Wally and the skateboarder

Last week a very small snowstorm washed out two days of school, but by Sunday it was sunny and seventy again. That afternoon, Jay, Wally, and I drove to a nearby skatepark. It’s located next to the soccer fields where Jay played this fall and often after games we’d stop for a minute to watch the skaters and BMX riders trick their way through the concrete canyon.

On Sunday the multitude of skaters, in their short sleeves and wool caps, suggested a premature spring. Jay and Wally sat close by the side of the main course, as they like to do. One skater after another whizzed by and did a trick—various kinds of board flips and rail grinds, almost all of which ended with the clatter of the board, a swear, a trek back up to the starting block.

The skate park is a scene, especially when you add Jay and Wally to it. After a few minutes of watching, one skater, in his mid-teens, came over by us to take a drink from a liter bottle of Pepsi. He wore a black t-shirt that said, “The Motherfucking Life.” As he drank his soda, Wally twirled the wheels of his upturned skateboard.

I always worry that the boys are going to get hurt while we’re there. Boards fly after missed tricks, and some of the riders take fast lines through the course that bring them much closer to Jay and Wally than I’d like. But I realized we were really the ones who were sitting somewhere we didn’t belong. And there’s an ethos to skatepark culture, obvious at a glance, of following unwritten rules and not asking for special accommodation.

We’d been there ten minutes when an accident took place. One guy was coming down the ramp on his bike and the other was coming up it on his skateboard. Later they’d say that each thought the other was going to turn a different way, but instead they turned into each other. The skateboarder fell the ground. The bicycle fell on top of him. For a few seconds it was unclear who, if anyone was hurt. It turned out to be the kid on the bike, a boy maybe in his mid-teens. He grimaced when he tried to stand up, grabbed his shin, and limped over to the side, right by Wally.

Wally, who can strike up a conversation with anyone, walked over to the injured kid  He put his hands on his hips and leaned in slightly. “Why’d you trip?” he asked.

The kid had lowered his heard into his hands. He looked up at Wally. “I didn’t trip, he crashed into me,” he said.

I pulled Wally away, gently, but after a minute he went back over.

“Can I see your boo-boo,” he asked. The skater lifted his pant leg as though he’d just been asked to by a doctor. He had a long scrape up his shin. Wally crouched down, and bent his head within inches of the boy’s scrape.

“A song will make you feel better,” Wally said. Then he started to sing, the lyrics from a song we’ve listened to a thousand times in the car:

Victor Vito and Freddie Vasco
Ate a burrito with Tabasco

The skater, still holding his shin, eye-level with Wally, laughed and shook his head.

I laughed, too. However big the gulf between a two-year-old and an injured teenage skater, Wally had gotten it right: The song did make the kid feel better.

Jay and his cousin find each other again

This guest post is the second in a series from my cousin Mara Lewis chronicling her relationship with Jay.

One. Two. Three. WAR!  I won him back.  Six months later, yes, but I won him back.  James is no longer a toddler, but a boy approaching kindergarten.  Two summers ago, he and I got along great.  We picked blueberries in Papa Bill’s backyard, drew pictures on my iPhone, and walked down to the harbor together.  After our Maine vacation that summer, I felt closer than ever with Jay.

I also felt that our relationship from then on would only get better.  James would be thrilled to see me, eager to play, and always ready to cuddle.  Unfortunately for me, four-year-old James didn’t look at things the same way.  We hit what I’d call a rough patch in our relationship.

When I approached him for a hug, he scooted away.  It wasn’t because he was shy, although I preferred to think that was the reason.  Really the reason was he just didn’t like my hugs.  I wouldn’t say that Jay was cold to me, but he wasn’t particularly friendly either.  At age 21, I was old enough to understand that his behavior was just his being a kid, but too young not to let it hurt my feelings (although I wonder whether you ever grow old enough not to feel hurt by that kind of rebuff).

This Christmas, after another six months had passed, I spent the week in Maine with Jay and the rest of my extended family.  By this time, I’d significantly lowered my expectations for our relationship.

Thankfully, my lowered expectations served only to magnify the improvement in our relationship.  Good news everyone!  Our relationship recovered.  For whatever reason, or perhaps for no reason at all, Jay decided to be my friend again.

Let it be known, I may have made this choice somewhat simple for him.  I taught him how to play War, recited the same joke over and over and over again at his request, and willingly allowed him to jump all over me.  The joke, about a duck walking into a bar asking for grapes, had James bursting with laughter each time I came to the punch line.  He then asked that I not only tell him the (somewhat lengthy) joke nine more times, but that I also tell it to each person in our family, one at a time.  James had mostly outgrown his two-year-old cuddly nature, but he was still certainly capable of being cute.

By Thursday, day five of our weeklong vacation, our improved relationship was visible to the whole family.  Jay’s mother, walked into the living room to find us playing a competitive round of War.  James and I both put down an ace,  One. Two. Three. WAR!

“Jay, is Mara your best friend now?” his mother asked.

“No, Mom.”  Jay replied with a smirk on his face.

I felt my heart sink, but I wouldn’t let Jay see my disappointment.  I continued with our game as if unscathed by his comment.  Minutes later, I couldn’t help ask him again

“So Jay, who is your best friend?”

James turned red in the face.   Before answering, he slid off the couch and walked to the living room door.  He peaked out, confirming that no one was about to enter.  He then plopped back on the couch, lifted his pointer finger to his mouth, and whispered “shhh.”  He cupped his hand around his mouth, and moved his small body to my left ear.  “Her name is Anna.  We had a play date last week.”

“Do you like her?”  I asked.

He glanced over his shoulder to once again make sure that we were the only ones in the room.  “Yes.”  He said.  “But don’t tell anyone.”

It was then that I no longer felt the pang of disappointment that had struck me just minutes before.  Jay didn’t call me his best friend.  But he had confided in me, which to me was equally as telling.  I felt close to Jay.  And while I imagine this closeness meant more to me than it did to him, I think he felt it too.