R.I.P. Carlos

Carlos Sanchez, hardflip

Carlos Sanchez was a young ripper. I remember him teaching me hardflips downtown when I first came home from up north. Then he and Tony Peoples snagged some HotPockets from the store and microwaved them at my crib on the beach. Carlos died in a car accident six months later.

“Carlos had the best inward-heelflips,” Tony remembered recently, over an afternoon game of SKATE.

"Que?"

"The Nut Concept"

 I fucked up the axle to my front truck and my nut popped off. I bashed it back on, but it was stripped bad. It popped off and I had to chase the wheel. I looked and looked, but couldn't find the nut.

My fucking nut was nowhere.

I had a can of High Life and an idea.

 

I called it "The Bolt Concept."

 
I figured I'd take the metal tab from the beer can and jam it onto my axle. If it was tight enough and held the wheel on, I'd be able to get my skate on.

Tried to cram it on snug and tight.

Got that bitch on...

and gave it a spin.

Now I was hype. Ready to go, I hopped on and popped a kickflip. My feet caught the deck in the air and we came down to the ground only to have the High Life bolt and the wheel both go flying away upon impact.

This sucks.

This setup is proper. I just need a bolt.

That's nature's way of making me rest for a day.

American Travels

nevergetcaught, Made in U.S.A.

I've skated through a lot of cities. The best ones are the ones that got hills and marble.

Some of the lesser known places have proper ass spots. My favorites are Chicago, Seattle, Detroit, and Louisville. There's also some places in Miami.

It costs money to travel and it costs money to skate. Whatever you do out there to survive, be careful.

Tales of an Unsponsored Amateur, chapter two

The payphone receiver touched my lips. I wiped and spit, trying to get rid of the germs.

“Hello?” said Jeff.

His summers were spent on his father’s commercial fishing vessel, in Alaska. His winters were spent getting high. I had a good custee on the other end of the line.

“Jeff whuttup? It’s Billy,” I said.

Real name? You fucking serious? My favorite are Johnny, Billy, Chad, and Daryl.

I hung up the phone and walked from 7-Eleven to the IHOP by my apartment.

Jeff’s black Jetta pulled up to the curb and I hopped inside.

“Still smells new,” I said.

I busted out the sack I snatched from Tatiana. A half-ounce of crack, all bagged up.

“Half O, $300,” I said.

Jeff inspected the pieces of dope and I counted my money before he dropped me off in the rear alley.

There was only one thing on my mind. Pizza.

I ordered a large pepperoni and a bag of garlic rolls.

After filling my belly it was back to the mission. Put on the black hoodie and went outside. I scanned the alley then hopped on my board.

I snapped the tail and leapt. Concrete assaulted by wood, aluminum, and polyurethane.

Backside 5-0

The vibration of skateboard wheels resumed. I skated for a couple hours before I had no pop left.

The air hit my face as I flew back down the hill. Wind against my skin. I was almost to the bottom of the hill when my front wheel screeched like an eighteen-wheeler jackknifing on interstate concrete. The sidewalk blurred below me as I flew. It came to an end. I slammed onto concrete and skidded to a halt. Dues paid….

My 6 foot 140lb. frame was contorted at the bottom of the hill. I stared at the darkening sky through the canopy of trees overhanging the sidewalk. Inhaled deeply and got up. The sting of fresh wounds burnt my nerve endings.

The city was starting to dim. Dusk. Grabbed my board. A pebble lodged in the right front wheel. Pacific Northwest air filled my lungs.

My calf muscles tried to coil as I walked. Block after block of connected, glass storefronts made walls on either side of the Ave. Head shops, dollar stores, cheap furniture stores, Chinese restaurants, a gargoyle store, an arcade, McDonalds, University Bookstore, an art film theater, apartments, record stores, and the smoke shop I got my cigarettes from. Neon signs, streetlights, headlights and taillights shined against the sky.

The wind chime on the door jingled as I swung open the glass door and stepped inside the smoke shop. The man behind the counter was middle aged and middle-eastern. He grabbed a pack of Old Golds for me.

I packed the cigarettes while I waited for change. I pulled one out, placing it between my lips. The cigarette had the letters OG sitting atop a crown just below the filter.

“Do not light up until you are exit the store,” said the man.

I exited the smoke shop with its shadow lit displays and climate controlled air.

Back out on the sidewalk, pot and cigarette smoke wafted alongside the honks of car horns and the squeal of wet brakes. I hopped on my board and coasted down the street.

The clouds had bunched up thickly and the first drops of rain started to fall with early nighttime. A dark breeze blew through the city. I was glad I had a warm apartment. I returned with a fresh pack of smokes.

