Good Luck, Psycho Skater
I was driving back to work in industrial Ballard just after dark when your figure, writhing on the ground, came into view. I skirted the telltale skateboard lying motionless in the street. A young woman stood looking, but seemingly frozen, from five yards away from you, but otherwise there was no one else around. Your moans and sobs were loud and beseeching. Out of my car now, I rushed toward you. The woman said she hadn't seen what happened and had kept her distance. I got up close, looking you over for obvious injuries without touching you. I asked some questions, but you were incoherent, until I said that I was going to call 911 and headed to get my phone from the car. You said, "No, don't...," but I couldn't very well leave you there in the street with your head leaning on the curb, so I kept moving toward my car. That's when you jumped up like a player called off the bench, charging at me, spitting at me, cursing at me, and swinging your skateboard like a baseball bat. I get it now, your mind is fried on drugs—and you probably won't even remember that when someone tried to help you, you reacted by threatening to bash their head in. You're truly pitiful.