Skate Skate Skate Die Die Die

Jack Hill

 

I have lunch with a co-worker at the park today. The weeds had grown as tall as the benches we sat on. The grass has died since the spring time.

“He doesn’t give a fuck anymore,” he says when I ask him about how things are going at work.

“Why?”

“I just don’t give a fuck anymore, dude. I am already gone.”

“Why don’t you look for another job?”

“I will. I’m gonna work another year and I will. I gotta get four years in.”

“Why?”

“I need it for my resume.”

“Why is four better than three?”

“It just will be better,” he says and dumps the cheese cracker crumbs into his mouth.

“I like things in threes,” I say and watch crumbs tumble down the front of his shirt.

“I’m just waiting for Frank to explode,” he says, talking about our boss. “The guy just seems like he is going to erupt. He yelled at me the other day and apologized right afterward. He said that he is having some trouble outside of work. I think he is addicted to gambling. He is divorced.”

I nod and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

“I don’t know. I just want to move back to the bay area. I’m sick of this weather,” he says.

“You should move back now. You could get a job, maybe.”

“I will, man. I gotta finish the four years. I can’t quit yet.”

“Whatever you say.”

A skateboarder scoots past us down the sidewalk and shouts, “watch this!” He jumps and flips his skateboard into the air and catches it with his feet, landing on it, facing the opposite direction. He sticks his tongue out at us and rides away, disappearing as he goes down a hill.

“Fuck,” my co-worker says and laughs. “I wish I could do that.”

 

Jack Hill works in litter abatement, edits Crossed Out Magazine, and lives in Northern California.