Above: Alain Goikoetxea doesn't hesitate to snap a gap
from the catwalk off this Spanish fortification.
Below: Picture-perfect rotation locks Stevie Williams
hardflip into a frontside noseslide at Pier 7.
ZZZ! THE ALARM CLOCK
screeched. After a moment or
two, Ed had rustled up
enough willpower to roll over
and shut his alarm clock off.
It was Monday. Ed hated
Mondays. His wife
had left him on a
Monday. Ed
THE TIM
MF'S
finally sat up. For a
few minutes he sat there
with a blank, stupid stare, thinking
about nothing. Outside, on the road below Ed's apartment, tires
yelled and brought him back to reality. Ed looked at his clock and
screamed, "Oh my God! Ten o'clock!" He jumped out of bed and
ran to the bathroom. In the mirror Ed saw his face. He was sur-
prised. It seemed like yesterday he had looked so young, so thin, so
attractive. Today things were different. The bald spot on his tiny,
shiny head annoyed him, and his chubby cheeks wouldn't disappear
no matter how hard he tried to push them in with the palms of his
bloated and sweaty hands. He finished washing and walked back to
his bedroom. He noticed that the white sheets he had stolen from
Motel 6 on his squadron's last meetings in Daly City were turning a
dingy buttery yellow. "That was a good trip," Ed recalled. "So much
free food." Ed slapped himself when he remembered that he had to
get to work. He squeezed painfully into his navy-blue police uniform
and ran out the door.
A few minutes later found Ed walking out the elevator door in the
building's garage. He lived in an apartment complex in Chinatown.