Here is an excerpt from my latest project... of FICTION! See my earlier blog entry for (sort of) an explanation.
If you're going through hell, keep going. -Winston Churchill
“Hey James!” I yell around from the back of the line to the rental attendant who is a former student. I point down at my flip flops which are his cue to stuff a pair of new socks in my size nines. A wink and an extra five dollars buy me a ticket to my own personal Xanadu. I can’t lace my skates fast enough.
Paradise Skateway was my church these days. I didn’t care if 70’s Nite was mostly filled with middle-aged posers who just wanted to be seen in clothes that needed to be left in Nordstroms’ juniors department. I had ridden with exhibits a, b, and c for godsakes. Even though I did have a hard time getting the smell of feet out of my hair on Wednesday mornings, I loved every minute of the skating experience. There was something so freeing about circling the rink over and over, fast and mindlessly. Shit I even liked the pizza. While certain alumnae mingled sans wheels at Miami’s hottest night spot de-jour, I was in my own little world and could not have cared less.
In one fell swoop I pull my ponytail loose, shove the black band on my wrist, and roll on to the rink with a confidence that eclipsed what Olivia Newton John must have felt, gyrating in the Shake Shack. I am home. My normal routine was to skate as fast as possible and enjoy the rush of freezing air hitting my face while internalizing whatever song happens to be playing. Once I’ve taken in the soundtrack I create a fantastic movie in my head starring me looking and acting fabulous, tackling my day with the greatest of ease. Sometimes it’s a simple scene I conjure- beautiful Christian embracing me, saying “I love you so much mommy,” while my tan, gorgeous hubby Brad Pitt looks on. Other times I envision upcoming events I would normally loathe, and imagine embodying the picture of grace every girl envies. I do realize that fantasizing couldn’t be all that healthy, but two months of skating my high school reunion in my head did wonders. Rehearsing how hot I would look to an ex boyfriend resulted in a real life satisfaction that made my entire year.
Tonight, on the other hand, though the worn dark wood floors clearly labeled my circular path I was feeling a bit off course. I had no complaints for the deejay as he was playing an excellent extended version of Stomp, but for some strange reason I couldn’t get the filmstrip in my head to quit from splitting. What the hell? Maybe I had been starting at that disco ball too intently. Maybe it was the stellar company tonight. I instinctively look toward the arcade area to be sure Magda hadn’t seduced my student nor had Violet beaten anyone half to death with Cat’s new Louie Zuitton. Great. It appears Cat is cursing out some chick in two languages to the point of confusion. Please God play a good song so I can script my way home with three new friends.
And like the screeching of a needle across a record my mind completely shifts gears. I begin to think. Why is it that for some reason it took more and more Bee Gees to put me in my happy place these days? Things with Mouth were fine, I guess. His morning show was South Florida’s highest rated amongst those who remembered FM was still out there, and his schedule allowed me to go back to teaching part time. I could not be happier about that part. While my Omega pals can’t imagine for the life of them why I work at all, I feel like I really make a difference at Gables Heights. Without getting all I believe our children are our future-ish I can honestly say that when I am on stage (literally, I teach in what used to be the drama classroom, complete with a built in stage) I am in heaven. Funny I don’t even need the Village People to get me going on the days I know I will be in the company of Dante, Milton, Shakespeare, and a great group of teenagers.
Christian, my nearly two and a half year old, continues to be the light of my life. God he is gorgeous, and blindingly so. Maybe it’s his growing impatience with the world around him that has me feeling off kilter. “Terrible two from month two,” as my mother would say. What does she know? She had girls. And nannies.
I’ve killed my own mood and decide there wouldn’t be much wrong with cutting the night short; I could take a cab home if the menagerie threw a harmonious hissy. I feel the Couple’s Skate coming on anyway. That damned announcement evoked the gangly, pasty, friendless thirteen-year old in me every time. The deejay may as well have been calling me by name with: “It’s a couple’s skate only Alison, so go ahead and hop on your Holly Hobby bike now because there is no way on God’s green earth any boy would ask you to skate with him. No offense though; you seem super cool.”
Pulling my hair back up into my standard ponytail, breathing in as much of Rock Your Baby as possible, I glide to the rink’s opening. All I’d have left to do was follow the sounds of wild beasts and I was a song away from excusing myself for the evening. Cradling an air baby, humming “take me in your arms and rock me” I roll up to the strange coven undetected.
“So Mags, how is the party planning coming along? My caterer does a mean arroz con beans. Need the number?” I hear Cat inquire. Magda’s ex-husband’s stepson was celebrating his confirmation and she was planning a tacky to-do. I remembered her concern that (a) Easter was really screwing up her plans and (b) the after party be off church grounds so she could “really party.” Oh happy, unholy day.
Without batting an eyelash Violet contributes “I hope you weren’t planning on inviting Ali’s little hell raiser Christian. The only mood swings I plan on attending to that day are my own. P.S. does anyone have a Xanax? That stupid disco ball is giving me a seizure.“
“Seriously Magda, someone is going to have to tactfully alert our friend that the word ADHD stands for ‘Ali, Denial, Hello!, Duh!’” said Cat.
And as if the deejay announced that Elvis had permanently left the building I lose my footing, tumbling backward while grabbing for anyone and anything to help break my fated fall. Reaching for Cat was a mistake. She lithely coiled back in an effort to save her fake nails from chipping. In slow motion I see her check her polish before I even hit the ground. Magda and Violet growl something unintelligible that reeks of “how dare she make us look like fools,” and I am on my bottom.
“Oh my God Ali, you may have just busted your ass!” Violet pointed and began hysterically laughing.
Cat was less amused. As if she could see into the future, mine involving a hospital stay and hers a buffet she pounces “I thought we were going to La Carretta after this! You know how much I love ‘The Wheel’- their ham croquetas are practically calling my name. Will you please get up Ali?” She was actually angry; her fake tan reddened. And I swear Violet held her breath to appear as if she were equally furious.
My vision blurred from a combination of tears and rage, all I could muster up was “Violet, you’re turning Violet!” Her bestial visage was the mortified look of a Willy Wonka character on crack. Was I going to have to crawl my way to help? I’d better speak up.
“Girls I can’t get up. Can you please stop acting like animals and call Mouth for me? Oh, and you might want to move me out of the path of the other exiting skaters.” I said. I was in total disbelief. And agonizing pain. “And for the record you heartless bitch, ADHD is a fucking acronym, not a word. Duh!”
