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Josh just shrugs and stares down at his feet.
“You his photographer?” the registration guy asks, motioning to my new camera in my hand.
I copy Josh’s shrug.
We get handed an envelope each. One for Josh (competitor) and one for me (press).
We find seats high up in the bleachers and make ourselves comfortable. It doesn’t take long for the comp to start and when it does, Josh leans forward, his eyes narrowed and focused, and he seems to get lost in a whole other world. His knee bounces—a sign I’ve learned means he’s nervous. “This guy’s good,” he mumbles, pulling out his phone. He hits a few buttons and holds the phone in the air. “I can’t get any more details on him. My phone’s got shoddy reception. Can I use yours?”
I grab my phone and the second I hand it to him I hear his name being called. I don’t think Josh hears it, though, because he’s too busy looking down at my phone. I hear it again only this time I can see the source. Chris, I think his name is. The guy from the skate park is climbing the steps, his eyes wide as he approaches.
He smiles at me.
I don’t return it.
“Warden,” he says, clapping Josh’s shoulder.
Josh’s gaze lifts, just for a second, before going back to the phone. “What’s up, man?”
“Rumors said you were competing. It’s good to see you back in the circuit,” Chris says.
“Do you know who’s on right now?” Josh asks him.
Chris’s response is instant. “Curtis Chutlick.”
A half hour later, all three of us are watching the fourth person, after whoever the hell Curtis Chutlick is, and Chris and Josh are deep in conversation about the competition. Chris—he’s kind of like a walking Wikipedia page on all the competitors and the skate circuit as a whole.
“How do you know all this shit?” Josh asks him.
“Planning for my future,” is all Chris says, and it seems to be enough of an answer. “What are you working with?”
Josh clears his throat and lazily points to the humongous bag at his feet. “I trashed all my good boards. I got gear that was shit four years ago.”
Chris’s eyebrows pinch as he looks down at the bag. Slowly, he reaches down and starts to unzip it. He only gets half way before his face contorts with a look of disgust. “Jesus Christ, Warden,” he mumbles. He looks at his watch. “I’ll be back,” he tells us, and leaves.
Ten minutes later he’s back carrying a bag just as big as Josh’s. “I keep my stuff in the car. It’s not the best but it’s better than what you got,” he says to Josh. “I spoke to one of the volunteers. There’s a training ramp in the corner of the lot. Let’s go,” he orders, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.
Josh looks from me to Chris, and back again. “You coming?”
I nod.
What else am I going to do?
Josh flies through the first round, and then the second. By lunchtime, word’s gotten around that the Joshua Warden is present. Chris follows Josh between his rounds and gives him insight into the competition and what their strengths and weaknesses are. I keep quiet, obviously. At one point Chris leaves to get us all drinks and that’s when Josh faces me—and without a single emotion on his face, he says, “Thank you, Becca.” And that’s all he says to me for the rest of the competition.
The day goes by in blur. Everything’s rushed and we’re constantly on the move. Chris is always by Josh’s side, talking to him—training him, almost—and I trail behind. Josh—he’s focused. So focused. Sometimes he turns around when he feels me lagging behind and he stops and silently waits and when I catch up, he moves on. He barely speaks a word throughout the entire thing and then he gets on the pipe and I have to force myself to lift the camera and take the shots because God, he’s such a beautiful sight. I feel so many things just watching him but then I’d look at him and nothing.
It’s as if he feels nothing.
Even when he gets on the podium, the crowd cheering his name while he accepts the second place trophy—he shows nothing.
And when the sun starts to set and the crowd starts to leave, he thanks Chris for his help and offers him a cut of his eight thousand dollar prize—to which Chris declines because, apparently, he doesn’t need money.
We walk to Josh’s truck in silence and I wonder when it is he’s actually going to start talking to me. He opens the door for me and once I’m settled, he shuts it and then throws his gear along with his trophy in the back seat. Then he starts to drive home and I start to believe the nurses from the hospital that warned me it wasn’t such a good idea to do this because while I wait for him to talk, I keep looking over at him—at the lines between his eyebrows and the frown on his face and the heaving of his chest and the muscles, tense, in his arms. “My dad—he has chronic kidney disease,” he says, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue. “He was diagnosed a few months before my mom came to see me that night. He was on dialysis but it didn’t seem to help and he made the choice to quit taking treatment and just…” His gaze drops before returning to the road in front of him. “…And just wait to die.”
I release my breath, my fingers itching to touch him.
“When my mom came over, she asked me to get tested to be a donor. It didn’t work out, so now there aren’t any other options and I guess we just wait. I don’t really know why I kept it a secret from you,” he says, his voice hoarse, “I think I just didn’t want to seem weak, that I could so easily forgive a man who turned his back on us. It was like my pride kept me from sharing my weakness with you and I don’t know why because I know now that you—” He chokes on a breath and slowly pulls over to the side of the road, wiping his eyes as he does.
