Under the Bridge (3 page)

Indy chuckled, unhooking his board from his backpack and digging for his knee pads, which meant one thing. A big trick. “Been working on something during my free time.”

Sid took a swig of Red Bull. “Angie doesn’t count unless it’s on her fingers, and that’s only to enumerate how many blood-borne diseases she’s had.”

Indy smiled. “
Enumerate?
Damn, Sid, you got a fever?”

Sid went on. “
Enumerate
means to count, and no, I have a broken spleen.”

“Really? Cool.” Indy laughed. “Can you count to nine hundred? Because I’ve been working on my math.”

Piper hooted. “Ah. So that’s why you’re pulling out the pads. If you can pull a nine hundred off the Monster, I’ll tie my balls in a bow and give ’em to you for your birthday, pretty boy.”

“I don’t like small presents.”

Everybody laughed. Piper went on, “Even if you could do a nine hundred, which you can’t, the Monster is barely big enough. The pros work their lines on at least twenty-footers, and this ain’t a twenty-footer.”

There’d been only a handful of guys in the city who could pull a smooth nine hundred, which was hitting the edge of the vert, getting major air, spinning around two and a half times, and landing it without leaving body parts on the ground. Indy pursed his lips. “I’ll ride ten bucks that I can do it.”

Piper agreed. “Shake.”

They shook, and Indy eyed Sid. “How about you, Sid? Up for a little bet?”

“I’d rather wipe my butt with sandpaper.”

Indy laughed. “I’ll take that as a vote of confidence.”

Sid shook his head. “Take it how you want it, but I figure it’s hard to collect from a guy with a skateboard implanted in his skull.”

Indy stood, tailed his board, grinned like a madman, and
dropped in. He carved back and forth, gaining speed and finding his groove, then pulled a five-forty, spinning and coming down smooth as ice before gaining speed again and launching off the edge. This time he knocked out a seven-twenty, came down wobbly, but held his line.

With a few more warm-up passes and a couple more tricks, half the park was watching as we cheered him on. He was good. Better than me. Better than any amateur sponsored guy in the city. In fact, he’d quit a local sponsor last year because of the politics and all the crap that went into it. He was pure skater, down to the roots.

As Indy rolled back and forth, gaining the speed he needed to pull the nine hundred off, he called out to Piper, laughing like a hyena and telling him to get his money out. Then, as he hit the lip, he twisted, airborne a good four feet up, and spun. Once, twice; then, just as he landed the last half, a little kid, probably about ten years old and padded up like the Michelin Man, puttered along the bottom of the vert, right in Indy’s line.

Indy saw the kid and twisted hard just as he landed, sliding the board sideways down the wall and hitting the concrete with a skidding thud. The board spun down toward the kid like a broken helicopter blade, flipping on its side and nailing him on the leg. Michelin Man went down, screaming in pain as they tumbled together.

With Indy lying on the ground stunned from a major shoulder hit and the kid holding his leg and screaming bloody murder, the mother scrambled and half slid down a shallow
part of the bowl and ran to them. Pipe, Sid, and I dropped in and went to Indy, who sat up, rubbing his shoulder. His eyes went to the boy as his mother knelt, putting her hands on his shoulders and quieting him down.

Indy’s eyes stayed on the kid. “You okay, bro?” he said.

He sniffled, looking at Indy. His mother didn’t sniffle. “You should really look where you’re going. There are kids around here.”

Indy ignored her as we gathered around him. “You okay, little man?” He smiled at the twerp.

The kid nodded. The lady furrowed her brow. She held her son, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You could have broken his leg speeding around like that. It’s reckless.”

Indy gaped at her. Skating and reckless went together like alcoholics and vodka. Overprotective mommies and skate parks didn’t. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but …”

Sid rolled his eyes, his dusty voice sarcastic. “Come on, lady, Pukehead here cut his line big-time, and besides that, he shouldn’t be at this end of the park. The shallow bowls are down there.” He pointed off toward the other side, where all the kiddies tottered around while their moms sipped coffee and visited with each other.

