out shapes, as my eyes were watering far too heavily, and my breath came in stilted gasps, each of which burned my trachea with the righteous fires of a wrathful demon. As I slowly regained my senses and the use of my left arm, I heard Spitball ask, "Can you feel the peaty fumes rise along your esophagus?" Peaty fumes my butt! That stuff was corroding my larynx. Spitball ordered another round for all the boys, and we began our descent.
After about three more rounds my sense of reality began to warp significantly. In my own defense (at least, the little I can offer), the last time I imbibed in any significant amount of hard liquor was on a weekend trip into the Baja. My memory of that night consists of tipping a mariachi band dollar after dollar to continue playing Guantanamera endlessly, and ending up on the roof of my motel, serenading the street below with the same song.
Ah, memories! But my point is that the scotch snuck up on me, and before I knew it I wasn't sure if what I thought was happening was really happening. So, I really can?t be sure when I tell you that at some point that night a man decked out in full Scot regalia, from sash to kilt, marched into the joint and started to really wail on the pipes, or that he ripped through a killer rendition of Soul Man. What I can be sure of is that we had another round or two (or three?), and that I was totally toasted.
We soon found ourselves out on the chilly streets of San Francisco wondering what sort of mischief we could get ourselves into. You know, idle hands and all. Fortunately for us, the Edinburgh Castle was adjacent to Golden Gate Park. Specifically, it was adjacent to the South-Eastern part of Golden gate park. More specifically, it was on Stanyan Street, near Frederick Street. You know what else was right around there? An old and unused football field: Kezar Stadium.
Kezar was where the 49ers used to play before they moved into Candlestick in 1970, and was also used to host rugby tournaments and high school football games. The stadium was demolished after the quake in 1989, and a new one put up in it?s place. But that is just a brief history. On that fateful night, the four of us found ourselves outside the relic, when one of us (probably Spitball) got a really wild idea.
Turning toward us with a mischievous gleam in his eye, he eagerly hopped from one foot to the other and said in a sing-song voice, "Hey guys, wouldn't it be really neat to climb up one of the light towers?"
Naturally, we agreed that it would.
Getting into the stadium was no problem. The steep rise in the population of homeless people in SF thanks to the Reagan administration's enlightened view toward mental health ensured that there were plenty of areas where the security fence had been breached. We found a hole within seconds, and entered. As we walked around the haunted façade of a once-proud sports complex I swear I heard the echoes of thousands of fans cheering their heroes. In truth it was probably some junky undergoing a particularly bad hallucination, but that's splitting hairs. In short time we found ourselves face-to-face with a very large and incredibly tall light tower. There was a maintenance ladder on it, but it began about 10 feet up on the pole. Obviously this was a safety precaution to prevent anyone stupid enough to attempt what we were now bent on doing. But, the planners didn't calculate the ingenuity that comes with five (seven?) rounds or so of Laphroaig. Searching the area, Zokie managed to find some old coaxial cable, and in our affected state we reasoned that we could use it as a rope, and shimmy up to the start of the maintenance ladder. Spitball took over the process of trying to fling the cable up, catch it on the bottom rung, fasten it, and go first. Now, in retrospect it is obvious that this would never have worked, but you have to remember: we were totally heated!
Spitball kept flinging the cable, and it kept falling well short of its mark and hitting him in the head as it plummeted back to earth. I was held in total captivation by the sight, until Basura came by huffing ans wheezing like a smoker trying to climb some stairs. If Basura hadn't made his discovery, we would have probably decided to just run around on the hallowed Kezar field for a bit, but luckily for us, he had found a real, honest-to-god ladder. It was about seven feet tall, but that was more than enough to get us to the rungs on the pole. I know this may sound like I am losing touch with reality now, but it is obvious to me that God wanted us to do this. Why else would He have placed the pub so close to the stadium? Why else would He have granted us such easy entry? Why else would He have miracled an actual ladder within our proximity? Verily, this was a sign, and woe be unto any who would question His divine will.
Spitball went first. He scrambled up the ladder and onto the metal rungs like he had done this a million times before, and just kept on climbing. Basura was next, and he also seemed to have an easy time of it. Zokie and I looked up at the slowly shrinking figures of the other two, and we began to have second through eighth thoughts about it when a lone voice from above came down. It wasn't god this time (unless he sometimes speaks in a shrill and slurred voice with a lot of profanity), but Spitball. He basically called us chickens, and so we now had to climb. Hey, it's in the Official Guy's Rulebook, chapter 3 section IV: If after agreeing to a task a party changes his mind and chooses to back out of said task, he is obligated to continue should any third party question the first party's bravery in any fashion. Such questioning may come in a direct form where the first party is called cowardly by whatever prevailing terminology exists, or indirectly in the form of "dares" (see ch. 5, sec. XIV for a list of approved dares, and counter dares).
