It's at the Goodman Factory, on 11th and Ella. They manufacture furnaces and air conditioners for mass consumption. The factory operates around-the-clock.
There's a spot there. It's a bank-to-ledge, skatepark-grade smooth, and it is -in my opinion- the best skate spot in the Heights. I skated it on Monday.
So I'm at it for fifteen minutes or so, and then I decide to roll under a tree and hang out for a minute. Get out of the sun.
All of a sudden there's a BOOMING voice calling from above me. HEY! HEY KID! YOU CAN'T DO THAT HEEEEEERE!
I deduce, in the span of one-mississippi, that:
A) it is a security guard, three stories up.
B) and that I'm gonna have some fun with him.
GOD?! I yell. GOD, it's Kevin! IS THAT YOU, LORD?!
He doesn't play along at all.
NO! He hollers. AND YOU CAN'T SKATEBOARD HERE! YOU HAVE TO LEAVE!
So I yell 'fine, I'm going', and I go.
I've skated that spot after work every day this week. And every time, after fifteen minutes or so, the same portly security guard comes waddling down the garage ramp. From three stories up. That's why I get fifteen uninterrupted minutes.
Kid, it's you again! I told you, you can't skateboard here. You gotta go!
Oh. Tsup, Lord. Yeah it's just me... but then, you knew that already! Yeah, I was just leaving.
As long as he doesn't get fed up and call some real cops, I see no reason why we can't keep this up for a while. It's symbiotic, really. I get to skate for just the right amount of time, and he gets what I have to assume is his only exercise for the day. Win-win. People helping people.
Man is a communal creature. Time is for sharing. I'll grow on you if you grow on me.