The kitchen was a cramped space, typical of the studio apartments in the U.D., with a built in wooden booth table. Raindrops beat against the small kitchen window that overlooked the University District below.

I had a vantage point. It had its moments.

A droning chatter came from the television. CNN.

The phone rang. I snatched up the receiver and was greeted by an automated female voice. A collect call from King County Jail. It was Kord, a raver fuck. Every time I chilled with him he wanted to dose me.

“Fuckin glad you’re there. I need to ask you a favor,” Kord said.

Bike patrol peddled up on him and he knew he had a bench warrant for a failure to appear. Illegal drugs in his pocket. He made a dash for it. The big guy was able to run, but oversized raver pants fell off his ass. Spandex biker short cops apprehended him in the alley behind 7-Eleven.

He ditched his stash and hoped it remained.

“You know the dumpsters?” Kord asked.

“Call back in a hour,” I told him.

Kord had a connect for clean acid. I put my boots back on.

A recon mission for me. I double checked the lock and walked down the narrow hallway. Heard sounds. Smelled scents. Cooking food, watching t.v., and talking. All the things people do.

I lurked down the rear staircase, looking out from the staircase, across the alley, and into the windows of the building across the alley. Heroin Hotel. I could look directly into the room on the second story. Red light bulbs. Chicks sat in chairs and couches. Syringes were scattered on a clutter of paraphanalia and trash. Used to be a coffee table. Girls make good junkies. They got an ATM between their legs and lips.

The iron door squeeled and crashed with a metallic clang. It was dark outside with a steady drizzle coming down. Uphill towards 45^th St. in the alley. Drizzle held the city in a cloud like a concrete mist garden. I heard tires rolling over wet streets, water flowing out of drainage pipes, and the steps of my boots on wet concrete. The distant buzz of I-5 moaned. An industrial pulse.  

Rummaging noises came from a dumpster. I figured it to be a raccoon or a rat. Not too far off.

A greasy mop of hair ascended from the rotten smelling rubble. Humanoid form. Our eyes met.

He was protected from the elements by the layers of grime that coated his epidermal. From where I stood, about 8 ft. away, the dude still smelled like a combination of wet dog and mini-bike smoke.

This is one of the few people that knew my real name. A testament to my shitty judge of character.

“Hey Franco,” he said.

“What the fuck you doin, Sean?” I asked.

“Lookin for a bulb,” Sean said.

He was a full time junkie. This shit was his job.

I remembered seeing Sean tagging the windows and walls on the Ave. at 4a.m. He was fried last summer. Everyone was fried last summer.

I gave him a few smokes. Snapped open the metal lid and sparked the metal wheel on my Zippo. Flickering flame cast our shadows on the alley wall. Drizzle tried to put it out.

“You want some acid?” I suggested.

Sean’s beady eyes darted as he calculated. His plaque covered canines were pointy.

“I got you,” I said.

I continued walking up the alley. Kord would give me fifty percent for a retrieval fee. When you got junkies digging through dumpsters looking for light bulbs, you can’t count on anything being where you left it.

Water poured down the backs of buildings and out from drainage gutters. They emptied into the alley making serpentine currents down the concrete alley.

Gotta get to the gas station, hop the chain link fence around the dumpsters, find the stash, and get back the crib. Felt like I was being watched. Raindrops fell like bombs carrying my reflection. I got to the top of the hill and waited in the shadow. Needed a break in traffic, before darting across 45^th St. Saw the D.E.A. van. An old, blue, beat up work van with no windows. I froze in the shadows. The van passed.

I crossed 45^th St. and was absorbed back into the alley, shadows and mist.

I paid attention to detail as I neared the gas station. Water dripped and poured, through cracks and crevices. 

I grabbed the metal brace at the top of the six-foot tall fence and leapt atop it and hopped into the pitch black of the enclosure. My eyes adjusted to the darkness the second my boots made contact with the concrete. It was between the two dumpsters.

A white cloth pouch.

I snatched it up and stuck it in my jeans pocket. Up and out of the enclosure. Back down the hill and into the rear door. It slammed shut behind me as I ran up the stairs. T.V. still on, blue haze. A silent humming vibration emitted from the closet.

Into the kitchen and I made a glass of soda pop before sitting down at the wooden booth table. I dug out the pouch, tossed it on the table and guzzled from the cold glass.

I unzipped it and dumped the contents onto the table.

“I love these careless fucks around here,” I said and took another sip from the glass.

Two palm sized baggies lay on the table. Three full sheets in the one bag, and another half sheet in the other. It was thick white paper, no graphics. And I was gonna trade it for the kind of paper with graphics.

nevergetcaught!