A Hella Grand Bandshell

The Mall in Central Park belongs in tourist brochures. It's so picturesque and adorable with its ancient trees, immaculate pavement, and golden fountain, that it fulfills the desire for everybody's expectations of Central Park. In the middle of the main plaza here is the bandshell, a huge half-dome that projects sound outward into the scenery. When I rode there yesterday, the sun was nearly setting and the crowds had scattered. In their place were the quirky denizens of the area who seemed to be hanging out with more intent of relaxation than the normal wandering tourist. There were roller bladers weaving through cones, an exercise group jumping rope, long boarders riding in arcing curves, and a guy playing music with a saw blade.

Big bandshell, little musician.

Within the giant bandshell sat one small man with a noise-making device of some sort, and a saw blade. The device played a chimed-tune of "Sweet Child of Mine" by Guns and Roses. The man was bending his saw blade and rubbing something along it to produce a noise that was reminiscent of a sci-fi radio drama. It was a warbling uncomfortable sound that sounded uncomfortably warbly. I was positioning my camera nonchalantly to take a picture of this guy when the longboarders started circling around me.

I realized that I was being confronted somehow as I was in the middle of a longboard death ring. Riding a scooter myself, I understood the ill intentions. I looked up, one of the boarders was mouthing something and either looking at me or over my shoulder. I looked over my shoulder. Behind me was another longboarder. I recognized him.

"Ricky?" I greeted.

It was Ricky.

The other longboarder made some sort of disappointed noise then Ricky and I greased my wheels and chatted about bubbles and heart surgery.