skateboard
Recently I brought mum to her eye appointment. The building is located next to the place I use to drive my father for his weekly physical therapy. It's nearly three years ago but every time I pass through that area, I think of the boy on the skateboard.
It'd sit in my car in the parking lot while my father was inside. The boy I'd seen the previous week happened to always be there the same time. I'd like to think it was kismet or the gracious kiss of luck. A woman was with him. Maybe his mum or aunt. I assumed and wanted to believe it was his mother. He was the driver much like I was. She'd go inside; he'd stay outside.
He was a skater boy. His shorts were long and fell past the knees. He'd wear a black t-shirt whose sleeves were cut off. On the front in green letters, it read "kool". A baseball cap over his brown hair. The most notable detail was that his left leg was prosthetic.
He caught my attention as an interruption. I heard a chopping, scraping noise of wood and wheels nearby. I was buried in The Complete Book of Running for Women and the intrusive chop-scrape broke my concentration. Through the rear view mirror, I saw a boy riding a skateboard. I watched him do tricks and fancy footwork. He'd hop on. He'd hop off. There was a hiccup in his ride from the breaks in the cement. He rolled past on the sidewalk to under the single oak tree, disappearing for a few seconds. Then, roll into view again. I wondered if he knew I was watching him then. My curiosity lead me to stare.
I never knew a boy with one leg before. It wasn't his handicap I found interesting. He seemed interesting. I saw him as a boy on 4 wheels that happened into my day unexpectedly. He stopped every once in a while to mop his forehead or go to the rear of his car to stick his head into the trunk. Each time something different was pulled out: a drink, a woofer, another skateboard.
One day we caught each other's eye twice. I had thought that was progress since the other week it was only once. He played music loudly which carried over to my own car a few yards away. The genre of choice was alternative. Through the gnashing and yelling there'd be mention of love. There had to be. Songs are almost always about the heart. Hearts broken, unbroken.
His mum walked out as I walked into the building. If I would've made eye contact again as I passed his car, he would've seen right into me. He'd know I was Matchbox Twenty "Bent" to his Limp Bizkit "Rollin". I mentally promised to see him the following week. But after that day, I never saw him again. My father stopped going to therapy. I fell out of infatuation as quickly as I had fallen into it. We would've been too different, and he was never really my type. Him, grunge and rage. Me, gap-aholic and melancholy. Imagination gets into my head and I run with it. Still, it would've been nice to ride on the back half of his skateboard. I would've let him steer. All he had to do was ask.
