New Tricks

"Gerald, did you hear me? You've, uhh, gone somewhat catatonic." As my boss blathered on I prepared the cogent response that I knew would save my skin and impress my peers.

"No. No I'm not." Damn. It had sounded better in my head.

"Yes you are." He sighed. "No one wants to fire you, Fred. It's just something that happens. Now and then. In these hard economic times."

"If no one wants to fire me, then how is it happening?"

He was silent for a moment before saying, "Fine. Very few people wanted to fire you." He shuffled papers and looked at his watch. "Look, Fred, we both know this isn't the end of the world for you."

"Damn right it isn't." This wasn't the end of the world for me. "What do you mean?"

"You're a respected, preeminent researcher in your field. Everyone in the Labs has a copy of your book on their shelf." It's true: my book was a veritable litmus test for economists the world over. Any schmuck can name-drop Einstein or Hawking (that publicity slut of an author. You think he really needs the wheelchair? I've seen him get drunk at conferences and do karaoke). Only the truly initiated, those who've dug deeper, know my name.

"Great, you're right. Thank you Ari. So, I'll just submit my resume, excuse me, my CV, to a few search committees. I'll start my new appointment next fall, and formally retire in, say, October." From January 2nd, that was 9 months to start a new life: swift, but doable.

"Well, Gerald, you do have six months vacation saved up. We were thinking maybe you could take it starting now." That sounded fine. "Oh, and if you could have your office cleared out, we have an intern starting tomorrow."



"Melinda, hi, how nice to see you," I said after she had slammed the car door but before she lifted the trendy sunglasses to her forehead. I hope she appreciated how I had rushed back from work to get here by 5:30 (I was going to leave early, but when I realized it was my last day, I figured I owed them the full 8 hours.)

"Hello Gerald. Jeff wanted me to say thank you again for agreeing to take care of Chris." Chris (who was Jeff(who was Melinda(who was my ex-wife)'s husband)'s son), was already moving his belongings out of their Grand Cherokee and into my garage.

"Hey, Melinda, no problem, really, listen: anytime you need anything, " I paused for emphasis, "anything, I want you to know I'm here for you."

"Huh? Oh, that's great." She finished applying her lipstick. "Listen, Jeff and I have a flight leaving in two hours, so I have to run." As beautiful and ephemeral as a top quark, she was gone.

"So, uhh, Chris," I paused for want of something to say, "do you like guest bedrooms?"



At dinner that night, I had my daily first scotch. Its bouquet included coffee, tobacco, and licorice, the pamphlet enclosed in the box promised me. I myself tasted at least one of these flavors, though I'd be hard-pressed to say which. With each sip, I asked it for its essence, and it responded vociferou--

"Can I try some of that?"

"Well, Chris, I'm not really sure. After all, you are under--"

"Linda lets me have wine with dinner."

"You call her Linda?" I started pouring him a glass. "Did she ask for that or..."

"Actually, my dad calls her that, I guess I just sorta picked it up."

He accepted the glass offered and downed it in one gulp. "Whoo!" he said, trying to remember how to breathe. "Strong, but hey, for 86 proof, you drink what ya gotta, right?" He glanced at the empty glassware in his hand, then back up. "So, you still love her, huh?"

"Chris, I realize it's good, but it's still just a scotch--" "Oh, you mean 'Melly'," if he can have a pet nickname, so can I, "well, I guess, no. No. Definitely not." "Why, does she?"

"It's cool if you do, whatever, I won't get mad or anything. I don’t even know what she's doing with a schmuck like my dad."

"Fine, you pried it out of me, I do. I do! Is that such a crime? I know it's been seven years, but I'm a--"

"Mind if I have another?"

"No no, help yourself," he did, "where was I? Ah yes, I'm a different man now. Better. More romantic. I mean, what could be sweeter than taking care of her step-son for a few months?"

"Certainly not whisking her away to a third honeymoon in the Parisian Spring, recently unloaded of a pesky progeny."

