During the day, I work in the mailroom. I deliver mail and packages to editors, writers, publishers, accountants, freelancers, and interns at magazines like Esquire and Marie Claire. I've been working for Hearst Magazines for 13 years now and I'm really happy with my job. I'm a huge fan of magazines, and I love seeing what goes on behind the scenes and finding out what stories the writers are working on. I've seen interns become writers, and fashion assistants turn into huge fashion designers. I get along with everyone and enjoy reading the magazines and books I get at work. I finished high school, but my real education comes from what I've read, the people I talk to, writing in my journal, and, of course, what I see in the streets at night.

I've been a skateboarder for more than 20 years. It's my second choice in life. Work comes first, because without work I couldn't afford sneakers and boards. But when I go from work to skating it's like slipping from one world to another. I work with smart, educated, family-oriented people. When I leave work to go skating in downtown New York, I see all the junkies, lowlifes, and degenerates. Instead of going home to watch TV, I skate and watch all the entertainment going on in the streets. It's like reality TV without the TV.

I leave work at 5:00 p.m. and can skate from 57th Street to Union Square in 11 minutes flat. I fly down Eighth Avenue -- laughing at the fat businessmen running to the Port Authority to catch their buses -- and turn on 42nd Street and go past the New York Times building (my daily bible), where I cut down Seventh Avenue. They just repaved it over the summer and it's smooth as silk.

I have the street signals timed so if I hit them just right, I can go through four signals no problem. I bust a left on 32nd Street where I make a point to high-five this black Superman I know whose job it is to hold a sign for some bullshit advertisement. I give him props because he's Superman, America's hero. Then I take Broadway the rest of the way to the park.

On the streets there are two rules I go by: don't get arrested, and don't get into fights. I do, however, have a bad habit with cars that almost hit me, either punching them or spitting on their windshields. If it's my fault I'll skate right up to them and apologize, but if they're texting or on the phone I'll call them out for it. And don't get me started on pedicabs, because that's a story for another time.

I always refer to Union Square Park as my backyard, even though I live in Jersey (too broke to live in NYC). I spend more time at the park than I do at home. I know all the park rats (regulars). I know the skaters, bikers, junkies, crusties, punks, scenesters (emo music, skinny pants), perverts, scumbags, gravers (gothic ravers), and even the people who clean up the garbage. These people make up for the family I don't have. Union Square is also my skate park and it's fun as shit. Ask anyone: Who rips this park down skating? They’ll point to me.

You have to have a street name to be down. I go by Shaggy. Then there's my dad, Signs (pictured left, with me). He's not really my dad, but I can definitely picture him that way, not that I particularly like him. Signs is homeless, always has a cigarette dangling out of his mouth, and he's got the coolest teeth in the park: two really pointy fangs on the bottom of his mouth. I love watching him eat. He eats like my cat, Anna, with his tongue sticking out because he can't chew his food. Having a good set of teeth in this park is a privilege.

Also, to be an official park rat you have to have a gig. My dad's gig is walking around with two cardboard signs. He’ll approach people and show a sign that says, "What's the best nation?" Then he’ll whip out another sign that says, "Donation." Then he'll hold out a cup and say, “Any change will do.” If it's a couple he approaches, he’ll tell the girl to dump the dweeb and marry him, because he’s a great cook. Sometimes I'll blow his spot up and say, "How can you cook if you don't even have a home?" He usually yells at me to shut up, and then tells the people he's begging change from, "That's my son." I'm starting to think he really believes he's my dad. This is what I do when I'm not skating. Fucking with bums is one of my hobbies.

Then there’s a kid we call Dusty. I gave him that name after watching him get high huffing Dust-Off. Every time he took a hit his eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. I egged him on, screaming and cheering. I know it's bad, but I did that kind of thing for a couple of years. I worked at a restaurant and sucked the gas out of whipped-cream canisters all the time. And I was better than Dusty because I got to the point where I could do two cans at once. I don’t recommend you do that. Anyway, Dusty is really out of his mind but I love him like a brother.

If you hang out in the park, hide your cigarettes. Smoking is bad, but all park rats smoke, and it's a guarantee that once you light up, a line of them will form. Cigarettes are worth more than money at the park. Sometimes I'll carry a pack but just have one cigarette in it, so when I pull out the pack they believe me that I only have one left. Sometimes I tell them I'm out, and since I'm a park rat, they’ll come back and give me one. That's the privilege of being a park rat, free cigarettes without begging.

So stop by Union Square Park sometime and say hi. Join the family and become a park rat, or just hang back and enjoy the show.

Bobby Crawford is a writer, skateboarder, office mailroom employee, and New York Times profile subject.