by Jonathan Tsang

One thing I’ve noticed about people here is their urge to be “cool”.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind seeing guys around wearing Smalls when they really should be wearing Large. In fact, I applaud them for taking initiative in conserving fabric. God knows how many girls don’t have enough of it. But after witnessing people trip for the umpteenth time at night while wearing D&G shades, I have had enough. Somebody once said, “If you can’t beat them, join them.” So I did. I went and got myself a scooter.

Half an hour after I borrowed a Razor from my friend, I already got weird looks from my suite-mates at Fluor. Whether it was the obsoleteness of the kick-scooter or my face of absolute terror as I ran into their doors I’ll never know, but one thing was certain - the scooter is not normally considered cool. In the hierarchy of vehicular coolness, I imagine, the graffitied skateboard took the top spot with the ubiquitous “injured athlete”-carrying golf cart a near second, while the scooter fought for the penultimate place with a baby stroller. Yes, I get it. There are other things that would move you closer up that social ladder. But if there’s anything I retained at high school it was this - be a rebel. You should’ve seen my yearbook picture.

Knowing full well that I had to do something extreme with my scooter and fast, I decided to take it down to the intersection of 34th and McClintock for a test run. This seemed perfectly sensible at time. There would be lots of people at the crossroads passing through at any time, so nobody would see in the unfortunate event that I happened to lose my balance. The road was also fairly flat, meaning that I wouldn’t have to break a sweat daintily kicking my way across to Century. What could go wrong?

Feeling cool and hip, I walked my just-polished scooter to the very edge of the road, and waited for the compliments to stream forth. I eyed the cheerful looking girl next to me, who was dressed in a tight pink top and jogging shorts. She glanced at me briefly then looked away, seeming more interested in a nearby tree. I frowned at her swishing ponytail, and focused myself on the task. When the walking man sign came on, I took off from the sidewalk like Sam Witwicki escaping from Megatron. For a moment, the world was a blur, and I was speeding through life while being hysterically drunk.

Then came reality in the form of a crack on the road. My trusty Razor careened under an aquamarine station wagon while I tried to hit the ground with as much dignity as possible. Ignoring the pain that was shooting up my knees and palms, I gracefully sat on my thighs with my calves pointing in opposite directions, attempting to look like this was exactly what I had wanted to do. I smiled at the ponytail girl jogging past me. She furrowed her plucked eyebrows at me, then continued jogging away. Scanning the intersection for more pedestrians, I waved a polite “how do you do” to all of them before serenely untangling my bleeding knees to retrieve my scooter. I cried in the shower that night.

Miraculously, however, my pride recovered faster than my joints. I did a little better the next day, managing to return to my room with only a sprained ankle. Then that became a scraped elbow and then a hole in my jeans until finally, I scootered over to Century one day without hurting myself at all.

Maybe without my acute awareness of social hierarchy I would not have arrived at the point where I am today. Who knows? Perhaps I could’ve tried a new instrument, picked up a few girls or learnt how to insult peoples’ mothers in three different languages. The possibilities are deliciously unfathomable. But when I sort through my hideous sweaters my mom forced me to put in the suitcase and see my torn Levi’s, I’d never forget what delightful adventures me and my scooter had one freshman year at college.