finery, bestowed a look upon Arp which, under the most charitable interpretation, might be deemed one of charitably suppressed pity mingled with innate repugnance.
“Hey, Stroll. Going home early. Severe cramps and wicked PMS. See ya.”
This intimate datum so disconcerted Arp, engendering a wild welter of stunning mental visuals, that he ground to a halt, mouth open like the bell of a tuba, and let Veronica depart.
Opportunity blown.
But – opportunity at least initially secured.
The stunning reality of his providential escape from Mrs. Christelli’s class suddenly hit him.
How in hell had all that unlikely stuff come together so perfectly?
Jason Wardlaw, Arp’s best friend, enjoyed a curious pastime of his own invention, which he had dubbed “urbex skateboarding.” Disdaining professional skateparks as lame, and even turning up his nose at forbidden, police-patrolled municipal venues such as plazas, staircases and promenades, Jason would employ his battered Toy Machine Devil Cat deck only in ruined and abandoned industrial facilities, where dangling wires, cables and chains; rotting planks, detritus-laden floors and roofs; as well as teetering girders, ramps and towers offered the largest challenges to his art.
Luckily, living in Detroit afforded Jay innumerable such sites.
This afternoon, Arp was watching Jay shred inside the old Fisher Body Plant Number 21 at Piquette and St. Antoine. As Arp sipped his Orange Mango frappuccino amidst the somber decay, Jay executed some truly sick moves involving several fifty-five-gallon drums, a handtruck, a seventy-foot-long conveyer belt, and a stack of empty doorframes.
Observing his friend’s maneuvers, Arp, who had no skills whatsoever involving skateboards, became possessed of a curious yet adamant knowledge amounting to a certainty. If Jay were only to twist like so at this point, and leap like so at this other point, while landing just so at the finale, his generally dismal GPA would rise by some twenty-five per cent.
The absurd certitude of this unrequested intuition unsettled Arp, and recalled to him the weird sequence of events that had freed him from physics class yesterday. What could such sensations mean? Was he going crazy, having a brain meltdown? If his incitement of Willy had not led precisely to the desired yet utterly unforeseeable outcome, Arp would have been sure he was going nuts. He wished he could test this new skateboard-generated revelation by having Jay perform as he envisioned, and then wait till next report card. But the moment was already over, Jay having ground to a halt amidst a pile of metal shavings.
Arp noisily sucked down the dregs of his drink and walked over to his friend’s side. At least he could share his experiences with Jay and perhaps get some reassurance.
“Jay, listen to what happened to me yesterday…”
Like a good pal, Jay paid attentive heed, even while he fussed with the trucks of his deck, picking out aluminum flinders. Arp finished his account with the epiphany that had just struck him.
Jay remained silent for an interval, and then said, “Follow me.”
Arp trailed Jay over to a spot in the vast pillared space where a storage firm had stacked a giant mound of cartons before going bankrupt. Weather-beaten and decaying, the listing cartons contained hundreds of thousands of big rough glass marbles that served as feedstock in fiberglass production.
Jay stood by one corner of the mound and said, “Watch this.” He surveyed the setup intently, and then, with both hands, peeled away the lower half of one shoddy carton.
Immediately, all the marbles began to avalanche noisily out of the ripped carton, spilling across the floor like frightened mice. As that carton deflated, the ones above it and around it began also to tip and burst, releasing their contents. Ultimately, a flood of marbles caused the boys to dance backward. The avalanche finally ceased of its own volition when a new equilibrium in the pile of
“Hey, Stroll. Going home early. Severe cramps and wicked PMS. See ya.”
This intimate datum so disconcerted Arp, engendering a wild welter of stunning mental visuals, that he ground to a halt, mouth open like the bell of a tuba, and let Veronica depart.
Opportunity blown.
But – opportunity at least initially secured.
The stunning reality of his providential escape from Mrs. Christelli’s class suddenly hit him.
How in hell had all that unlikely stuff come together so perfectly?
Jason Wardlaw, Arp’s best friend, enjoyed a curious pastime of his own invention, which he had dubbed “urbex skateboarding.” Disdaining professional skateparks as lame, and even turning up his nose at forbidden, police-patrolled municipal venues such as plazas, staircases and promenades, Jason would employ his battered Toy Machine Devil Cat deck only in ruined and abandoned industrial facilities, where dangling wires, cables and chains; rotting planks, detritus-laden floors and roofs; as well as teetering girders, ramps and towers offered the largest challenges to his art.
Luckily, living in Detroit afforded Jay innumerable such sites.
This afternoon, Arp was watching Jay shred inside the old Fisher Body Plant Number 21 at Piquette and St. Antoine. As Arp sipped his Orange Mango frappuccino amidst the somber decay, Jay executed some truly sick moves involving several fifty-five-gallon drums, a handtruck, a seventy-foot-long conveyer belt, and a stack of empty doorframes.
Observing his friend’s maneuvers, Arp, who had no skills whatsoever involving skateboards, became possessed of a curious yet adamant knowledge amounting to a certainty. If Jay were only to twist like so at this point, and leap like so at this other point, while landing just so at the finale, his generally dismal GPA would rise by some twenty-five per cent.
The absurd certitude of this unrequested intuition unsettled Arp, and recalled to him the weird sequence of events that had freed him from physics class yesterday. What could such sensations mean? Was he going crazy, having a brain meltdown? If his incitement of Willy had not led precisely to the desired yet utterly unforeseeable outcome, Arp would have been sure he was going nuts. He wished he could test this new skateboard-generated revelation by having Jay perform as he envisioned, and then wait till next report card. But the moment was already over, Jay having ground to a halt amidst a pile of metal shavings.
Arp noisily sucked down the dregs of his drink and walked over to his friend’s side. At least he could share his experiences with Jay and perhaps get some reassurance.
“Jay, listen to what happened to me yesterday…”
Like a good pal, Jay paid attentive heed, even while he fussed with the trucks of his deck, picking out aluminum flinders. Arp finished his account with the epiphany that had just struck him.
Jay remained silent for an interval, and then said, “Follow me.”
Arp trailed Jay over to a spot in the vast pillared space where a storage firm had stacked a giant mound of cartons before going bankrupt. Weather-beaten and decaying, the listing cartons contained hundreds of thousands of big rough glass marbles that served as feedstock in fiberglass production.
Jay stood by one corner of the mound and said, “Watch this.” He surveyed the setup intently, and then, with both hands, peeled away the lower half of one shoddy carton.
Immediately, all the marbles began to avalanche noisily out of the ripped carton, spilling across the floor like frightened mice. As that carton deflated, the ones above it and around it began also to tip and burst, releasing their contents. Ultimately, a flood of marbles caused the boys to dance backward. The avalanche finally ceased of its own volition when a new equilibrium in the pile of
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