I'm glad he saw my point. Chris was a good kid. "So, the first time I see her after she gets back, I plan to declare my love. I have it all organized: first, I'm going to pry her away from whatever she's doing. I'll figure that out on the moment. Then, I'm going to read from a prepared statement that I'm having a friend who's an English Professor assign as a class exercise."

"Yes, I see how you have all your bases covered." He poured himself another $10 glass of scotch that was older than he was. "So, what do you do?"

"Well, I'm a physicist."

"So do you build accelerators and shit?"

"Oh heavens no. I'm a theoretician."

"So you just think about things?"

"Not just things. Tiny particles that can never be detected or used."

"And there are... other people... who are interested in this?"

"Oh, tons. There's a whole community. We have our own conferences and our own nicknames for thoughts."

"Wow, so this is, like, published?"

"Of course. Several times. And cited."

"So I could just walk into a library and find your stuff? Hey, mind if I shoot another?" We were such good friends that he didn't even wait for my response before reaching for the bottle.

"No, not at all--well, not just any library. But if you happen to be walking through a building housing postdoctoral physicists, then sure."

"Don't you work for that really big company?"

"Synergy Labs, but I got fired."

"That sucks."

"Yeah it does. I mean, the sheer disgrace--"

"But at least you get, what, two weeks' severance pay?"

"Yeah. But it still sucks."

"Sure."

"And then the 6 months' paid vacation I have stored up."

"I guess that makes it a little better."

"And after that, I'm on 60% pension."

"Really?"

"And I get to keep all the royalties from my book sales."

"So you get paid for not working?"

"Yeah. Man my life sucks."



By 9PM, I had also had my weekly second scotch, my fortnightly fourth, and my monthly lost count. I realized how hard today had been on Chris, a senior, having to move several blocks away from the bed he's slept in for the past two years. So I politely took my leave and my bottle of scotch. I wandered into my garage.

It's such an odd mix, seeing a garage split between the young and the old. On the one side, the trappings of what was just 6 hours earlier a very happy office: books, plaques, witty Dilbert clippings. And there, on the other side, the symbol of all that is young: a guitar, posters, trendy clothes, and a skateboard.

--he's so young. He definitely doesn't know how to drink a nice scotch. He doesn't savor the subtleties in the nose, or the after-taste. The way he drinks it like he's doing it--

I'm on to something here, so I stand and start to pace.

--like he's doing it just to-- Just to-- have fun. What a nice way to live, for the next second. Why don't I ever carpe diems anymore? He's such a punk. Punks get to loiter. I want to loiter, to reclaim my tomorrows in the name of my yesterdays. Ooh, that's poetic. It's never too late to be a juvenile delinquent.

I am not, admittedly, the most coordinated of men in the best of circumstances. But I think that my misstep in this case was fate: I put my foot down. On Chris's skateboard.

And as I lay on the ground, three seconds later, looking at the ceiling, I had a new feeling of fun. The adrenaline was rushing through my body and my hearing was sensitive enough that I could hear the rush of the ball bearings in the still-spinning wheels of the upturned skateboard. I had to do this.



Teenagers skateboard, how hard can it be? I thought. But after a few abortive attempts to stay atop the beast, I realized I need help. So I turned to my trusty friend: Google. It turns out, unfortunately, that most of the skateboarding population either (a) cannot write HTML or (b) is only concerned with tricks. Well, thank you very much, there are those of us for whom a new form of transportation would be enough. I watched a few videos of cool tricks done, and more of cool tricks attempted.

Listen, I can do this. I went inside and searched through my closet for one of my tweed jackets, one that has leather patches on the elbows for protection. I live in a nice flat neighborhood, so I made sure to find a steep hill near-by: I was going to do this right.

