Francisco. Open Britannica told me it began as an extension of the University of California at Berkeley in 1961 and became its own independent institution in 1979. Then it closed, suddenly, in 1997.
Looming over the campus, just beyond the soccer fields, was Sutro’s Scepter, the giant radio antenna and art project that was San Francisco’s icon and its eyesore. It was generally reviled, and when Grail built the Shard, people were relieved; at last, there was something new to put on souvenir mugs and commemorative tea kettles. But now, Sutro’s Scepter and Fog City rose like the two great tines of a city-sized tuning fork of weirdness. San Francisco just couldn’t catch a break.
We roared up a dark access road, rolled into an empty parking lot and came to a sparking halt. Scheme reached into the back seat for her messenger bag. She’d cooled down a little.
It was an ugly campus. An online photo gallery called it “Le Corbusier’s California Adventure.” The buildings were monochrome and featureless except for tall slotted windows. No two were on the same level; between buildings it was all steps and terraces.
“This is depressing,” Scheme said. She was hiking up away from the parking lot, plotting a steep course past the empty buildings. “They shut it down just after we graduated.”
I tried to imagine Scheme as an undergraduate. I couldn’t. We came to a wide terrace with a view of the entire campus.
“There,” she said, pointing a long finger towards one of the concrete blocks. “That was my dorm. Second floor. 206 Wozniak.” It was perched on a ledge, its back half pitched out into the air. It looked precarious.
Scheme, what does this have to do with Sebdex?
“Sebastian went here, too,” she said, back on the steps, breathing hard. “We were friends. Good friends.”
That wasn’t in the magazine profiles. In fact, education was a notable omission from his rags-to-riches story; nobody ever mentioned where Sebdex went to school. I assumed he didn’t. I assumed he taught himself combinatorics on the back of a shovel.
We came to the end of the steps but Scheme didn’t break her stride, wading straight into the hilltop scrub. And she wasn’t the first one to do it; I could see a faint track that wound up the hill, towards a dark tree line and, beyond, the tall twisted silhouette of Sutro’s Scepter.
“Hu, I need you to listen to me up here,” Scheme said. “Do exactly what I tell you, and don’t go exploring on your own. Don’t connect to anything unless I tell you to.”
Of course, Scheme, but—
“I’m serious. I don’t want to lose you. And if you disobey, I might.”
Of course.
The wind was whistling across the Hill of the Holy Spirit.
There was a wide, fenced-in disc of gravel and weedy grass, and in the center, Sutro’s Scepter rose out of the rocky ground. It was built from three massive steel pillars that twisted closer together as they reached higher, bound together along the way by a spider-webbing of catwalks and cross-beams. There were bright lights spaced along its length, all blinking blood-red. At the top of the Scepter, the pillars flared out again like three thorns, cradling an exploding bird’s-nest of antennas.
“Freezing up here,” Scheme said. “Always was.” Her hair was whipping like a red banner.
A triangular section of the fence had been cut and peeled back—years ago?—so she ducked down and stepped through. There, at the base of the Scepter, she bent over her bag and pulled out a thin black laptop, barely bigger than a sheet of paper. I was afraid it would blow away in the wind.
“My fingers are numb,” she said, fumbling with the keys. “Go ahead and give it a sniff, Hu.”
There was a wifi network here on the hilltop. Amazing. It was called UCSS-experimental . It was too weak to connect.
“Same here,” Scheme said. “Shit.” She craned her neck back. “We’ll go to the first landing.”
Up we went, rung by rung, Scheme’s hands
Looming over the campus, just beyond the soccer fields, was Sutro’s Scepter, the giant radio antenna and art project that was San Francisco’s icon and its eyesore. It was generally reviled, and when Grail built the Shard, people were relieved; at last, there was something new to put on souvenir mugs and commemorative tea kettles. But now, Sutro’s Scepter and Fog City rose like the two great tines of a city-sized tuning fork of weirdness. San Francisco just couldn’t catch a break.
We roared up a dark access road, rolled into an empty parking lot and came to a sparking halt. Scheme reached into the back seat for her messenger bag. She’d cooled down a little.
It was an ugly campus. An online photo gallery called it “Le Corbusier’s California Adventure.” The buildings were monochrome and featureless except for tall slotted windows. No two were on the same level; between buildings it was all steps and terraces.
“This is depressing,” Scheme said. She was hiking up away from the parking lot, plotting a steep course past the empty buildings. “They shut it down just after we graduated.”
I tried to imagine Scheme as an undergraduate. I couldn’t. We came to a wide terrace with a view of the entire campus.
“There,” she said, pointing a long finger towards one of the concrete blocks. “That was my dorm. Second floor. 206 Wozniak.” It was perched on a ledge, its back half pitched out into the air. It looked precarious.
Scheme, what does this have to do with Sebdex?
“Sebastian went here, too,” she said, back on the steps, breathing hard. “We were friends. Good friends.”
That wasn’t in the magazine profiles. In fact, education was a notable omission from his rags-to-riches story; nobody ever mentioned where Sebdex went to school. I assumed he didn’t. I assumed he taught himself combinatorics on the back of a shovel.
We came to the end of the steps but Scheme didn’t break her stride, wading straight into the hilltop scrub. And she wasn’t the first one to do it; I could see a faint track that wound up the hill, towards a dark tree line and, beyond, the tall twisted silhouette of Sutro’s Scepter.
“Hu, I need you to listen to me up here,” Scheme said. “Do exactly what I tell you, and don’t go exploring on your own. Don’t connect to anything unless I tell you to.”
Of course, Scheme, but—
“I’m serious. I don’t want to lose you. And if you disobey, I might.”
Of course.
The wind was whistling across the Hill of the Holy Spirit.
There was a wide, fenced-in disc of gravel and weedy grass, and in the center, Sutro’s Scepter rose out of the rocky ground. It was built from three massive steel pillars that twisted closer together as they reached higher, bound together along the way by a spider-webbing of catwalks and cross-beams. There were bright lights spaced along its length, all blinking blood-red. At the top of the Scepter, the pillars flared out again like three thorns, cradling an exploding bird’s-nest of antennas.
“Freezing up here,” Scheme said. “Always was.” Her hair was whipping like a red banner.
A triangular section of the fence had been cut and peeled back—years ago?—so she ducked down and stepped through. There, at the base of the Scepter, she bent over her bag and pulled out a thin black laptop, barely bigger than a sheet of paper. I was afraid it would blow away in the wind.
“My fingers are numb,” she said, fumbling with the keys. “Go ahead and give it a sniff, Hu.”
There was a wifi network here on the hilltop. Amazing. It was called UCSS-experimental . It was too weak to connect.
“Same here,” Scheme said. “Shit.” She craned her neck back. “We’ll go to the first landing.”
Up we went, rung by rung, Scheme’s hands
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