At the request of a dear friend (love you, Deanna!), I'm posting a short story I wrote years ago. It's summertime and I can't figure out why rollerskating isn't on ALL our minds... maybe this will remind you of a time that you believed in both the power of skating-- and the power of YOU.
And yes, I still have them. And they still fit.
And yes, I still have them. And they still fit.
Straight Sixes
Another rainy day rolls through Houston. Another day that
finds me languishing in a cubicle, scratching out an existence, toiling in
relative anonymity—quiet desperation, I've heard it called. This day exactly
like the one before it: gray, tedious and without soul. After work, in an
effort to unclutter my life, I find myself cleaning out the guest room closet—and
I see them, tucked in a corner.
My skates.
The tears in my eyes can't truly be explained away. The
yearning in my heart, either. What those skates represent… well, there just
aren't words. Later, I drift off to sleep with snatches of a song I once knew
echoing in my ears, and when I wake to another gloomy day, I know what I have
to do. There must be something wrong with my eyes-- because I don't see myself going in to work. Thank God for sick days.
As I skate out onto the hardwood floor of the rink, I
catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall of the changing area. I look
absolutely ludicrous. If I was a child and I caught sight of a slightly paunchy adult in this
get-up, I would probably laugh until I soiled my pants. Although I feel
strongly that I made the right decision by leaving my helmet at home, my knee
pads, elbow pads and wrist braces make me look like a cross between a
transvestite hockey goalie and a minor character from some futuristic sci-fi
thriller. Still, better safe than sorry. Falling down when you're eleven years
old is one thing. Falling down when you're forty-something is something
entirely different.
I am determined to do this.
Fortunately, the skating rink is virtually deserted this
morning. I think I might've seen the pimply-faced, flannel-festooned snack bar
attendant smirking at me, but I'm not sure. So, ankles trembling, pride suffering, and thighs no doubt a-chub-rubbing, I step out onto the floor: A middle-aged woman, in thirty-five-year old skates. As I
scoot along, getting a feel for the floor, finding a rhythm, my confidence
grows. And by the time I complete my second shaky lap, my mind is doing some
skating of its own.
***
"Surprise!" Mom
squeals as I open the large, heavy box and remove the clunky skates.
"They're the ones you wanted, right?" I nod my head in agreement,
never taking my eyes off of my new red, white and blue roller skates. The other
sixth grade girls at the slumber party have somewhat lost interest in the
present-opening and are sitting on the white, deep-pile shag carpeting,
chattering amongst themselves. The Captain and Tenille are singing about
"Muskrat Love" on the eight-track system and my Dad is taking candid
Polaroid pictures with his new toy. Tessa and Katie are sitting close together,
as always, sharing some secret and giggling like crazy. I'm pretty sure they're
talking about Steve Bradford and how Katie kissed him at the Spring carnival
behind the dunking booth. Jenna and Danielle, dressed in matching outfits, are
mad at each other again and are arguing about which one of them will have the
honor of sleeping on the lemon yellow crushed-velvet sofa.
Hannah is the one who chimes in with her own "oohs
and ahhs" over my biggest birthday present. "Now we can skate
together!" she says. "This summer is going to be so cool!" I smile shyly in reply. I don't think that I'll ever
skate as well as Hannah. I don't think I'll ever do anything as well as Hannah.
But I can sure try. My Mom keeps telling me that I can accomplish anything I
set my mind to… and I'm still young enough to believe her.
By the time August quietly and humidly announces itself
with scorching heat, I'm skating circles around Hannah and everyone else in the
neighborhood. I can't believe how good it feels to be "the best" at
something—I'm faster, I can do more tricks, and I make it all look so easy. I gradually spend less time
skating with the others and more time alone on my driveway, perfecting my
technique.
One day after school, I bring my bright aqua blue plastic
record player out onto the driveway and plug it into the utility outlet by the
back door. My heart starts to beat faster as I lace up my skates—they're all
broken in now and more than a little scuffed up... and I could not love them more.