The view from the top of High St. was dark, but that didn't matter. What mattered is that I could get on this board. First one foot, there, and then the second. And I had done it! I was on a skateboard! And I was starting to go downhill! I could get onto a skateboard, and I could go downhill! I just had no clue as to how to get off a moving skateboard. Or steer one. Or slow one down.



"Oh my God, Gerald, are you all right?"

"Oh, Chris, I'm sorry, did I wake you up?"

"It's 9:45. Who's asleep at Nine-Forty-- Nevermind. What happened?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." I was. Unless there was internal bleeding. I thought that there could be- nope, just a bruise. "Really, I'm supposed to be your guardian. What are you doing?"

He held up a book. "Figuring out how to write a good admissions essay, I guess. Listen, Gerald, maybe we should get you a band-aid or something."

"You don't need to worry about getting into college. I can help you. Back when I was a visiting adjunct prof (by courtesy), I sat on an undergrad admissions committee. Where are you applying?"

"Uhh, Princeton." He looked across the room for the mugger that he no doubt was assuming I beat up. "Did you," he paused tactfully, and bless him for that, "did you ride my skateboard?"

"Yes, very sweet. Y'know, I went to Princeton."

"Really?" That got his interest. "Undergrad or doctorate?"

"It was on a Tuesday." "Besides, the jacket protected me. See, my elbow, not so bad. If only I had thought to protect my legs." It's true, the shorts do nothing. "Think about it, Chris, jackets for legs. We could be rich."

"Called pants. You really think you could help me get in?"

"Of course."

"Tell you what, you help me get in to Princeton, and I'll teach you how to skateboard."

"How 'bout I'll focus on helping you get into Princeton, and you just stick to teaching me how to skateboard?" I said, trying to tactfully allow him to retract his error.

"Sure. But, you have to promise to do whatever I tell you when it comes to the art of the board. And number one is: go put on some Neosporin."



The next morning, I rose at the stroke of 1:30 PM. Chris, true to his word, took me to the mall.

"I've been to this mall before," I said.

"Yeah, it's pretty tight. They have an awesome food court, and the security guys are pretty loose."

"Yes, and there's one clerk at Brooks Brothers who's exceedingly courteous."

The first store we entered was covered in so many stickers and labels that I was surprised when the store mutt, whom I discovered attempting to mount first my right and then my left leg, had no license prominently displayed.

"Hey, Tommy."

"Hey Chris," said a man who was apparently Tommy.

"This is my friend, Gerald."

"Hey man."

"It's nice to meet you, Tommy, is it?" I extended my hand and he nodded in its general direction.

"We're here to get a board for him," Chris said.

"Wow. What do you want?"

"Let me get one of those comet decks, Indy trucks, these nine-ball wheels, a set of risers, and what do you think for ball bearings?"

"With those wheels, it doesn't matter, you'll be cruising."

"Great."

"All right, well, thank you very much, Tommy," I said. "So, when can I pick it up? I'd sorta like to get started quickly, so if you could ask the factory to hurry up--"

"Do you want grip tape?"

"Grip tape?"

"Yes," Chris said.

"You sure you want this, Mister?" Tommy said. "This could end up costing a bit."

"Oh," I said, truthfully a little dejected.

"But this is a great board. These are the best trucks out there."

"Well," I steeled myself, "when I decided to take up skateboarding, I wasn't going to do it half-way." I pulled out my wallet. "So put the first two-thousand on this card, cause I get double frequent flier miles on it, and the rest on this one." I triumphantly threw my two cards, one gold and the other platinum, down on counter.

They both looked at me, and I was confident I had won them over with my confidence. "That'll come to $140.72." He swiped the card.

"For the down payment? And the rest when the board arrives, or--"

"Here she is." Tommy handed me my first skateboard. "Why don't you test her out, see how the tightness is."

"I don't think anyone wants him getting on a skateboard in front of anything sharp or expensive yet," Chris said. "C'mon, let's get you some clothes. Bye Tommy."

"Yeah, see ya Chris. Later Doc." We walked out.