As you can see, we were well and truly stuck. So, with a cloud of scotch in my brain and my muscles in full auto-pilot, I followed Zokie up the ladder and up the pole.
The first thing I noticed was that the ladder Basura found was not only very rickety, but also not on level ground. Next, I noticed that the metal rungs on the pole were exceedingly cold. I also discovered that 250 feet is a long climb, and that holding on to a cold, metal rung with a death-grip while climbing 250 feet is a sure cause for some intense hand cramps. Another lesson is that the human heart can beat incredibly hard and incredibly fast when you are holding on to a cold, metal rung with a death-grip while climbing a 250 pole and are frightened out of your jock.
Although it seemed to take three months, I eventually reached the top of the tower. Now, bear in mind, we had no idea what would be at the top. For all we knew, we would be there, suspended 250 feet in the air, clutching these freezing metal rungs, and hanging on for dear life. Very fortunately (and what I interpreted as yet another sign God wanted us to do this) what was at the top was a sort of access deck, with just enough room for four adults. The deck was maybe 4 feet by 3 feet, with a small railing that only rose to a height of about 3 feet. The deck was made from a steel grate, so you could see through it. As we stood there and caught our collective breath, we were struck by what was probably one of the most spectacular views in all of the world. The night was unbelievably clear (which explained why it was so freaking cold). To the West we could hear the breakers of Ocean Beach, and even make out the barking of the seals on Seal Rocks just off Point Lobos. The North showed some of the city leading to the Golden Gate Bridge, which was magnificently lit up, with the distant town of Sausalito visible in the distance. The South produced an endless stream of lights leading well into South San Francisco and beyond. But the best view was to the East. There, before us, was the trademarked San Francisco skyline in full formal dress. Coit Tower lit from below by floodlight, the Transamerica building's distinct pyramid tower, all of Nob Hill gleaming like a treasure chest of precious gems. And beyond that, the waterfront of Oakland, and Berkeley. I still believe I was able to see the Campanile on the UC campus.
We stood there, in awe until harsh environmental reality set in. Aside from the fact that it was freaking cold, whenever the wind whipped up not only would the cold cut right through to the bone, but the tower would sway noticeably. We suddenly and in unison began to wonder about the wisdom of placing nearly 700 extra pounds (assuming an average weight of 180lbs per guy not counting clothing) on top of an old light tower that has been exposed to the salt air of the Pacific Ocean for an untold number of years.
And this is where you came in. The spellbinding view was suddenly replaced by naked panic. We began to hear creaking noises that we were sure was the deck giving way beneath our feet. It became much, much colder, and our sense of balance became much, much more impaired. With every gust of wind we were certain that the tower was swaying more and more, and that the next really big one would snap it in half, sending us to a very hard landing. We went down in the order we came up, which meant that Zokie and I had a few extra moments of fear. Finally, I started down. Although the descent should have been physically easier, the fact that I was gripping each rung even more tightly than on my way up and that I was battling irrational panic was working to exhaust me. I didn't ease up until I could see the ground clearly, and when I was about 25 feet from the base I saw that the others had taken it upon themselves to play a little practical joke on me (also in the Guys Rule Book, chapter 8, section III): They removed the ladder. Obviously they expected me to hang there, pleading with them, but I was in no mood. Instead, I did the one thing that totally neutralized their game -- I dropped the final 10 feet, right into some low-lying bushes. It was a beauty, too. My knees gave way the instant my feet hit ground, and I tucked and rolled like a seasoned Hollywood stuntman. I would like to take the credit for just being able to adjust, but the real truth is that I just went limp from fatigue. We walked wobbly legged back to Stanyan Street, caught a bus to the nearest BART station, and hopped on the line that whisked us to the glorious hills of Berkeley. We reached my apartment at close to 1:30am, and didn't even bother to change. That night I slept well -- the raw terror, intense cold, and stark beauty of the night purifying my alcohol ravaged system so that I had no hangover the next morning. Sure, my arms and legs were sore as hell, but I had no headache!
That was the first and last time I over-indulged in single malt scotch. Except for that Rocky Horror fiasco about five years later. But that is another story entirely ...
This is a true story.
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