On a clear, balmy spring afternoon, I called the Park District office to make sure the Burnham Skate Park was open. They said it was, so I loaded Skyler, my 15-year-old son, who was visiting from Wisconsin, into the car and headed into the city. We found about a dozen skateboarders already there. One of them looked like Vin Diesel, only younger and with tattoos. The gate was locked, but the skaters had jumped over it. Skyler did, too, and dropped right in.
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I unpacked my lunch. A few minutes later a groundskeeper came along, unlocked the gate, and began picking up bits of trash. Then a Park District police car cruised past. The officer stared at the skaters. He came back and got out of his car. “The park is closed,” he shouted.
“You know it’s closed when the gate is locked and you have to jump over it to get inside,” the cop said.
“Somebody got in here a few weeks ago and broke his arm and now he’s suing us,” the cop said. The kids looked at each other. No one seemed to know what this meant in the context of the present situation.
“Just doing what you’re told,” he said. “Man.” I didn’t hear what he said next–we were walking away–but the cop said something back. Then the cop said, “Yeah, I remember you. I was there the day you got arrested.”
He turned to me. “Who did you talk to?”
“Dude, in another hour there’s going to be 30 more people here,” he told the cop. He must have meant after school let out. The cop said something I didn’t hear. It ended with the word “education.”
