When I was a kid, I was on a skating team called The Anchorettes. We were sponsored by the US Navy, we wore little sailor costumes, and performed ridiculously easy routines to the beats of Whitney Houston, The Beatles, and The Carpenters
How odd for young girls to skate to the songs of romance?
Maybe not too odd if you had background on the team manager, a 50 year old man named Bill. Don’t puke up your Valentine’s day chocolates, but Bill was molesting half of the girls on the team. As the testimonies alleged, Bill would make the girls stand around him in a circle while he jerked off, holding a gun in his other hand, telling them, “If you tell your parents about this, I’ll kill them.”
Apparently, on an occasion Bill decided to play “ring around the rosy cock,” there was a new girl on the team, and she must have thought: “You can suck it, old man.”
She told her parents about the circle jerk, and the Anchorettes–as we knew them–became a part of Long Beach Naval Base history.
Anyway, the point of that not-heart-warming-at-all story is that I learned to do a little bit of skating on 8 wheels. Granted, it’s been about 2 decades since I’ve stepped foot into any kind of classic skate, so when Kristy and I went to the Skating Rink (off Victoria in Ventura) and I slid my toes into those many-times-borrowed rentals, I felt like a Virgin.
I laced up and came to stand slowly, as though I were on land mines. I started off like a sputtering car, and with flailing arms, made my way to the rink with Kristy close behind.
I touched my wheels to the edge and looked down at the shimmering lights, like stars, beneath me. Up above, turned a disco ball, surrounded by multi-colored, opaque bulbs, pulsating to the rhythm of each song. Kristy and I held hands like Thelma and Louise approaching the cliff, and took the plunge.
Kristy clung to the wall for dear life as we tried to find a momentum.
A child skated in front of me, and my hips jerked. Hula hoop without the hula hoop. Nervous beads of sweat formed on my upper lip.
“Do a few tricks,” Kristy said, knowing my history.
I glanced at her.
What an asshole.
After the first two or three laps, I was a little more comfy. Here I was: single on Valentine’s day. But why did everyone else look single? There was a birthday party, so plenty of kids, a couple couples, and more singles than what is tucked into a stripper’s panties.
Where were the especially young, under-aged couples? It seemed when I was a chubby little turd back in 1985, there were a lot more kids at rinks. What did they do on Valentines day, 2011?
At about 8:30, the birthday party ditched the rink. Then there were about 15 adults left to rock out.
I became more daring–I started doing quick spins. Coming up on my stoppers like Michael Jackson in Billie Jean. I went heel-to-heel and skated circles around Kristy. Suddenly, it was LBC circa 1986 and I was an Anchorette again!
I rocked!
Too Close by NEXT started bleeding out the speakers, and I felt the music vibrate through to my inner soul sister. There was a couple at the rink that night, an older black couple that stole the eyes of everyone. They were that couple you could tell had clocked some time together. They held hands, and their movements were in near-perfect sync. It was lovely, like two swans on a pond, and it caused me to long. For something Meaningful. Whether short term or long term.
That old couple made me happy.
Too Close moved me. I had the white-man’s overbite, I twisted my head from side to side–right, left, right, left– I pushed those skates to their limit.
I danced.
Recently heart broken? Fuck it. I was Jennifer Warnes and Bill Medley. I was having the Time of My Life.
No screwing around: Baby refused to be in this corner.
I threw one leg back and grabbed the ankle; I grabbed the back of my neck with my other hand. I was dancing. I was a festival… I was a parade.
Well, a Gay Parade because my skating went queer. I almost had a firm grip on that skate, but it slipped from my fingers, then my balance gave. I made a valiant attempt to stay upright, but the crash went through my right ass cheek; the impact sent a shock wave of pain up my ass, spine, and it ended in my brains.
One of the other singles, a girl, rolled to stop next to me. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”
I nodded and smiled. It seemed to sting all over: ass, head, and ego. Not to mention, well, you know, the old heart was already aching for peace.
When I was on my feet again, I rolled toward Kristy and dragged the stopper till I hit the rink wall. She was sitting at a diner table, sipping a slushy.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, guess I should wait before I attempt some shits like that again.”
It’s like everything, I suppose. Get the fuck up, dust off your bottom, and keep on keepin’ on.
I like that I was able to feel like a little girl again, minus the child-molesting team manager. Oh, and in case you were wondering: Bill was charged in California, then extradited back to Kansas where he was charged with more crimes. He was sentenced to 20 years back in 1987.
As for broken hearts, I think of all the months to be screwed up from a break-up, November through February are the worst. The rain, the snow, the couples snuggling, the hearts in every window with the words “LOVE” staring you down. Another thing, and this is going to sound trite so excuse this moment, but it is pure truth: there is nothing in the world like the True Love of amazing friends, especially when it forms a shield, like a protective firmament, around you to pull you along and protect you from any more pain… and gets you through heartbreaks of any sort.
Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/
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