“Skaters”

He lit his cigarette and took a long drag. His khaki pants were rolled up above his well-worn Vans Old Schools. There were three of them, hanging out, chilling on the bench, waiting their turn to show off their latest tricks.

He didn’t bother putting his cigarette down. When you’re thirty-eight and still hanging out skating with your boys, you want to look as cool as you can. So he let the cigarette dangle in his mouth as he threw down his board and pushed off. His two friends watched as he glided past them, watched as he went up on the rail, watched as he lost his footing, and watched as he tumbled down the five stairs, yelling Fuck! the whole way down.

A man was walking his dog. A woman was feeding her baby a bottle. A couple was sitting under a tree, holding hands. They all looked over at the sound of the skateboard smashing back into the ground, where it tumbled and bounced right into his leg, as he lay on the ground on his back, eyes shut, grimacing in apparent pain.

His buddies looked at each other seriously and then burst out laughing. This was par for the course. They had been at this for thirty years, been through many cuts and scrapes and broken bones. His khakis were torn at the knee, showing his latest red badge of courage.

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