I was sitting by my balcony window reading Kolt when I heard Boxer’s front door slam. Not a violent slam, but still louder than usual. I watched as he went down to his front gate. He opened it slowly and peeked his head out ever so timidly, looking both ways before stepping out onto the sidewalk.
Later, I mentioned this to him, and he became quite angry – not at me, though. It seems that the day before, he had nearly been run down (‘decapitated’, he called it) by a bicyclist on an e-bike, racing down the trottoir.
“Charles, I have a good mind to redesign my gate so that it opens outward.”
“Boxer! That wouldn’t work. What if you knocked down a Joggerin?”
“Jokerin, more likely. Of course, I see your point. But innocent people should not be in fear of their lives when they venture into a pedestrian zone.”
“Just think how upset you’d be if you had to deal with the mess that horses used to leave.”
“Nonsense, Charles. It is good for the roses. I would be out there with a shovel.”
About a week later, the two of us were walking through Kirchgasse, when one of those silent e-Trottinetts approached from behind and began circling us and other pedestrians. A second one joined in, then a third. It took us all a while to realise that these pests were actually policemen patrolling on their new vehicles.
“They sneak up on you, they do. Why must they be silent?”
“It saves energy, Boxer. These are the latest models. When they re-paved Kirchplatz and most other pedestrian areas, battery charging units were installed underneath. So when the police patrol these streets, they’re charging their Trottinetts at the same time.”
“Oh? Really. The future is now, is it, Charles?”
“Almost. Just another hour or two to go before the past is far behind us.”
“What? Do we change the clocks yet again?”
“Tonight, yes.”
The monthly market was always a big attraction for Boxer. Normally I didn’t go, but he persuaded me to accompany him this time. As we strolled amongst the stalls of cheese and pasta, clothes and cosmetics, he spotted an ‘antique’ stand with an array of silver spoons.
“Thirteen of them, Charles. A complete set. These are Apostle spoons. I shall buy them, even at that price on the label. I will need to look for a display holder for them later.”
After the purchase, we walked farther along toward Hammer. As Boxer stooped to check the price of a New Zealand fern at von Arx’s flower shop, a movement from behind knocked him off balance. A thief had grabbed the bag of spoons and was off on his e-scooter, silently escaping attention of others at the scene. All except for one young fellow.
“I saw that! I’ll catch him, sir!” And off he went on a noisy old skateboard. The chase was over in an instant, as the foot power of the skateboarder far exceeded the battery power of the scooter.
Our rescuer returned, triumphantly bearing Boxer’s bag of spoons.
“Well done, lad!” Boxer was quite impressed by the performance of the skater. “Did the thief get away?”
“No, sir. He turned at Ringstrasse and ran right into a police patrol. I think he lost acceleration, as well, or jammed a wheel. Anyway, he’s caught it now!”
“And whom am I to thank, young man?”
“Whom? Oh! You mean me? My name is Jamie. Jamie Farthing. That’s my shop down there, Rullalauta. That means skateboard in Finnish. Next door, that’s my brother Beni’s shop – Lumilauta – snowboard.”
“Rullalauta, eh? Charles, correct me if I am wrong, but ‘rulla’ must mean ‘roll’ or ‘wheel’, and ‘lauta’ is obviously ‘board’, as in the German ‘Latte’. Am I right, Jamie?”
“Very much so, sir! You seem to know a lot.”
“Well, yes. But what I do not know is how you can manage on a skateboard. Is there a trick to it?”
“A trick? There are dozens! Maybe I could show you a few, if you have time. I could explain how flexible these boards are. In fact, I’ll show you how to ride one. Hop on! I’ll hold your hand. Don’t be afraid. There you go, sir! Bravo!”
And so, with a little help from our friend, Boxer can now say he has ridden a skateboard, in case he needs to impress anyone. Then, after an enjoyable hour of watching Jamie do and explain what he seemed to love best – flips and turns and ‘ollies’ and other tricks – Boxer and I thanked our new friend and rewarded him for his brave rescue of the Apostle spoons.
“Charles, I think what I enjoyed most about Jamie’s exhibition were the sounds of the wheels and the scraping and the kicking off. All very rhythmic. It put me in a good, alert mood.”
“Well, Boxer, I don’t think a skateboarder could sneak up on you like an e-biker.”
“I also think the boards are more versatile, more manœuvrable, and faster too. Those are what the police should be using to patrol the streets of our fair city.”
“A special squad of skateboarders. Why don’t you suggest it to your policeman friend Viktor?”
“Good idea, Charles. And you can ask Jamie if he would like to arrange a sponsorship with his supplier. Now let us go for a drink. I fancy one of those cocktails Jamie mentioned – the Skateboard.”
“Uh – Boxer. I don’t think that was a drink. I think the cocktail he referred to was the design – somehow.”
“Well, then, Charles. We shall just have to invent a cocktail called the Skateboard. Perhaps your readers have some suggestions, eh? They are a creative lot.”
“All right, I’ll ask. Any ideas, dear readers? Send in your recipes for our new cocktail, and we’ll print the best ones.”
David Pearce ist ein Schweizer Schriftsteller, wohnt seit 2000 in Olten und hat amerikanische, englische und französische Wurzeln. Er schreibt auf Englisch Kurzgeschichten, Romane und Theaterstücke.
Any ideas, dear readers? Send in your recipes for our new cocktail, and we’ll print the best ones.