Above: You know this place has boon skated
before. Right: A surf style, home-poured
cemant wave in Pedro Point, CA. Andy Croft
cuts back. Far right: Transient spot, West
Bank in London, England. Graham
McEacheran attacks. Below: A crowded ses-
sion at the Grape Bowl somewhere out near
Upland has several bank robbers freight-
training through a corner bowl.
Sex
LONGSL
SONG
When brandished and used to its fullest, he literally sliced through
people like sitting ducks and never looked back. All of this and much
more reeled through his head like a plotless movie as he climbed
the four familiar steps to the front porch, scattering some of the
dust that had settled there. Three steps later he reached for the
screen door and opened it without using the handle. He flung it
open just wide enough to walk through without contorting or hav-
ing to hurry. The screen door, spring loaded, slammed with a loud
"blap," bounced and repeated with softer "blaps" three more
times, each quieter, until it came to rest.
His mother-who had been contently watching the TV before he
arrived, nervously put out a half-smoked cigarette in anticipation
of the inevitable (in her mind) confrontation-did not actually hear
him pull up. The cat looked out the window.
"Do you always have to make so much goddamn noise?!" she
bellowed over the blaring TV. He figured it takes two to fight and
continued to his room to prepare for the night ahead, pretending
not to hear the obvious challenge. He kicked the door shut with
a reverse one-legged stork type of sweeping kick, but it stalled
-shut on some dirty clothes. Before the door stopped, he was
on his knees manipulating the stereo with one hand to cue up
whatever record was on the turntable. He didn't really care what
was on. He vaguely remembered, but did not look, figuring the radio
sucks no matter where you live and one side of an LP would give
him enough time to do what needed to be done.
Actually, the item he retrieved from the trunk probably didn't need
any maintenance, but it was always good to check...it was part
of the ritual, like going through reels and tackle before going fishing
or cleaning a weapon before and after shooting. If he had a dad
to give it to him, it would have been one of those "it's not a toy-
It's a tool" type comments, stressing "you take care of it and it
will take care of you" trip. No one had given it to him. Just like
everything else, he'd bought it himself. He kind of jelled right then,
running his hands over the wood and staring at the bare metal
gleaming in the subdued light, that came from the changing inten-
sity of the TV screen in the living room reflecting off the hall wall
outside the door.
She stood just outside the door casting an angry shadow on a
different wall that he could not have seen, even though he did not
look. For a split second, she saw through the haze of anger and
guilt. The care her son took, even if it was something she did not
particularly approve of-after all, his behavior was criminal-was
something he really enjoyed....Only the evilest of men (like his
father) enjoyed being on the other side of the fence law-wise. She
quietly slipped back into the living room to communicate without
seeming to spy on him. He knew anyway.
"I suppose you're going out tonight?" (No answer. He was in-
specting and making adjustments to his weapon.)
"Gonna hit a bank?...I hope the cops get you, and don't be
calling me. (Still no answer.)
"Your father was a criminal you know." (Yeah, I know, he
thought, as he checked the action, but what did it matter)
"It's because you hang out with all those drug addicts."
"Yeah, well I don't do 'em and besides, you and the few friends
you do have all drink!" It was the first thing he had said all night
since leaving work, the last thing he would say before he got down
to business. He dressed for war. He left his ID behind his favorite
thing to do. Someday the cops were bound to nail him and tonight.
he was going alone: no lookout, no decoys, just him, the bank, and
"the man" if he was "on" it.
Without looking, he picked up his keys and his weapon, and-
turning off his stereo with his foot-walked through the living room,
out the door (with a loud "blap"), got in the car and was gone. Like
always he didn't think about, or remember the drive to the bank.
He was about to break and enter. He was going to skate this bank
and knew his first push into his first ride would erase all of his ten-
sions and problems-no matter what the risk.
His mother lit up her last cigarette, TV still blaring, and let out
the smoke with a long sigh. She stared at the wasted, half-smoked,
snuffed-out butts in the ashtray.
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