"I have clothes."

"I mean ones that you can skate in. Those penny loafers, not going to be great for grinding."

"I guess I see your point. Not at all good for grinding. And I sure am excited to grind."

"What kind of music do you listen to?"

"Oh, gee, all kinds. Everything from Baroque to the Beach Boys. I mean, you name it."

"And new tunes. C'mon, in here." In Sam Goody, Chris handed me a basket and we walked down the aisles. In went a flurry of bands, most of which started with "The". The Ataris, The Get Up Kids, The Pixies, and The Machine, Rage Against. "You ever listened to any punk?" I stared. "Punk music," he clarified.

"Oh. Well, some Clash. They're punk, right? But I'm going to have to insist here, Chris, that I don't need new music. I'm sure these kids today are 'fun', but musically, can they hold a candle to Tchaikovsky?" I scoffed preemptively.

"Gerald, here's the thing. You don't listen to punk for the profound musical progressions. You listen to punk because its 103 beats per minute make you concentrate on the gravel that's flying under you at 32 miles per hour. Fugues really have less of a survival instinct built in."



"Do I really have to?"

"Do you have to skateboard? Well, I guess only if you want to learn how to skateboard."

"Fine." To be fair to me, I wasn't close to tears, but to be fair to Chris, I wasn't far either. We had been out here for about half an album, which in terms of punk is about 15 minutes. And Chris had never once gotten off his skateboard. Which, conservatively, meant he had been on a skateboard for approximately 14 minutes, 32 seconds longer than I have. "Can we just come back in the morning?"


He swept his hand, pointing to the empty, dark expanse of concrete that in the day was the parking lot of Synergy Labs. "Would you rather have cars trying to run you over?"

"I'm scared of falling. It hurts."

"How would you know? You haven't fallen yet. You've jumped off the board many times. And I've certainly seen you needlessly flail your arms in a manner that, I promise you, does nothing for your balance. And even if you do, by some miracle of science, manage to fall off the board you refuse to get on, you're wearing pads on your elbows, wrists, knees, and shins."

"And a cup."

"Yes, and a cup. So, just get on the board. There's a real gentle downslope here."

I got on the board. I fell. But, to my credit, I got up only one punk song later, which in laymen's terms is a verse and a chorus.

"So," I said, analyzing, "I think maybe I'm missing the Idea of Skateboarding."

"What Idea of Skateboarding? You step on the board," Chris said.

"So, how does turning work?"

"You lean one way. And when you lean, the trucks turn, depending on how much this nut is tightened."

"Ohhhhhhh. Oh. I get it. And how do you go over cracks?"

"You sorta ride the cr-" Chris realized that explanation wouldn't help at all. "OK, so, imagine the board is a lever with two fulcra."



Having a skater punk who has also taken AP Physics can be very useful. The Internet was missing this, my secret to becoming the best 50+ skateboarder in my city. After that lecture, even though the teacher had no whiteboard, I took to skateboarding like a fish takes to very shallow water. This was easy. Skateboarding was nothing but an n-body problem with friction and finite rigidity. Why don't they just tell you that? In fact, I was so into the music and the hill that I didn't notice the security truck until the rent-a-cop shouted at us.

"Excuse me, Excuse me, Sirs. This is private property, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Oh c'mon," Chris said. "We're not hurting anyone. We're just having some fun."

"Chris? Is that you?" the guard monkey asked.

"David? You're kidding me. Hey, Gerald, come here, this is my friend David from school; David, this is Gerald, I'm teaching him to skateboard."

"Not here you're not," said David. Chris's face dropped and David's voice cracked. "Sorry, liability and all that."

"But what about the first amendment? Right to freely assemble. I don't see any gates." I unclipped the employee badge I still kept on my belt and waved it in front of David.

