Skateboarding is pretty much a California phenomenon, an attempt to extend surfin’ safari onto dry land. But the fad got really hot in the late 70s, so much so that even kids in New York City were getting into it. I stole money from my mom’s wallet when I was 12 and bought myself a board at a little skate shop on 82nd Street and First Avenue, just around the corner from East Side Comics. The thing cost me $125, which seemed like a huge fortune at the time. When my parents asked how much the board cost and where I got the money to buy it, I told them that I had saved my allowance and paid $50 for it. They seemed dubious but didn’t press further. Good thing because I’m a terrible liar. I was never much good at skateboarding either, too fearful of injuring myself. I certainly didn’t enjoy cascading down steep grades or jumping up on sidewalks. These days when I surf, I still don’t like to get in the water if the waves are more than head high. …A few weeks after I got the skateboard, I took it to Central Park with my friend Dean, who had a much nicer board than mine, and we rode down a mild grade behind the Hans Christian Anderson Ugly Duckling statue near the boat pond. Now, let me preface the rest of this story by saying that, between about fifth and seventh grade, I got mugged roughly ten times, two times at knife point and one time at the point of a screwdriver. I dunno whether this was just random dumb luck or whether my long blonde hair, slight build and generally nervous disposition marked me as an easy target. As I’ve said many times before, I’m not a spiritual or mystical person (except when it comes to my pets), but there’s a part of it that feels karmic. I was constantly stealing money from my parents, shoplifting stuff from candy stores, and stealing LPs from Gimbels and Bloomingdales, so maybe the muggings were my comeuppance. I never cried when it happened, or sought out the police, or told my parents about what had happened. It all just seemed like the normal ebb and flow of events in New York City at the time. Like many people of my generation and demographic, I actually miss that piss scented side of pre-Giuliani New York, a time when danger lurked even in the most upscale corner of Central Park in the form of Puerto Rican teens who’d come down from Spanish Harlem and return a few hours later with the loot they stole from the rich white kids living on Park Avenue. Fuck those sheltered kids. They got everything they wanted, never knew privation of any kind, or the back of a drunken father’s hand, or long welfare lines, never knew people from the other side of the tracks, except maybe their doormen, housekeepers and nannies, never knew overcrowded classrooms, government cheese, or the brusing boredom and frustration of having no future. They wouldn’t miss a skateboard here or an electric guitar there. Their parents would just buy them new ones. Fuck those little pussies. …So Dean and me were walking back up the grade when two Puerto Rican hoods appeared from out of what seemed like thin air.
“You got a nice skateboard. Can I see it?”
I shook my head no.
“Lemme see it,” he said grabbing for it.
I backed off but didn’t run away. I don’t know why. He moved in closer, getting right up in my face. Dean started to cry. I just felt numb. I’d already been through this with a bicycle and a collection of comic books.
“I said lemme see it, motherfucker.”
Back then, motherfucker was a big deal. You really only heard it in Richard Pryor movies. Hearing the kid say it let me know that he meant business, and so I surrendered the board.
“Lemme see yours,” the other Puerto Rican kid said to Dean, who started whaling like a wounded animal.
I shook my head no.
“Lemme see it,” he said grabbing for it.
I backed off but didn’t run away. I don’t know why. He moved in closer, getting right up in my face. Dean started to cry. I just felt numb. I’d already been through this with a bicycle and a collection of comic books.
“I said lemme see it, motherfucker.”
Back then, motherfucker was a big deal. You really only heard it in Richard Pryor movies. Hearing the kid say it let me know that he meant business, and so I surrendered the board.
“Lemme see yours,” the other Puerto Rican kid said to Dean, who started whaling like a wounded animal.
I found Dean's hysteria annoying. ‘Calm down,' I thought to myself. 'Don’t be such a baby. This happens to me all the time.’ ...Now whenever I see kids skateboarding down my block in Alhambra, 2,750 miles from that spot in Central Park, I remember that day with Dean, more than 30 years ago. It was karmic in more ways than one. You’ve gotta give a little to get some back, gotta be willing to tolerate getting mugged now and again if you wanna live in a city that’s got some soul…
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