Deadhead

Ripple in still water. That's the throw before the throw — the hush right before the bass drum kicks and the skull on the head lights up. Deadhead lands like that. Quiet strength, quiet skill, a rolling ribbon of tie-dye off your fingertips and then dead calm on the board. The name is the whole joke: Dead-Head. The fan who chased Jerry across 30 states, and the bag that stops dead where it lands.

Flip it and the burnt-orange carpet grabs like a Shakedown Street handshake — grippy, warm, honest. Flip again and the slick side slides like Sugaree on a Sunday. Two throws, one bag, no drama. Every silver lining has a touch of grey, and every grinder knows the game rewards the ones who keep showing up. I will get by. I will survive. Roll another rack.

Dancing bears trailing you to the line, Steal Your Face on the drum, a long strange trip ahead. Buy the ticket. Take the tour. Deadhead's driving.