Because still, we are out there playing. We travel in packs large and small, forever plural, some of us steering cars between spots while others walk or bike with boards balanced dumbly on handlebars. In cities we push through vacant nighttime streets. Or crowded nighttime streets. We linger in front of buildings with clear views of security guards wearing their bland uniforms with halfway convincing pride. Time, as it were, depends totally on her. So we go quickly at the stair set or the fountain ledge until we see her shift behind her desk and start toward us with one long angry finger wagging. We’ll skate again tomorrow, if our legs are up for it. We’re crossing suburban strip malls and scaling fences, and in the country we amass inside the little rectangles that they toss our way, saying, here you go boys – now play nice. Hoofing a cobblestone back alley through the rain and snow to find a garage door to heft open and reveal a mini-ramp inside. And do you know the carpet outlet store, where the wheelchair ramp meets that rail with the hedge trimmed all tidy? Every night the manager will flip the door’s sign to reveal the store’s hours. Closed by six Monday through Friday. Saturdays ten until five. Closed every single Sunday, especially in the south.
(From The Skateboard Mag Issue 116, in which I’m incredibly fortunate to have the Guest Ed page.)
192 notes, September 19, 2013