Erin.
She said she’d been working at the café for two years when she met Andy Goldstein, tall and lanky with a glob of sandy blond curly hair that some days looked like an overfertilized plant. He taught fifth grade at a private school. During the school year, Andy would occasionally stop by after the final bell to put the day—and the brats—behind him. He joked that he believed in the healing power of root beer.
Erin and Andy grew extremely close. They used to go to the skateboard park and talk above the background noise of boarders testing their courage against the pavement, though sometimes Andy earnestly told the kids he was a scout for MTV to see which ones got more courageous and focused and which were more mistake prone. Andy had theories about everything; he swore to Erin that you could tell the quality of a Chinese restaurant by its rice. He also insisted that the world could be broken down into two groups of people based on their elevator-riding habits—there are those who press the button of the floor they want only once, and those who press it again each time the elevator makes a stop. Andy was strong, and centered, and made her laugh and feel calm. “When I was with him, it always felt like it was Sunday afternoon,” Erin said.
“Meaning?”
“Safe enough to nap.”
Andy had planned to spend summer break from school traveling in Vietnam and Thailand, but decided instead to finish up a master’s thesis. Waitress and patron grew very close, until Andy started acting strange.
“Andy became . . . excitable for a few weeks, and then tired. He turned irritable, and mean,” she said. “He freaked at me for screwing up his latte.”
He knew something wasn’t right. He said he was having restless sleep and strange, vivid dreams. “He was almost relieved when the headaches came,” she said. “It gave him something more concrete to talk to the doctors about.”
The initial tests didn’t show cancer, but they were inconclusive. Then he went to see a neurologist who’d used some sophisticated tests that found something weird. Erin never got a full explanation, but there was at least reason for hope.
Two days later, he jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge.
I tried to recall my basic training in psychology and neurology. Andy was irritable. He had vivid dreams. Suicidal ideation. Evidence of a psychotic or schizophrenic break? I remembered that it did typically happen to people in their thirties. But it didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the story.
What didn’t seem unusual was that his death took place at the bridge. The spot has one of the highest concentrations of suicides in the world, a fact that has inspired intense debate over whether San Francisco should erect a guardrail that would make leaping more difficult. Critics said it would be a costly eyesore, which made me wonder whether my fellow San Franciscans had any right to claim, as they often did for sport, that they were less superficial than the fine people of Los Angeles.
I asked Erin if she’d told the police about Andy.
“I talked to them just after the explosion.”
“Lieutenant Aravelo?” I asked.
“You too?”
“Yeah.” I grimaced. “It’s tragic, Erin, and I’m sorry. But I don’t see what this has to do with the explosion, or anything else.”
She shook her head. “It’s a strange coincidence.” Her voice was distant, but resolute. “Something went wrong at that place—I mean, at the café.”
I let the proposition run over me. Her tone implied a certainty lacking from her substance.
“Erin, when I first ran into you—ran after you—back at the tutoring center, you said, ‘You’ve got the wrong person.’ Then you asked me what my sin was. Why would you say those things?”
Erin shrugged. “I guess I felt guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“That I survived,” she said softly.
Then she said, “There’s something I want to show you.”
12
C ole Valley is situated just above Haight-Ashbury, famed
She said she’d been working at the café for two years when she met Andy Goldstein, tall and lanky with a glob of sandy blond curly hair that some days looked like an overfertilized plant. He taught fifth grade at a private school. During the school year, Andy would occasionally stop by after the final bell to put the day—and the brats—behind him. He joked that he believed in the healing power of root beer.
Erin and Andy grew extremely close. They used to go to the skateboard park and talk above the background noise of boarders testing their courage against the pavement, though sometimes Andy earnestly told the kids he was a scout for MTV to see which ones got more courageous and focused and which were more mistake prone. Andy had theories about everything; he swore to Erin that you could tell the quality of a Chinese restaurant by its rice. He also insisted that the world could be broken down into two groups of people based on their elevator-riding habits—there are those who press the button of the floor they want only once, and those who press it again each time the elevator makes a stop. Andy was strong, and centered, and made her laugh and feel calm. “When I was with him, it always felt like it was Sunday afternoon,” Erin said.
“Meaning?”
“Safe enough to nap.”
Andy had planned to spend summer break from school traveling in Vietnam and Thailand, but decided instead to finish up a master’s thesis. Waitress and patron grew very close, until Andy started acting strange.
“Andy became . . . excitable for a few weeks, and then tired. He turned irritable, and mean,” she said. “He freaked at me for screwing up his latte.”
He knew something wasn’t right. He said he was having restless sleep and strange, vivid dreams. “He was almost relieved when the headaches came,” she said. “It gave him something more concrete to talk to the doctors about.”
The initial tests didn’t show cancer, but they were inconclusive. Then he went to see a neurologist who’d used some sophisticated tests that found something weird. Erin never got a full explanation, but there was at least reason for hope.
Two days later, he jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge.
I tried to recall my basic training in psychology and neurology. Andy was irritable. He had vivid dreams. Suicidal ideation. Evidence of a psychotic or schizophrenic break? I remembered that it did typically happen to people in their thirties. But it didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the story.
What didn’t seem unusual was that his death took place at the bridge. The spot has one of the highest concentrations of suicides in the world, a fact that has inspired intense debate over whether San Francisco should erect a guardrail that would make leaping more difficult. Critics said it would be a costly eyesore, which made me wonder whether my fellow San Franciscans had any right to claim, as they often did for sport, that they were less superficial than the fine people of Los Angeles.
I asked Erin if she’d told the police about Andy.
“I talked to them just after the explosion.”
“Lieutenant Aravelo?” I asked.
“You too?”
“Yeah.” I grimaced. “It’s tragic, Erin, and I’m sorry. But I don’t see what this has to do with the explosion, or anything else.”
She shook her head. “It’s a strange coincidence.” Her voice was distant, but resolute. “Something went wrong at that place—I mean, at the café.”
I let the proposition run over me. Her tone implied a certainty lacking from her substance.
“Erin, when I first ran into you—ran after you—back at the tutoring center, you said, ‘You’ve got the wrong person.’ Then you asked me what my sin was. Why would you say those things?”
Erin shrugged. “I guess I felt guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“That I survived,” she said softly.
Then she said, “There’s something I want to show you.”
12
C ole Valley is situated just above Haight-Ashbury, famed
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