on skateboarding, red wine, and cigarettes

I don't know why she started talking to me again. I don't know why my stomach went through the floor. I tell myself I'm too old for this. I tell myself a lot of things.

--

Under the lights of Londonderry, some time after midnight. We'd been drinking, so skating was a good idea. I learned to ollie that night, on the sheer plane of the parking lot. Regular stance, left foot behind the screws that hold down the front trucks, ball of my right foot on the tail. Crouch, snap down with the back foot, jump, slide your toes forward along the grip tape, crunch, land. It took me a few hours. I practiced on the grass for awhile.

Someone was taking inches off their tires, blowing out the engine on the second tier of the lot. Their headlights poked out from the guardrails occasionally, going left or right, sending vertical beams of light out into the dusty night, stiff blinds across the mucus-green Save-on-Foods logo. Their tires squealed, the car slid sideways, stopped next to the rail. The driver got out. I didn't have my glasses. He was a white blotch, his features bleached out by the night. We booed. Someone yelled that he was gay.

I skated under the tier, where it was darker, slid in between pillars, around the handful of vehicles left to the night. The wheels buzzed under the cover, changed pitch with a weight-shift. I crouched down, slipped a hand under the deck, leaned. The board tilted, but didn't turn. The trucks are too stiff. They need to be loosened.

A white Tempo roared down the parkade ramp, bottomed out its front end on ground level and stopped. I could see the driver's head snap back and forth, the break lights winking on and off. Someone was in the car with him, laughing. I saw long hair, glasses, a tiny mouth topped by a hooked nose. The brake lights winked out, the car jerked forwards. The car ran the intersection light and turned east onto 137th, revved its engine, and disappeared.

We walked up the ramp to the second tier. The lot lights hung above the mall like beads of amber. We looked out over the city, over the squat buildings, the arterial streets, soft patches of black. Traffic lights winked off and on, oscillating their colours for empty intersections. A squad car drove by, lights flashing, sirens silent.

Someone suggested coffins. We laid our boards down at the top of the ramp, sat on the front side, laid down on our backs. The sky was empty with light pollution. Someone was doing a countdown, rattling off numbers. None of us had done this before. I felt the incline tug at the soles of my shoes.

I imagined rolling down the ramp, feet pointed out in front of me, head arched up over the tail of the board. Halfway down I lean on the board wrong and the deck tilts. The front wheels pop up, and I tumble into the intersection, underneath red lights, underneath the wheels of a car.

The countdown hit zero. I lifted up my feet, and let go.

We did coffins until we were sober.