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This Issue 04/23/2009

• Wright on the Money
• Earth to Disney
• Summer Syllabus
• Movin' Out
• Dirty Little Secrets
• Overheard: 4.23.09

Saturday night was wet, the stone too slippery for wheels. A drug deal went down after the street sweepers made their 11:30 pass up Arch Street. But Sunday is cold and dry, making the boards brittle. A shattered skateboard lies on the sidewalk of JFK, its splintered composite wood thrown in front of the minivan that comes every night with a cooler of hot soup and bread for the homeless. The crowd of skaters peaks by 8:30. They cover the fountain and steps in the yellow glow of City Hall’s clocks.
Skaters don’t come directly from work because it’s dangerous to carry too much money. Some come by car down JFK, swooping sedans to the curb, unloading four hooded guys. Some come by trolley. Others skate in from the streets, holding coffee, eating a sandwich or smoking a cigarette, still fixing their hats and gloves. The exit route is simpler — “whatever way the cops aren’t going,” Rob says. He lives less than a mile away at 12th and Spring Garden.
The skaters are all similarly unique. The men dress in baggy clothing, the bottoms of their pants swallowing Sambas and scraping the ground with each step. Their wide shoes maximize grip and their oversized baseball caps have tags and stickers still attached, each outfit topped off with a hoodie. The women wear hoop earrings, skintight jeans tapered to the ankle, Ice Cream tennis shoes and jackets with faux fur on the neck. Talking is minimal. The emphasis is on admiration. In the hierarchy of the group, younger skaters are at the bottom. They attempt stunts for attention and breach etiquette by making too much noise or doctoring the obstacles with wax to minimize friction. Rob white-chalks a different message to himself on the black face of his board every night. It motivates him and allows him to distinguish the back of his board from the front when skating in the shadows. Tonight it says, “GET FUCKED.”
Out of courtesy, skaters return a runaway board to its owner when he falls, stay out of the path of anyone attempting a trick and let the entire park know if cops appear. No one here simply skates. They bang it out. “Some of these kids are probably drunk or high right now,” Rob says. “But it’s better than just sitting at home on the couch with a bag of chips.” Some spend their time on the benches, watching the others or sharing a blunt, talking on cell phones and listening to iPods.