The Wheels 2.4

Part 2 - Andreas II

Part 2 - Andreas II ( Español / Português / Français )

The Wheels

I was about to get into bed when the door opened. Andreas came in.

“Gae, will you come to the skatepark with me tomorrow? I haven’t practiced in a while.”

“I’ll go, but I don’t have wheels,” I said.

“I’ve got a spare set.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Adriana... she’s beautiful. She’s good for you.”

I nodded. He touched my shoulder and left. The door stayed open.

I turned off the light. I stayed with the mango scene in my head: juice on a wrist, a crumpled napkin, laughter still lit. The stone from my grandfather on the nightstand, cold. I wanted to stay there.

On my way out in the morning, I slipped it into my pocket.

The Miraflores skatepark thumped with dry hits on concrete. Andreas dropped into the bowl, board and body in one line. He gained height, switched his axis, came back clean. Tried again. I watched from the railing. The orange sky sank over the park. Hard not to see it as the star.

“Relax,” he said, setting my feet. “Feel the board.”

I slid off awkwardly, but I cleared the ramp.

“Not bad for your first time. Watch this.”

He picked up speed. Kickflip. Wheels. On the landing, the lip betrayed him. His forehead hit the edge. A red line opened his eyebrow. Blood came fast and spattered the grip.

I ran. I dropped to my knees. I pinched the skin of his brow together with my thumb and pressed a folded napkin.

“Stay still.”

Heat rose from my pocket. The park’s hum fell into place. I touched a point beside the cut and pressed again. The bleeding eased, little by little.

“Thanks, Gae,” he said. “You’ve got your grandfather’s hand.”

*

We walked back from the skatepark with our boards under our arms. Andreas had the Band-Aid crooked on his forehead. It suited him.

“Does it hurt?”

“It stings a little. Nothing serious.” He smiled. “Nice patch job, doc.”

“I’m not a doc.”

“You are. You just don’t know it yet.”

The avenue breathed salt air. An empty bus rolled past, leaving behind a dry, almost metallic breath that stayed on our tongues. We passed a bodega; the owner swept without hurry.

“I like Lima in moments,” he said.

“Sometimes Lima feels small to me,” I said. “I want more.”

“More what?”

“More map. More people. More languages. I don’t know.”

He adjusted his backpack and kicked a stone.

“I like it when the noise drops: the beach breathes different, even the smell changes. That, and emoliente stands on the corners, bodegas, someone saving you a yapa of juice after you run. That’s enough for me.”

“You’re parcel,” I nudged him with my elbow. “I want to lift off.”

“I am parcel. I like knowing where the sun hits at four, who lends the ladder, what time the neighbor’s rooster sings... family, they catch you so you don’t break.”

“And they push too.” I thought of my grandfather.

We walked a half block in silence. A car rolled through a puddle. A kid laughed from a balcony.

“Everything repeats,” he said suddenly.

“What does?”

“Life. Music. Fights. The names change. The rest comes back.”

“Examples.”

“Let’s see... Alejandra Guzmán is Pink on another frequency. Less circus, same punch. Then The Killers are New Order’s tidier sons.”

“So Gwen Stefani is Blondie with new sneakers?”

“Exactly.” He lifted his hand. “Things come back because someone remembers them. If you don’t name them, they cool; if you name them, they move. We’re not here to fix the world in some grand way, you know? I think we’re here just to tune it a little. That’s why it repeats.”

A dog crossed the street. Andreas lowered his board and used it like a cane. A streetlight flickered twice.

“Would you leave tomorrow?” he asked.

“If I had somewhere to go, yes.”

“I can get you a room on the parcel,” he said, making a face. “There are chickens. Zero glamour.”

“I’ll pass. But I’ll go. I want to record my grandfather when he sings.”

“He says music opens air.”

“And that air brings back memories.”

We fell quiet again. The light changed and no one crossed. You could hear the ocean even though it was far.

“My mom says family is for when the world gets ugly.”

“Your grandfather would say it’s also for when the world feels too small. Is it feeling small to you?”

“Today, yeah.”

He glanced at me. We turned down a street heavy with bougainvillea. A man watered the sidewalk; the air smelled like fresh earth.

“What else do you want besides map?”

“To play live. Travel with a backpack. Learn to record.”

“So you are leaving.”

“I go and I come back.” I shrugged. “That’s the point.”

“To repeat,” he smiled. “But better.”

He adjusted the Band-Aid again. I dusted my hand; it still had grit from the park.

“What are you listening to today?” he asked.

“Travis. “12 Memories.”“

“You almost cry with those.”

“No.” I lied without conviction.

“It’s okay to cry,” he said softly. “It comes back too.”

We reached the corner of the house. A radio was on in the window, only the hiss between stations.

“Tomorrow we skate again,” he said. “Then a movie.”

“And then the beach.”

“And then the parcel.”

“And then...” I laughed. “Okay, enough.”

He hoisted the board onto his shoulder. I pushed the door. The metal was cold. Inside it smelled like lemon and freshly mopped floor.

“Do I take off the Band-Aid or leave it?”

“Leave it. Gives me character.”

“Gives you drama.”

“All the better.” He pushed his hair back. “See you upstairs.”

He took the stairs two at a time. I stayed in the entry. The streetlight flickered again. Twice.

The hum stuck to the wall. I took a long breath. It was already night.

The Towel ← Previous chapter · Index · Next chapter → “Somewhere Else”