Tipping (Isn’t a City in China)

Allan soured his face as I explained his duties as the bus driver for today: keep your phone on. Answer the calls. Make sure you’re constantly looping back here from LAX — don’t just stay at the airport. He had this “I-can’t-believe-my-lot-in-life-is-driving-a-bus” expression on his face. The sentiment seeped into his posture, and into his surly one-word responses to my instructions. He maintained that presence the entire day, up till the moment I signed his parents, indicating services rendered, and that he completed his duties. After I shook his hand, he paused, then said, “Handshakes and thank you’s are nice,
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Skateboards and Hollywood

There’s this moment, right before stumbling off your board, where you ask yourself, “Really? Did I have to try and get fancy right here right now? Were the potential flair points really worth the mouthful of gravel I’m about to eat?” Then you’re falling. Then you’re meeting asphalt. Mucho gusto. Igualmente. Tucking, rolling, sliding, anything you can do to keep the wounds surface-level only, because you’d rather not test the limits of your paltry health insurance. I throw in a prayer, too: please dear sweet Jesus I hope nobody saw that… “Hey man, you alright?” a man on the sidewalk
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