Although Cameron Inc was almost fifty, he loved to board in the skateboard park.
What was this old white-haired man doing? the teenagers wondered. Bonking and carving as if he was one of them, as if he was young, as if he had a future ahead of him instead of only a past behind.
At seventeen, he’d been a king. The most skillful boy in the park, but all who’d admired his skill, and measured themselves against him were gone, most to banks, boardrooms, law firms, or tech companies. Many already retired, some not just from boarding but from life.
It wasn’t so much that Cameron had lost his adolescence, as that it had slipped away unnoticed. He still felt young, if being unchanged is young. His mind and heart no more developed than when he was seventeen.
But his heart, though metaphorically untouched, had physically altered. It had hardened and grown fatty. Thumping unevenly like a landed fish as he flawlessly executed his signature move, a backside, mongo-foot nollie. It leaped, giving a final gasp as he landed hard on his side right across the quarter pipe ramp.
The skateboard park regulars who usually ignored him, viewing him as an embarrassment, a warning of things to come, ebbed around him, forming an uneven circle. They watched as he wheezed and shivered—a beached whale, a hardening dinosaur. After a few minutes he lay still.
The boys waited, till Sid, always the boldest, sped down the quarter pipe ramp, spun a full cab over Cameron’s fallen body seamlessly landing on an edge, ending with a shove-it that crushed Cameron’s ankle bones with a grinding snap.
The boys gasped in admiration. It was so difficult to spin on soft surfaces. They lined up waiting to try their skill.
For a second time, Cameron was a part of the park. No longer a king, but a ramp. Yet once again providing a pinnacle to scale, a barometer against which young boys could measure their skill.