She set her jaw. “This is a public park, and he can skate anywhere he’d like. And watch your language around my son. He doesn’t need to be exposed to your”—she looked at Sid, with his scrappy and skintight jeans, wallet chain hanging from his belt, Anarchy T-shirt, and frayed skate shoes—“kind.”

Indy stood, took a step, and squatted in front of the kid.
“Probably a good idea to hang down there, partner. You’ll be up for this end in a few years, huh? It can get pretty wild up here.” He smiled, tapping the kid’s helmet.

The boy nodded, still whimpering and clutching his leg as he leaned into his mother’s lap.

Indy stood again, grabbing his board. “You’re pretty good on that thing, you know? Just keep practicing and you’ll fly, dude. The next Tony Hawk.” He looked to the mother. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Then he walked away, rubbing his shoulder. Sid looked at the lady like she was the biggest idiot in the world, and we hit the lip, sitting again and watching her gather her son up.

Pipe shook his head. “I swear to God, when people have kids, they lose all sense of reality. I’m selling mine if I ever knock a girl up.”

Sid glowered. “This place sucks now. Mommies coming down acting … mommyish. I had a lady yell at me last week for saying
shit
.” He shook his head. “Not like I was actually shitting, either. I just said it.”

Piper grinned. “Remember in the alley behind O’Doherty’s?”

Sid smiled. “Awesome. That was, like, the biggest projectile turd I ever took.”

“Dude, you wiped with a piece of cardboard.”

“Better than crapping my pants.”

I shrugged, wondering why every conversation we ever had evolved into either puke, pee, sex, snot, or crap. “The Monster kicks butt.”

Sid grunted. “Just fine with the street, if you ask me. And I’d rather deal with the bangers than yuppies pretending they’re better than everybody.”

Piper laughed. “At least you always see the bright side of things, Sid.”

Sid grumbled, slouching. He glanced over at the lady comforting her kid on the bench. “The only thing bright about me is my white ass in that lady’s face. My kind? I’ll show her my kind. Check it,” he said. Then he stood, unbuckled, dropped trou to the ankles, and bent over, looking at the lady upside down between his knees as his skinny white butt glowed in the shadows Under the Bridge, like a beacon for all pasty and ugly things in the world. “HEY, LADY!” he bellowed, spreading his cheeks. She stared in disbelief, then turned away.

Sid straightened, buckled up, and sat down. No laugh, no smile, just back to business as usual.

Indy reeled, laughing and clapping. “You are the weirdest human being I’ve ever known.”

Sid blew it off, watching the lady get up with her kid and leave. He bared ass all the time, and it always came unexpected. The best ever was when he smashed his butt cheeks against the window of a yoga class downtown and farted. He fogged the window.

Indy smiled, rubbing his shoulder. “I think you scarred her for life.”

Sid furrowed his brow. “What? I got a nice ass.”

I looked at Indy. “You okay?”

He looked off down the park, toward the lady and her son leaving. “Yeah.”

Piper got down to business. “You didn’t land it, Indy. Pay up.” He held his hand out.

“No way. I had to bail.”

He shook his head. “Pay up.”

Indy grunted, looking at me. “Borrow ten bucks, Tate?”

I rolled my eyes. “How’d I know.”

“Dude, I’ve been practicing for three weeks. I knew I could do it. Besides, you know Piper doesn’t have it, either. We’re poor, remember? Poor people don’t have money.”

I looked at Pipe. “You got ten, Pipe?”

He grinned. “Hell no. We’re poor, remember? Poor people don’t have money.”

I waved them off. “Bet’s off, then, you dorks.”

Piper busted up. “Waah waah waah. Mr. Lawn Mower Car Washer Guy thinks he’s king of the world because he works every once in a while. Ain’t you God, Tate.”

I shook my head, smiling. Some things never changed.

After Cutter died, Indy, Piper, and I would hop the bus out to Woodlawn Cemetery once a week, hanging our boards on our packs and walking through the thousands of people not living until we reached Cutter. Sid refused to go, having barely made it through the funeral service without fainting. He’d just stood there with the blood draining from his face, looking like a ghost in a borrowed threadbare suit jacket. I realized that day that people obsessed about the thing they feared the most. Death scared Sid so much he couldn’t stop thinking about it
.

