The police officers reach Dylan's door. It is locked and they can't get in. In his last moments, Dylan's only contact with the world comes in the form of shouts from those strangers. "Jump! ... Idiot! ... Just do it! ... Stupid motherfucker!"
Dylan sees a mass of tormentors. But not all of those strangers are cruel. Most are scared and concerned and sympathetic. They communicate as much in their tweets. But Dylan doesn't know this. All he hears are the taunts and the laughter, that most primal and vulgar sort of human communication. If more spectators had told him "Don't do it!" he might have been saved.
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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Or it might not have changed a thing.
He looks down at the faces. Maybe he sees the crowd getting bigger. Maybe he understands they are all watching him, waiting.
A crowd has gathered around the breakdancers. It's a little past 2 p.m. on a sunny day in the city. Market Street is bustling. There are families taking pictures in front of the cable car turnaround, couples holding hands as they stroll down the sidewalk, teenagers on metal chairs by the BART station eating Carl's Jr. burgers, and bystanders watching a camera crew film a commercial.
A boombox fills the air with hip-hop. The dancers are turfing, that free-flowing Oakland-born style of gliding footwork, popping and locking. Storytelling through movement. The spectators bob their heads and tap their toes. One teenage boy records the performance with his iPhone.
During a break in the action, a man emerges from the crowd and approaches the dancers. He's barefoot. He asks if they can spare a cigarette. He speaks in a soft, almost shy voice. A homeless guy, they assume. Someone plucks out a cigarette and hands it to him. The man borrows a lighter and takes a deep drag. He is calm and looks harmless. The dancers go about their business.
The man finishes the cigarette. He flicks the butt away. Then he peels off his T-shirt and jeans, and drops them beside a vendor's table. He draws little attention as he undresses. It is an unspectacular sight in a city like this, where eyes are trained to look away and ears are plugged by buds. The dancers turn on the music. The crowd grows.
In nothing but blue boxer shorts, the man walks away, disappearing among the passing faces.
