A Story
by Dawn Redondo
T
he skater crossed from the disease specialist's waiting room into
the hallway leading to the examination rooms and through the bottom half
of a two-part door (like a horse stable). Once in the examination room, the
skater was told by the nurse not to strip. There would be no examination
today. The skater's hands felt cold and clammy and the skater began to fidget
on the paper-covered vinyl table. A short time later the skater blasted through
that "horse door" and into the overcast outside. It would have been more
appropriate if it was raining-rain always symbolizes death in the movies.
and in writing-but it wasn't. Running, running all the way home, shining
the bus that brought the skater to the disease specialist.
Once home, it was in for the skate and back out before the screen door
could fully close. Nineteen summers old, and not expected to see another.
The skater was in a full-tilt adrenaline/fear rage going down the street-
soon to be felled by a disease so rare no baseball player has ever died
of it, and so quick there was no hope. All the skater's parent heard was
the loud "blap" of the screen door, followed by a similar report seconds
later, and then the familiar sound of a skateboard moving away from the
house at ever-increasing speed.
"Blap" was also the sound the board made when ollied-to-tail hard
on the Johnson's front porch step.
"Schree" was the sound of bare
Light at the End of the Tunnel metal trucks at speed grinding an
unpainted curb, then "clack" tail
crack launch off of a ramped
driveway. Air time, no matter how short, seems longer, and you swear
you can hear that mountain wind before "bawhump" and you're roll-
ing on the street again. Now it's a full tilt slide with the harsh sound
that irritates animals and humans alike. Skating, pushing, pumping.
grinding, jumping, sliding down the familiar streets of the neigh-
borhood and then further into the unknown, beyond. From the "wired"
lines to pure instinct, skating into the previously unridden. Skating
hard until no enthusiasm is left, no energy. Going to die. A non-
transferable one-way ticket over the falls. Being able to see the edge.
knowing full well you're going too soon...way too soon!
Getting up after contemplating this and seeing a sweat-etched butt
print on the griptape, the skater began the long push home. The
ride was subdued and fraught with the recurring realizations of grief,
fear, and the appreciation for subtle things, the minor details of life-
things like color, smell, sound, random memories and just plain
old life. Now it all means so much, every moment! Somewhere
in all of this, the desire to be remembered slipped in. Why? I don't
know. Is it through others that immortality is achieved? Someone
once said that to live in the hearts and minds of those we leave
is not to die. Maybe it was just hearts. Hearts and minds sounds
more like Che Guevara. Are world records for you or for someone
else? They are broken unofficially every day. Highest air was out-
the skater just wasn't that good on ramps and didn't have the time
to learn. Caballero holds that one. I think, checking in at around
eleven feet. I don't even know if it's a recognized record. It
shouldn't matter what it's done on, what size ramp or pool, air
is air, as long as it's vert take-off to vert landing.
Back and forth inside the skater's head, like in a ping pong
game, the argument raged on whether to leave a mark, to
establish or break a record, or not. Barrel jumping, of all things,
is still on the books with Tony Alva nailing the longest one.
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