"Oh, I'm very sorry, sir. Have a pleasant night. I'll tell the guy behind me that you're here, don't worry about a thing." He paused. "Chris, what are you doing hanging out with a level 41 employee?" He looked back at me. "I mean, nothing. Sorry. I shouldn't pry. Have a great night sir, let me know if I can be of any service. Uh, nice to see you Chris." The Suburban pulled away.

We stood for a moment; I think Chris was dumb-founded, but I was just appreciating the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

"Cool," he said, and hopped on his board to circle the lot a few times.

"Yeah, I guess so," and did the same.



By Mid-March, I had moved up to making an ass of myself on slightly less easy tricks. As much as I tried to convince him school was for chumps, Chris would only skip so many days, so most of my trips were solo. By the time I got home, Chris was normally draped over the couch, reading my Investor's Business Daily.

"Man, ollie-ing really takes it out of me. Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Sure," he said. "Could I have some soda?" I grabbed a Mountain Dew for both of us, and threw him his. He responded with the look you would imagine Sherlock Holmes breaking out to stare down a monkey. "Soda water."

"How about," I proposed, "with Vodka?" I doused mine in the blanket of a liquid that only described itself as "charcoal-filtered."

"How about," he countered, "Scotch and Soda?"

"Fine, Mr. Forbes." That last part wish a sarcastic drawl. "Just be careful reading those so much, you might go blind."

He looked up. "I thought it was something else that made you go blind."

"You look excited, I was anticipating." "Listen, want to go grab some cement?"

"No thanks, I'm in first place in the fantasy stock market and I'd like to stay that way. Listen, how do you think this split is going to affect Synergy stock?"

"This what? This split?"

"You know, the Spli-- Gerald? You knew Synergy was splitting, right? Gerald? Who are you calling?"

"Ari," I said into the telephone before I realized it was still ringing. "Ari, yes, hi, thank you: how is this split going to affect my pension?" And after two minutes, "great, thanks."

"Well?" Chris said.

"So, they're splitting synergy into two, right? Well, each spin-off picked who they wanted to give pensions to. So, whichever company I'll draw my livelihood from should be sending me details of the plan today."

He highlighted a line of newsprint. "Sounds like should I sell Synergy."

"Hey, this is serious. My future financial state depends on what's in today's mail." Had the mail not been there when I got outside, I probably would have gone crazy. But as it was, I was just frantic. "Let's see, royalty check, invitation to give a keynote, the issue of that journal I guest edited, ah, Here!"

"They sent you a packet?"

"Umm, something like that."

"Well, which spin-off of Synergy do you no longer work for but still get paid by? Syn or Ergy?"

I held up the envelopes in question. "Both."



"Wow, I don't know how you do it," I said as Brad walked towards me, having just nailed an amazing line. This skate park was ours. His and mine. Brad was a gnarly skater. Brad was my bud. Brad was in 8th grade. As he sat down on the concrete, I handed him a metallic pouch of fruit-ish juice goodness. "No, really, I mean, I don't know how you do it. I'm pretty sure it's impossible to change your momentum like that as you come out of the manual."

Brad sipped from his Capri Sun. "I hear the same guys who made the F-14 studied the bumblebee, and proved it can't fly."

Exactly! "He can't! Their thrust-to-weight is too low."

"Well, no one told the bee that."

"How do they do it?"

"Look, Gerald, I don't know how I do it, either. But I do it."

"Well, I don't think I could do that."

"And you can't, if you think about it. That's your problem. You know about those moms who can lift a bus when it's on top of their baby? Your mind can only know the laws of physics when it has time. But if you put it into the situation, it will do what it has to. The only way to get out of some of these situations is to have been dumb enough to get into."

"No, I mean, the skateboard is a beautiful example of physics in the real world. I learned how to board just by thinking about the moments and forces involved."

"Well, maybe you can become a good skater by rational thought and consideration. But the only way to become a great one is to stop thinking. I should know. I'm in Honors Pre-Algebra."