When we first began visiting Cutter, nobody knew what to do. We’d stand around his grave and stare—each of us into our own thoughts and awkward with the silence. He was dead. Gone. We’d never see him again. I didn’t know how to deal with it. Nobody did.

Piper was the one who broke the ice. As we stood around like three idiots, he shook his head, unstrapped his board, and took it to the walkway ten feet away. “Hey, Cutter,” he
called, “check it.” Then he did a backside ollie, the clack of his board echoing in the gloomy silence. Indy smiled, then laughed, and soon enough we were all on the walk pulling tricks for our buddy.

The few visitors spread throughout the cemetery turned their attention to the racket, and within a few minutes, a maintenance man sped up in a golf cart and hopped out. He escorted us to the gates after Piper argued about what respect really was.

Since then, life had taken its course, and as we all moved on with Cutter being gone, we moved in different directions with it. I think Indy and Piper said goodbye to Cutter the day we skated for him, and they’d done it just the way Cutter would have wanted. Of all the places to get kicked out of for skating, a cemetery was probably the worst, and I’m sure Cutter was laughing his ass off from wherever he was.

I still visited him every week, though. For some odd reason, I liked the place. Maybe the peace. The solitude relaxed me, and unlike the others, I guess I still needed that connection. Something more than just memories.

I pulled the cord in the bus to signal my stop, and as the driver braked, I stood, making my way to the door. The gates of Woodlawn sat open, and as I stepped under the shadows of the evergreens and the noise from the bus disappeared, silence overtaking me, the tension in my chest eased.

Cutter liked silence, too. He once told me that his favorite time was just before he went to sleep. Silence. Darkness. Peace. Nobody yelling at him.

Cutter’s life had been anything but peaceful, and he’d
lived with his uncle the last year of his life. His mother, Frances, had found another of a string of losers to shack up with, and the guy hadn’t wanted a teenager hanging around the house. Cutter came home one day after school and his things were boxed up on the front porch. His uncle Steven took him in.

Most people would probably think that a kid would be shocked by getting kicked out of his own house because his mom’s new boyfriend didn’t want him there. On the inside, though, that was Cutter’s life in a nutshell.

Everybody had excuses for everything, but when you had parents who weren’t meant to parent, there was only the truth. Cutter’s mom sucked as a human being. Life is rough enough with decent parents, and of all the people I knew, Cutter was the last person to deserve a mother like that.

The cool thing about Cutter was that even though he knew his mom didn’t give a shit about him, he was always positive. Almost like he was the adult and she was the child. She’d beat him, we’d see the bruises, and he’d just ask us to have compassion for her. “She’s had a rough life,” he’d say. We’d tell him to whack her back. Call the cops. Whatever. But he wouldn’t. He loved her, and that was that.

Cutter never gave up on it. No matter how many times it would happen, and no matter how many times we’d tell him she was evil spawn, he’d just smile, shake his head, and tell us to give her a break. I couldn’t even look at her without wanting to shove my fist down her throat. She was like the bully beating on the kid who wouldn’t fight back.

At his headstone, I dropped my pack and sat on the grass.
When I first began visiting by myself, I would just sit, letting the time slip by, thinking about stuff. It was peaceful in a weird way. But after a while, I began talking to him. Almost like he was there.

The breeze whispered.

I sat for a while, picking grass and twisting it between my fingers. I didn’t want to go home. Dad would be on the warpath. Indy would be sitting on the couch flipping smart-ass answers left and right, and my mom would be in the kitchen trying to ignore everything while she cooked dinner. Welcome home.

The only time I could ever be late without question was when I came here to visit Cutter. My mom had loved him like one of us, and sometimes I think his death hurt her more than it did anybody. He’d been over at our house so often out of sheer hunger that she’d set the table for him every night, and when she heard he’d died, she changed. The way she looked at Indy and me was different now. Almost like she was afraid.