42
SKATER vs G-MEN
(Or Fred and the Reverend)
(This is a story about a controversial democratic presidential
candidate's trip through Birmingham, Alabama. The names were
changed to protect the innocent.)
Today was like any other, as far as Fred was concerned. Clean the
apartment pools, practice scales on his bass, and of course, skate.
He stepped out onto the balcony for a stretch and a breath of fresh
air. Fred focused in on the brunnette. It was the Stallion cheerleader
who occupied the apartment below him. She was most desirable. He
had to wake her up now....
Cleo (Fred's boss) found Fred's excuses for tardiness, to be
satisfactory, Cleo reminded him of the four pools, that definitely had
to be cleaned before the opening deadline. The girl had departed
before Fred's return from work. Fred flipped his bass amp on. He
headed for the fridge. Fred opened a can of his daily beverage. The
phone rang.
It was Jack, at the local skate shop. He informed Fred that the
wheels he ordered had arrived. Fred left immediately. His bass could
wait. Jack knew Fred would finger him for stickers or maybe grip tape.
Fred always felt gratuities were due with a substantial purchase. As
usual the skinhead locals hanging out at the shop jeered and snickered
at Fred's pomp. Jack coughed up a few stickers. Fred dropped his
cash, invited Jack to downhill sometime, bounced one of the new
wheels off the wall a couple of times, then split.
Fred drove fast, he always drives fast. Fred slid the V-8 into a space
at the savings and loan. The interstate was 100 yards away. He
grabbed his stick, the bag of new wheels, and a wrench. The smell of
diesel exhaust was in the air. The walk was short.
Fred had grown up skating the particular overpass ditch. It was big
and fast. Fred knew every line. There was no one here today. He set
his gear on the short strip of flat space (the launch pad) at the top. He
began to search for the hooter he had stashed his last visit here. It was
exactly where he had left it..
He felt good. Jack had given him a good deal. He tightened the new
wheels onto his deck. Fred noticed a man, in a suit, with a walkie-tal-
kie on the next overpass. He didn't think much of it. He continued to
puff. Little did he know....
"Blue bird, this is Red Bird, come in."
"This is Blue Bird, go ahead."
"Blue bird, I'm observing a suspect under overpass #28, he
appears to be assembling something, possibly a high powered weapon.
What is the position of the motorcade?"
"Black bird has just passed exit #19."
"Red bird, this situation could be potentially dangerous. We've
stopped the motorcade. Apprehend the suspect."
"Roger, Blue bird."
Fred snuffed the smoke. He had been anticipating this first ride on
his new wheels. He spun one of the wheels. Fred mounted his board.
The 30 foot drop had never looked so appetizing. He reflected on the
many sessions that had gone down there. And today he had the ditch
all to himself.
Not for long. Fred had visitors. Fred's life flashed before his eyes.
The words, "Freeze, don't move" broke through the traffic noise of
the freeway. There were four intruders. Each in a three piece with dark
sunglasses. All were pointing Dirty Harry looking artillery, in Fred's
direction. Fred knew these were not local detective types. Possibly
mafia enforcers or government men?
It did not matter. Whatever the situation he was involved in, Fred
knew he had only one choice. Skate or die!
Fred pushed off the launch pad. The G men followed. One of the
pursuers evidently could not handle the momentum of running down
the steep descent. He rolled and tumbled to the bottom, losing his
piece along the way. Fred laughed aloud. Fred was feeling relatively
safe, since no shots had been fired. He pumped the ditch like never
before. The new wheels were fast.
Motorists on the freeway were curious to the sight. Four men in
suits with guns chasing a skateboarder in a drainage ditch. Traffic
slowed. Tires were screeching, horns were honking. It was like the
movies. Fred was the star.
Fred made three more grinds before the inevitable happened. Fred"
was tackled. His face hit the concrete hard. It was not fun any more.
The G-men did not say much. They knew they were making a scene.
They dragged Fred up the incline like a rag doll. His skate lay in the
bottom of the ditch. Fred did not have much fight. He was hurt. His
head had not felt this way since the head bongo at Flying Wheels. (He
lost the hearing in his right car as a result of the beef.)
The G-men stuffed Fred in their car. The one that tackled Fred
radioed in, "The suspect has been apprehended. It's an overgrown
teenager with a skateboard. No weapons found." Fred could be heard
screaming in the background.
"You idiots, let the guy go! Can you imagine what would happen if
the press got a hold of this," the authoritative voice ordered over the
radio.
The G-men immediately pushed Fred out. He spat upon the car as
they sped off. Fred was pissed.
Fred walked back to the ditch. His stick was still laying at the
bottom. He did not feel like skating any more. His head was throbbing.
Fred noticed a motorcade proceeding down the freeway. He picked up
his board and headed for his car. "There must be a connection," he
pondered as he reached the V-8.
Fred sat silently in the drivers seat. He turned on the radio. The
news report stated that Jesse Jackson's motorcade was passing
through Birmingham today, en route to Jackson, Mississippi.
"Extra precautions are being taken for Reverend Jackson's safety."
"Yes, I know," Fred said disgustedly. He cranked the car....
MAX CARNAGE Controed From page 4
painful to watch. As the skin gets mushier the lines get slower and
enthusiasm wanes. The drive gets longer with each repitition, Most
likely Dirtman's will be sawdust by September. Oh well skating's
"just a passing fad anyway, no real substance to it, not like Wacky-
sack." Finally, Max can't do the southward thumba anymore. Those
northbound Trans-Ams and BMWs are too tempting and Dirtman's
isn't enough to get him there in one piece.
"What kind of sportsman uses automatic weapons anyway?"
Maybe Max will kill himself someday, taking some upwardly
mobile type with him. Or maybe his head will just explode from the
strain of internal pressures. Blacker and blacker.
An ad, "Ramp Jam" catches Max's eye one day. Another 100 mile
drive, but Max is about to snap anyway so he bullets north. The
oncoming traffic instinctively shies from the centerline. Two more
hours alone and he sinks deeper into the pit. "It's probably more junk,
out here in the woods who's going to know how to skate?"
It was a variation on the "U-shaped" theme, 16 feet wide in the
middle of nowhere. Solid and fast. Max skated until he couldn't stand.
It was worth the drive and its accompanying psycho-threats and the
blackness receded slightly. "That ought to hold me for another week."
THE POOL
It's hard to say how the pool knew, but it knew. It's hard to say when
it first started knowing: When it was just a hole in the ground or a
cement bowl, or when the final shiny coat of gunite was applied and
it was filled with water. This pool knew it was a "show pool" never to
be enjoyed, only to be looked at. From behind the darkness in the
death box it stared at and hated all the "lookie-loos" until one day the
pool showroom closed down.
The people came to skate. Lines were drawn and the power was
tapped. A few were slapped and leamed respect for the power, but the
pool and its riders were happy, Until the incredible happened. They
had skates, but were not skaters. They carried the tools to tap the
power like membership cards to a club to which they could never
belong. They tried to vandalize and burn the showroom, the police
came, and even the most valiant and persistent skaters were driven
away. Now the pool stares cold and black from within the death box,
hating all the "lookie-loos" and wannabees until the day the bulldozer
blade will end it all....
By Don
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