Photo courtesy of Marcus Osterberg
Casting Stones
On a gorgeous fall day early in September, my son and I left the familiar cocoon of suburban Dartmouth for a homeschool adventure in Halifax. The Commons there sports an awesome skateboard park and my eight-year-old is a skater boy. We got off the bus several blocks from the park and walked in the sunshine, absorbing the city atmosphere.
Suddenly, a hand jutted out from a darkened doorway. “Can you spare some change, ma’am?” The man was old and harmless looking. He had a kind manner and a sad smile.
I rooted in my pocket and deposited a coin in the out-stretched hand.
“Thank you kindly.”
Jack was quiet for a few minutes.
Finally he asked, “Is begging bad?”
Not an easy question. “Well, I wish that people didn’t have to beg. I’m sad that people do. We don’t know what has happened to that man to bring him to where he is today.”
Jack mulled this over until we got to the intersection by the Commons where we passed a young man cleaning the windows of cars as they stopped at the red light. He was dressed in leather and sported a mowhawk and multiple piercings. He was big and intimidating.
“Are you going to give him some money, Mum?” Jack asked as he squeezed against my leg.
“No, he’s young and healthy,” I said without hesitation. “He should get a real job.”
Once we reached the skateboard park, I situated myself on the bleachers and steeled myself for the spills and mishaps that skateboarders take in stride. Sure enough, the first thing Jack did was slip off the grinding rail and scrape his back. I saw him wince, fight back tears, and get right back on his board.
I began to read the newspaper, but was distracted by a couple of voices behind me.
“Hey, man, you got any weed?”
“Of course, man. You got money?”
“Yup.”
Now, I’m not a prude, but I was a little shocked at a drug deal going down right behind me. It seemed to me that this was the sort of thing that should happen in dark alleyways, not within earshot of a forty-year-old woman.
“You come back next week and I’ll have some stuff that will get you so wasted, you’ll never come down. I was so fried on it, man, I almost stabbed my girlfriend when she tried to touch me. If I’d had a knife, I would have fuckin’ stabbed her.”
“Sounds like good stuff. I’ll be back.”
Good stuff? I couldn’t help but wonder what bad stuff would do to a person.
The transaction was completed, the satisfied customer left.
My high school experiences with drugs had never brought me face to face with a real live dealer. I was curious. I snuck a peek over my shoulder only to discover that the drug dealer was none other than the scary squeegee-boy.
Now I knew I was right when I told Jack this kid didn’t deserve our help.
I turned my attention back to Jack.
When Jack first took up skateboarding, I was leery of most of the other kids. They didn’t fit my definition of what nice kids looked like. But I quickly learned not to judge a book by its cover. The kids Jack has met have been, for the most part, kind and encouraging. Skating is a social sport. It’s more fun if there is someone there to mutter, “Way to go, man!” when you land something. And a mother’s approval only goes so far, so I was relieved when a cool teenager arrived with his board.
“Hey, little dude!” he said as Jack landed a jump. “Awesome.”
I turned my attention back to my newspaper.
Again I was distracted by voices behind me.
“Nice Discman. You want to trade it for some weed?”
“I would, but it’s my sister’s. She’d kill me.”
“Your loss.”
The young boy with the Discman seated himself next to me. He was maybe sixteen.
“Hey!” The drug dealer had to shout to be heard over the driving base. “How come you’re not in school?”
The boy clicked off the music.
“It’s a beautiful sunny day, man. I’m supposed to be sitting in some stupid English class. Where would you be if you were me?”
I expected scary boy to chuckle and agree. Instead there was a long pause.
“You know man, if I had a place to live and my family gave a shit about me, maybe I’d be in English class. You’re goddamn lucky.”
He turned and walked away.
Jack still talks about the great day we had at the skateboard park. He remembers landing some hard tricks. He remembers how much it hurt when he fell on the grinding bar, but how he didn’t cry because it wouldn’t look cool.
I remember how I learned that sometimes it’s important to look past the cool to the warm underneath.
Copyright 2006 by Kate Watson
