I Never Wanted To Leave.
I love roller skating. I don’t remember learning to do it, but in middle school we had roller skating parties and I loved being out there, rolling around with everyone. I don’t understand the trend toward blading, or how skating rinks have gone away with drive-in movies. These are great past-times.
Roller skating – along with every other sport – is something I could do without drinking or drugs. I’ve had a theory for awhile now that my serotonin receptor is just broken – and that activities like softball and skating fix that reception. So who needs mind-altering chemicals when the activity is already fixing the brain? I sure don’t – and I am a sincere, severe addict.
But when the last song played and the DJ instructed all skaters: “Clear the floor, please. Clear the floor!” my life would return to the depressed state mixed with social anxiety that lives within me to this day. The lights would come on and people would head for the exits.
But I never wanted to leave. Fortunately, when I moved to Pittsburgh, one of my first friends was a girl whose dad owned the local skating rink. Paula introduced me to the people who worked at the rink – the DJ, the concession worker, the guy who took care of the skates.
So after everyone else left, Paula and I would hang around. And once everything was shut down for the night – somewhere around midnight, we would all head out for pizza … and beer. I was worried because it was illegal, but I was drinking with men of legal age who didn’t seem to mind that I drank from their pitcher. In fact, no one seemed to notice at all.
The whole crew would stay out until 3 a.m. or so, and then Paula and I would crash at her house.
These nights were fun – but once, a local celebrity – a real DJ from WDVE radio – showed up at the rink, signing autographs and hanging out. For awhile, he showed up at the rink regularly. Max was a kind of god in my mind, with a voice like chocolate butter. After school, I would sit by the radio and hang on every word he said, soaking in that voice, knowing he was “famous” and I’d been hanging out with him.
One night after skating, Max went out for pizza and beer. My crush was beyond ridiculous; I thought I was in love. Max was probably 30 years older than me and I’m not sure he even looked my direction that night. But we all laughed and drank, and I felt famous, too.
Max had been on the radio for years; then one day, right after the pizza-and-beer extravaganza, Max just disappeared. He just wasn’t on the radio one day. A week went by with no Max. I called the station but got no explanation. And Max didn’t show up at the rink again.
My heart was broken. I stared at my little autographed photo for months, crying. Somehow I believed that Max’s leaving had something to do with me. How I believed that …? Well, there’s no logic there. I was 16.
Max was just one in a long line of confused crushes I had. And I associated my “brush with fame” – and all of my fun – with beer.
I continued to skate; every Friday and Saturday, I laced up and raced out onto the floor. My social life evolved entirely from that rink. I wish I could have stayed and skated forever, with my serotonin fixed and stable, until I grew up enough to recognize my ignorance.