Today is a special day because I'm in the final stages of choreographing my new
routine. I'm wearing my special skating outfit: High-water Levi's and my green
"Star Wars '77" t-shirt. It has this iron-on of Han Solo and Chewbacca
sitting in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon… and I think it's really cool.
I take the scratched record out of its jacket and place it on the turntable. I
drop the needle on the record and hear the delightful hiss that precedes the
music… and then it begins.
 |
| The author in her skating costume. And without boobies. |
I've selected "Going the Distance" from the
"Rocky" soundtrack. Everyone else likes the theme from the movie—but
not me. It's too predictable. My song has infinitely more soul, a sense of
longing that somehow speaks to me. It begins with the tolling of bells, and as
I begin to skate, I imagine that I am competing in the Olympics. When I do
this, I always see myself as Dorothy Hamill—who I've really admired since the
winter games. I sure do wish I could have her haircut, but Mom says my curls
just won't cooperate. I know that roller skating isn't an Olympic event yet,
but I'm pretty certain it will be in the future. And I'm equally as certain
that I will win the gold medal in this event someday. After all, according to
my Mom, I can accomplish anything.
 |
| Me & Mom, who still believes I can accomplish anything I set my mind to... and my sister, who clearly had her doubts. If you look closely, you can see the skates between my feet. Also pictured is the dog who taught me to love dogs, Shangri-la. |
"Today," I tell myself, "I'm going to do
it. I'm really going to do the death spiral." I've been very intrigued by
this move ever since it was introduced in the Pairs event. And since I'm
skating solo, I've created my own variation. As the music spins towards its
climax, I pick up speed, circling faster and faster around the driveway, the
wind blowing through my golden curls, gaining momentum until at last I throw
myself into the air, spin and land perpendicular to the ground, one hand
supporting my weight, legs together, toes pointed. It is incredibly painful—but
makes for truly dramatic skating. And at 11 years old, I'm already all about
the drama. The crowd is going wild in my head and the judges hold up their
score cards. I have skated a perfect program… Sixes, straight across the board.
The music stops and the afternoon is very still. I can
hear the thump and hiss of the needle as it scuffs to the end of the record
again and again. I am panting, spent. I gradually become aware of the vibrantly
green smell of the freshly mown grass and the achingly sweet aroma of the pink
blossoms of our Mimosa tree. I sit alone on the hot, late afternoon pavement,
reveling in my triumph. Then I slowly unlace my skates, take the record from
the turn table, unplug the player. I enter the house to help Mom set the table
for dinner, and I am aware of my own peculiar scent for the first time—not
sweaty or musky like a teenager yet-- just a hot, damp smell. As the screen
door squeaks closed behind me, I think that nothing in the world could ever
feel better than roller skating.
Of course, in less than a year I discover that boys are
even more intriguing than death spirals. Soon my love for skating is all mixed
up with my feelings for Billy Bishop. I'm not sure how it happened, but Billy
makes my heart race and my stomach feel all tight. I now favor skating at the
Bellaire skating rink, more concerned with being cool than with dare-devil,
death-defying leaps. My "Star Wars '77" t-shirt is now forgotten at
the back of my closet, my high-water Levi's have made their way into the
Goodwill collection bin. "Going the Distance" is all but
forgotten—Disco is king.
And much sooner than I would have ever thought, I abandon
skating all together. It seems that around the same time, I begin to think that
my Mom was stupid for ever telling me that I could accomplish anything I set my
mind to. I begin to feel that I will never accomplish anything… Zeroes,
straight across the board.
***
"Hey lady, watch out!" a small voice cries,
bringing me back to the present. I realize I have very nearly plowed over a
little girl who has unwittingly strayed too far from the railing. A smile
touches my lips when I realize that the girl has called me "lady." So
old, I think to myself, far too old for death spirals. But am I really? I might
look ridiculous in all of my padding, but I think this old girl may have a few
moves left in her, after all.
