Wipe out.
I’m not really thinking when I walk out of Bauhaus, freshly caffeinated and full of bagel, and cross the street to catch the metro. It’s early, after all, and man is not meant to pay attention to his surroundings at such an early hour. So maybe I should have noticed the man beside me at the cross walk. And his skateboard.
Now, I don’t live on the Hill. I’m basically a tourist. I enjoy my semi-regular visits to the Honeyhole — I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the name — and often find myself adrift in a sea of hipsters drinking tallboys, but I don’t pretend to be an expert on the culture. For example, I had no idea they rode skateboards. I thought that was more for the U-District Ave Rat set. You learn something everyday.
So we cross the street: hipster skater dude first, then me right behind him. I am half-awake and enjoying the hypnosis brought on by YLNT, joined by one Mr. Hodgman and one Mr. Coulton. But in a moment of complete harmony with the world and my surroundings, I look up just in time to see our man throw his board down and launch off.
And completely wipe out.
I’ve seen videos. Mostly on YouTube, not as part of some true representation of skater culture, but I’ve witnessed the scale of epic defeat that skateboarders face every time they place their feet on a plank of wood. But I’ve never been present when someone completely destroys themselves in the really real world. I’ve never watched a man become a splatter of dashed dreams and stolen pride right in front of me.
I’m happy to report that I didn’t laugh at him. Instead of becoming a cynical bastard, my heart went out to him. I picked up his board and asked him if he was okay. He said he was, but we both knew better.
Don’t give up, hipster skater dude. Get back on that board and keep gleaming the cube, or whatever the kids call it these days.
