I am there, observing him glide down the half pipe, then
up--hop, kerplop, stop--I, pleasantly picnicking
at the skate park. Under the incandescent daylight, sitting
on an enameled black mesh bench, peering through a chain-link
fence similarly enameled, I become more watchful of my Scooter,
weaving to adjacent ramps and pipes--gaining speed, then
kerplunk--keeping my eye on him: the helmet, elbow
and knee pads; shoes laced; his obsessive need to get some
air from the pipe's peak.
Hills made of wood, the remaining landscape, cement smooth,
but not so soft to go splat after colliding into a free-style
Roller Blader--what am I to do? My intention is not to notice
the near misses. "Keep you head up," I encourage
him, while I keep my head down. To cope, get by day by day
without fret, I attempt to empathize with his pipe dream.
I am scared, not prepared for the next collision--fast becoming
uneasy, quaky-queasy. I listen to the background music.
"I'm ready for my slice," demands my Scooter
through the other side of the fence, jarring me from my
fear. "I'll wait here," he exclaims as he strode
Pizza, I gather.
I hustle to the food court and back, squeak-skidding my
sneaker, toe stubbing almost tumbling to the floor like
Chomp, chomp, chomp.
Glug, glug, glug.
Crust boomerang, waxed paper plate fling into the trash
"Save the ice. Toss the wipe. Thanks! Gotta scoot,"
he commands, swerving around a clothes rack while en route
to the pitfalls.
"Adjust your helmet! Fix your pads," I shout
I rake my face from forehead to chin, before scoffing down
my packed lunch while reading a magazine--taking a sip of
bottled water, calmly casing the scene after hearing a yelp!