Just as he was hurtling into the street, right in
front of the speeding minivan, Chuck hit the TV
power button with the rubber tip of his crutch.
The screen went blank. The kids all whined
in unison. Chuck said they were all banned
from watching videos in his shop. Once they
were gone he ejected the tape, brought it in
the back, and used his crutch like a sledgeham-
mer to smash it into little bits.
Business had been slow since the video ban. The
kids were scared of Chuck and his mood swings.
They started going to the corporate skate shop in
the mall, called "Grooviez," where they could still
watch videos.
Ernesto wasn't finding what he was look-
ing for. He'd already been to three garage
sales before this one. He sorted through a
box of dusty old Atari cartridges. They looked
boring and obsolete, like his grandpa's eight-track
cassette tapes. There were games he'd never heard
of Asteroids, Pac Man, Pitfall, and Frogger.
"Games work good," the stout little garage sale
lady yelled, with a deep Russian accent. Her voice
was about five times bigger than her body. "Come,
I show you," she ordered.
Ernesto reluctantly followed her from the
yard into the garage. He didn't want the Atari
games, but he was afraid the Russian lady
might yell at him if he didn't at least test
them out. The garage was full of more junk
for sale-dusty old furniture, a bowl filled
with plastic grapes and bananas, a big stuffed
moose head.
The Russian lady was busy moving a pile of
stuff, looking for the Atari game console. She
picked up a pair of hockey pads and threw them
into another pile. She reached down to move
something else, and Ernesto's eyes lit up when he
saw what it was. A skateboard, exactly the thing
he'd been searching for. It was older and big-
ger than the kind the kids rode down at
Chuck's Skateboard Shop. It had a big back
and a small front. The wheels were huge and
round, like oranges. There were weird draw-
ings and the words "Skate a Salisbury Steak"
on the griptape. Ernesto wondered if the
skate-shop kids would make fun of it, but he
knew he'd have to save forever if he wanted a
brand new board. His family had very little money.
"Wait," Ernesto said, "how much for that skateboard?"
"How much do you have?"
"Three dollars and forty-two cents."
"Sold," the little Russian lady bellowed.
Chuck checked the midday sales total on
the cash register. He'd been open for three
hours and had just barely sold 100 dollars in
merchandise. There was no way he could pay
rent at this rate. He could lift the skate video
ban, but then he'd have to watch all that skat-
ing, and it would be like putting a feast in front
of a starving man but not letting him eat. He
thought about selling his inventory to
Grooviez and getting into another line of
work. Real estate, maybe.
As Chuck crumpled up the total sales
receipt, Frenchie and the Pope came in for
the first time in a while, followed by a
younger kid he didn't recognize.
The kid had thick black hair slicked
back on his head. He wore a plain
white T-shirt with the word "skate-
boarding" written in black magic marker
on the front. He had a big old skateboard.
in his hand, and something about it
looked strangely familiar to Chuck.
"Look at zee outrageous size of this
skateboard! Like a big boat!" Frenchie said.
Chuck ignored him-he was busy trying to
figure out where he'd seen it before.
"Yo, kid, you're gonna have to mount
an outboard engine on the tail to make
that boat go," the Pope said. Ernesto just
stared at the ground, ashamed of his weird
skateboard. He'd had a feeling the good skater
kids would make fun of him.
"Let me see that thing," Chuck said, and the kid
82 THRASHER
Left to right:
Thankfully Frankie
didn't get capped taking
the Manidis shot, 'cause
youze guys would never
have seen Pat Corcoran's
ghostly backside tailslide or
Brian Micaud's locked-in
Smith grind. Good shit.