Public Influence: The Immortalization of an Anonymous Death

The man on the ledge is named Dylan Yount. He is 32 years old, and his life is more than his death. Behind him, past the arching window, is his home, apartment 606 at 10 Cyril Magnin. It is filled with unpacked boxes. He is unknown, standing up there in this city. But 2,000 miles to the east, there is a town where everybody knows him.

Harrisburg is a rural patch of land in the middle of Missouri, bisected by a country highway, connected through gravel roads, and home to 266 residents. In many ways, Dylan was a product of his hometown. He spent his childhood climbing trees and playing tag in his vast, woody backyard. He dreamed of one day becoming a firefighter, like his friend Andrew Gray's dad. As a teen, he spent his weekends four-wheeling, fishing, and deer hunting.

Photos courtesy of Kathie Yount

“I believe he wanted somebody to help him,” says Dylan’s mother, KathieYount. “He was looking in the crowd.”

Photos courtesy of Kathie Yount

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His mother, Kathie, was a single mom, an uncommon sight in Harrisburg. She ensured that Dylan would never be short on activities or father figures. He took Taekwondo lessons, rising to black belt. As an Eagle Scout, he once made a sundial out of rocks and scraps of bronze. He mastered the saxophone and often spent his high school lunch hours jamming in the music room with friends.

The older he got, the more he stood out. In a town of conservatives, he inherited his mother's progressive outlook. Kathie, an English teacher at the high school, also passed down her brains.

"He was very intelligent," says Andrew. "And popular. Everybody knew him. He was sort of a clown, too, always cracking jokes in the classroom."

In his graduating class of 33 students, Dylan was valedictorian. He made the National Honor Society. While most of his friends moved on to the local junior college, Dylan enrolled at the University of Missouri, where he lived at the Alpha Kappa Lambda house and graduated with a degree in business administration. He took a marketing job for a tech company in St. Louis. But by the time he got laid off two years later, in 2001, he was itching to see more.

"There's nothing for me here anymore," he told his friend Wendy Isaacs. "It's just too small."

Wendy, who had settled in Walnut Creek, suggested he come out to San Francisco. So he did. He was instantly infatuated. Back in Harrisburg that Christmas, Dylan hung a cable car ornament on the tree. He also brought with him a cable car trolley bell and a picture of a cable car ripped from a tourist guide of the cable car turnaround. He decided to move to San Francisco.

He got a job selling phone books for AT&T. He explored the city, surfing its waters, biking the surrounding mountains, hitting the bars. There were Dave Matthews Band concerts and Jack Johnson shows, beautiful women and good food.

"He was down for anything, always looking for a thrill," says Raymond St. Martin, who first befriended Dylan when they worked together at AT&T. "He loved San Francisco. He was drawn to the music and the scene and the people and the fashion and the outdoors and the hiking. He was a farm boy excited to be in the city."

The city repaid him for his devotion. He moved up the professional ranks, eventually reaching a six-figure salary. He fell in love with a beautiful girl who worked in technology. He bought a BMW. He filled his closet with designer threads, which he hung on clotheslines after washing because he was worried the dryer would ruin the fabric.

And throughout, Dylan remained close to his people. He was at the hospital when Wendy gave birth to each of her kids. When Raymond was reeling from an argument with his girlfriend, Dylan put an arm on his shoulder, a drink in his hand, and, soon enough, a smile on his face. He was soft-spoken, but always sure of himself. A steady hand to lift you up whenever you needed it.

"I went through a couple of tough breakups and he was always a shoulder to cry on," says Andrew. "You could always express emotion to him, didn't have to hide anything. I've never seen him waver. He was always the rock."

His friends couldn't have been happier for his success.

"He had his dream car, his dream job, and his dream girl," says Raymond. "Things were trending up for him."

In the summer of 2009, Dylan embarked on an extended European trip with his girlfriend. They spent the next six months skiing the Alps and swimming the Spanish coast.

Back in San Francisco, they moved in together — a spacious penthouse overlooking the cable car turnaround. The boxes were still unpacked when she left for her first day back at work on Feb. 16, 2010.

On this day, Dylan's life seems as picturesque as those cable cars spinning outside his window.

Beto Lopez also found his dreams in San Francisco. He came from a small town in the Central Valley to pursue a career as a filmmaker, and here he is on Market Street ready to shoot a group of break dancers. But the dancers are not dancing. They are staring up at a man standing on the ledge above the Forever 21 building. And now so is Beto. "Jump!" he hears someone shout. "Do it already!"