I'm glad word of my retirement party got out to the high schoolers, if only so my kegs of Natty didn't go to waste. I'm sure all my colleagues and co-workers were a bit shocked, at first, to arrive in their suits and dresses to find me in my ironic t-shirt and Teflon-coated artificial-polyester pants. But I think that by the end, George Newberger was getting used to the mosh pit.

"Hey, do you know how to do this?" one sophomore fumbling with a tap over the second keg asks.

"Of course I do," answered a second, who snatched it out of the first's hands.

"Man, pretty crazy party, huh?" said a third in line, to me.

"Yeah."

"I hear the guy who threw it is trying to be a punk. Like it's something you can just put on one day."

"Really? I mean, no shit."

"Man, posers like that just annoy me so much." He finally got some of my foam into his cup. "Don't I see you at the skate park sometimes?"

"Yeah, I try."

"That's pretty cool, man. So you know what I mean about other people trying to come in and appropriate our culture, right? Like vultures. Fucking culture vultures."

"Yeah, I think so." He faded back into the casual din of the party.

I got my own ration of foam that promised nigh on four ounces of actual beer, and noticed Chris. "Hey, have a beer?"

"No thanks, I don't have to, I just got into Princeton!" There are moments at a party when it becomes inexplicably quiet: the music dies as suddenly as the conversation. The second before Chris exclaimed that in a voice loud enough to be barely intelligible over the party was one of those moments.

The physicists in the room were the first to react, most of them having been trained for years to drop whatever was happening in their lives to pay homage to any mention of the Ivies. A small but excited golf clap spread through the room.

And to be honest, I didn't care when everyone else in the room individually but simultaneously decided to throw their beer on or at Chris: carpets are transient, but that moment will last forever. In most people, skateboarding is a positive enough attribute to overshadow any other minor character flaw. But somehow, despite the redemptive avocation of riding a slab of wood on top of four wheels, Chris was still enough of a prick to fit right in at Princeton.



My house, it turns out, was perfectly situated with respect to the grocery store: the trip was downhill enough to be easy and fun, but slight enough that the trip back was not daunting carrying a bag of groceries. And today, I was going to ride it. The whole way. My feet would be on-board the whole time: through crosswalks, over cracks in the sidewalk, even at that one curb at the intersection of Johnson (Ave.) and Johnson (St.) where I have to just trust myself that if I keep my feet on the deck, my feet will stay on the deck.

And I had it. I was gliding. I was dancing with the concrete. I was feeling it up through its blouse. Ha! Pedestrians were courteous enough, and no animals, feral or domesticated, attempted to position themselves under my whee--

"Nice board." I looked up to find a woman, about my age, riding a longboard and talking to me.

"Yours isn't bad either. Downtown?"

"Schaeffer's."

"Me too."

We rode for a while. I sped up, and she sped up, then she slowed down, and so did I. We didn't talk. We didn't need to.

"How long have you been riding?" I asked.

"About a year. You?"

"A few months." I jumped over a pine cone. Wait, I jumped! And not because I thought it would be cool, or nifty, or show-offy. I jumped because it was a useful thing to do.

"Hey," she said, "is that Expedition waving at you?"

"Oh, guess so." Its window was rolled down. "Hey Melinda." I rolled past.

"She seemed pissed."

"No, that's just how she looks." "Or maybe, that's just the way she looks around me." My cellphone rang. "Excuse me for a sec." We rode. I flicked it open. "Gerald?"

"Gerald, listen, I need you right now. Jeff and I-" she sniffled, "are going through a rough time."

"I'm sorry, I'm busy right now. Maybe we could hang out Thursday? And tell Chris congratulations."

"Oh fuck Chris, I thought you'd always be here for me. Instead you're out boardskating with some hussy? Do you even know her name? Do you love her?"

"I love this moment." I closed the phone. I looked at my fellow rider. The old me would have been counting down the blocks to our destination. The old me would have asked her her name. The new me was trying to ride a skateboard.