Moonlight Living

It was a Friday when I saw him, soaring through the air. Sixteen years old, we sat at the skatepark, living in the moonlight. It was the place to be, even though none of us had ever touched a board. It was just a spot away from the parents. Our own concrete kingdom. There weren’t many of us in town, that being anyone under eighteen and over twelve, so gathering was necessary. You could always be sure to find people at the skatepark. We would sit at the top of a ramp, so steep that our legs dangled in the air. Usually me, Ronnie, and Matt. It seemed absurd that anyone would do anything more than sit on the ramps as the concrete was cracked, the metal rusted, and the size was massive. Plus, if someone got hurt they were pretty much screwed. The town doctor was overworked yet under trained. I always found it suspicious that everyone called him Mr. Humes and not Dr. Humes. The closest real hospital was a three hour drive away. I had also never seen a skateboard in town or any place that sold them. How or why the park had ever been built was a mystery to us. Though we were still grateful for it. It gave us a place to live outside of the boring trudge of our little logging town. Parents worked, ate, had a drink, slept, then if they had the time, rinse, and whether they had the time or not, repeat. Our lives were similar. Instead of heading to the forest to hack down trees, we stayed home and helped with chores, doing the laundry, feeding the chickens, and cleaning up their poop. Then eat, sleep, rinse and repeat. The only difference was we did not make any money and we were constantly reminded of this, either verbally, or by a general lack of our own things. All that we had, which the parents did not, was the occasional hour when we escaped to the park. Things at the park often repeated, though were never rinsed, and occasionally something completely new happened, emerging from the unwashed squalm.

Most of us only got one sleep-in per week on Saturdays, so Friday night was important. Ronnie, being 6-2 with a beard, had bought us a six pack. We savoured our beers and looked out over the park, watching the other kids mess around. On the far side from us under the opposing quarter pipe Luca Thompson (twelve) and Jeff Tempus (ten), wrestled on the pavement. A few boys stood near them spectating, though when Luca threw a real punch and caught Jeff in the mouth, the boys jumped in and separated them; Then gave Luca a smack on the head for good measure. I always stayed away from the fights, which was tough when it was one of the few sources of entertainment in town. Being shorter than most, and under the one-thirty mark, I decided it was a sacrifice worth taking to avoid losing my facial structure. 

Nothing much else happened that night. We finished our beers, stomped the cans, played some marbles (I lost twenty-five cents), and around midnight people slowly drifted home. Slowly admitting that nothing crazy was gonna happen,

“Until next week,” They would grumble to the park, friends, and a chance at excitement. I was always one of the last to leave. Once Matt and Ronnie left I would migrate to another group, then another, until it was just me and some poor boy that was in an argument with their parents and did not want to go home. I was not arguing with my parents and did not even love the park, I just couldn’t stand home. 

This night, young Jackson finally decided it was time to face his parents. I wished him luck, stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed home. A cloud was blocking the moonlight though slowly passing, I observed that the light would soon break through. I gazed up at the cloud waiting for a burst of light, really just delaying going home, going to sleep, and waking to start another repetitive week. The cloud moved slower than I had anticipated, dragging across the sky. Before the light broke through I heard the rumbling of wheels on pavement. The park was nothing but soft silhouettes of ramps. The rumbling got louder, like it was getting nearer. Louder, louder, then a strand of moonlight broke through the cloud. 

Rumble Rumble Rumble - Pop, There was silence for a good second and a half. I saw a silhouette of a man float up above the ramp before descending back down. The board was seemingly glued to his feet. His long hair was brown in the glimmer of light. I wanted to go talk to him, and I started over there, but faltered. Everyone knew everyone in town so there was no awkwardness or social anxiety, at least for me. Though, no one skateboarded in town… no one did anything. Except for work of course. A generator started up on the far side of the park and a blast of light came through, enveloping the ramp closest to me. Maybe I would have gone over if I thought it over a bit more and realized there was really nothing to be afraid of, but I did not have the time. I felt like an escaping prisoner in a spotlight and my instincts told me to flee.

I came back the next weekend, and as usual, each one after that. The skater didn’t appear again. His long brown hair was familiar, though only of friend’s moms I knew. A bagger in the supermarket named Jeremy Remmers held the closest resemblance. He was a quiet guy, a good soul but too gentle to be a good logger according to my dad. I did not notice his long brown hair until a week after the sighting. It was pulled into a bun and stuffed under the Food Mart cap he wore. I noticed the hair, he handed me the bag, I nodded to him with a smile, and walked off. He was the best chance, but, could I really just go and ask him, 

“Hey, are you a night time Tony Hawk?”

Obviously he would respond, “No, I bag fruit.”

It was dumb of me to not ask, we weren’t even friends, I doubted he really had friends. If I embarrassed myself in front of him it would not mean anything. I kicked myself as I walked home. I tried to imagine Jeremy Remmers getting off work, going home, grabbing his board, lacing up his shoes, and heading to the park. Imagining how he learned to be so good, how he even got a board. It was impossible. Yet when I got home from the market today and pulled out these sheets of paper and a pen from my dad’s office, pulled up a chair to my desk, locked the door, sat down and started scribbling; it felt impossible the whole way through. It still does. When my mom got home, the creak of the door ripped through my thoughts of this story and caused me to run out to greet her after hiding the pages under my pillow. Thirty minutes later I cautiously resumed writing. I pick up the chicken poop, Jeremy bags fruit.. right now I’m writing.