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Falling off a building demands a delicate fusion of physics, psychology, and art. Not the leap of suicide: that desperate act entreats physics alone to quell the troubled psyche and propel the soul into the theological Beyond. Art plays no role in self-destruction.

But the high fall-the mortality-defying tumble for the entertainment of spectators-requires the performer to play the chemist, compounding three unrelated elements into a volatile, tripartite molecule. Psychology must be cajoled to convince the body to step into nothingness, art must be created to capture the panic of a victim facing death, and physics must be calculated to cheat the lethal combination of gravity and abrupt deceleration. Let one element supersede the others, and misfortune results.

The mechanics of falling are relatively simple. The stunt performer leaves the heights in one of four ways (industry jargon distinguishes headers, back falls, face-offs, and "suicides") but finishes every fall identically, relaxed and supine. A prepared landing surface, usually an inflated air bag or cushioned mat, waits on the ground at the exact site of the expected impact. This pad absorbs the force of the fall while the body orientation protects the fragile delicacies of face, ribcage, and groin, lessening the impact by spreading the shock over the greatest possible surface area. Relaxation dissipates possible trauma to the lungs and joints.

I stand on a fire escape thirty-five feet aloft, safely inside the protective grill of a wrought-iron railing, looking over the tops of nearby trees toward an indistinct purple-blue horizon. A slight breeze stirs, carrying a chill that whispers of Fall. The season's name reminds me of my task, and I look down.
A three-story fall rates only as a moderate plunge to the experts of the stunt industry, but this particular fall is more complex than most. An assailant will shove me across the platform, and I will collapse at the stomach over the railing. The attacker will then seize my feet and fling my legs into the air, sending me over the rail to drop headfirst toward the ground. Much of this is acting, of course. In reality, there will be no force behind the assailant's push, and when I bend over the handrail I will grab the balusters with both hands, gaining leverage to kick my feet up in a kind of handstand to guide my body into the fall. Eight feet above the mat, I will tuck my head and shoulders, rotating my body to a horizontal, face-up landing position to absorb

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