I had spent only a few minutes with Jake Phelps before someone called him an asshole. It was a balmy October morning in San Francisco, at the tail end of the city’s reliably tardy summer. I found Phelps outside of a corner store at 24th and Valencia at the appointed time, dressed like half of a magazine editor: On top, he wore a crisp white oxford and a gray sweater vest, chunky black glasses, and a few days’ worth of graying stubble. But his pants sagged to mid-ass; his shoes had pentagrams stitched into the tongues. At his side he held his skateboard, which had dried rivulets of blood in the griptape.