Free To Reach the Clouds by Philippe Petit Page B

place!”
    â€œWhen do I start?” our new friend asks.
    â€œNow,” I reply. “Go call the store and leave a message: you’re sick. You and I are driving to Boston tomorrow to get a cablepuller.”

COME ALONG
    JP and I drive to Boston, stopping only for gas and to call the warehouse manager—the man we’ve befriended by phone during our many morning calls from New York—to announce our imminent arrival and to ensure that he stays open for us.
    The drive is longer than we thought, and the directions more complex.
    We call again. By the time we reach Boston, which we have crossed twice by mistake, it is half an hour past the warehouse’s
closing time and we still have not located our destination on the map. One last call puts us back on track and assures us the man is still waiting.
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    The sun is low when JP parks the car near a row of loading docks. All the metal shutters are down. Above the factory, a few windows are lit, but the warehouse is closed. In front of the warehouse stands a man in blue overalls, a wooden crate at his feet.
    JP makes the introductions. I rip open the crate.
    I make sure the machine is a come-along—a Tirfor, or Griphoist as it is called in America. After trying for weeks to locate one, I’ve become an expert on the subject. I check its 3.5-ton pulling capacity, the extra security pins hidden inside the handle, and the fire-tapered tip of the specially manufactured cable that comes with it.
    Then I thank the man profusely and load the machine into the backseat of the car while JP slips him a few bucks.
    â€œFabulous! A free Tirfor!” I exclaim. But JP persuades me to stop at the office. The door is open, the receptionist and secretaries long gone. There is light upstairs; I hear a voice. We climb. A door labeled PRESIDENT is ajar, and we enter.
    â€œI’ll call you back,” says the president, startled as he turns his expensive leather desk chair toward the intruders. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in?”
    â€œPhilippe Petit. By the door.”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œTo buy a Griphoist, a T-35.”
    â€œThe factory is closed!”
    â€œBut we’ve come all the way from New York City …”
    â€œWhat company are you?”
    â€œI’m me! I’m no company!”
    â€œWe don’t sell retail. You need to go through a dealer.”
    â€œBut listen, I am a high wire artist! I have a very, very big show soon! And I absolutely need … Look!” Beneath the eyes of the important man, I flip through the photographs and clippings in the thick album with which I always travel.

    The man looks at the book, at my face, and gradually his aggression lessens as he grows intrigued. “What makes you think I can provide a T-35 just like that, huh? I usually need a week’s warning. I’m not even sure we have any in the warehouse.”
    â€œWell, I’m sure!” I say.
    The president laughs. “Oh, you’re in charge! I thought I was running things here.”
    â€œI’m sure … because I just loaded one in our car!” I confess, trying hard not to look triumphant.
    â€œWhat?!” exclaims our host, annoyance once again invading his features.
    JP jumps in and explains our ordeal in locating the machine, our endless telephone conversations, our long drive, our rush to arrive on time. He manages to omit any mention of why and how the machine ended up inside our car.
    By now, I’m ready for the kill. Before the president can come to his senses, I start doing magic tricks as a preamble to the deal I have in mind. Flipping more pictures from the album for my captive audience, I propose, “Give us the come-along for free, and I’ll invite you to the giant event I’m preparing!”
    The president declines, but to JP’s astonishment, he agrees to sell us the machine at cost and wishes us the best.
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    The sky is getting dark as