The Rolling Incident

Roller skating was more than a hobby when I was a child. Utterly dedicated, I asked for and got my own dedicated set of skates, complete with white leather boot and red wheels. I would spend hours upon hours skating around and around the basement pool table. Forwards, backwards, jumping, twirling. I paid special care to clean the red wheels with rubbing alcohol until they shone. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was probably a precursor to my fanatical cleanliness of today. It probably also contributed to the lanky third-tallest-girl-in- class build that gave my sister permission to call me things like chicken legs and stick figure.

When roller blades became all the rage, it was something I had to try. In my 20s, I knew I’d look more like an idiot than usual skating around in my childhood skates (which, by the way, still fit me and hide in the corner of a closet). I asked my then-boyfriend for some blades for my birthday, he readily complied. Not because he wanted me to be happy, but because he gave the best gifts to advertise his wealth and good taste. As if a $150 pair of roller blades would have sent of 98% of society into the depths of financial despair.

He didn’t wrap them. He just showed them to me in the back seat of his car during a lunch break.

When we got home, I had somehow regressed 13 years. Shrunken to my grade school size, donned my Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, and quickly adjusted to braces. I was so excited, I put the skates on in the living room of my second floor apartment while my boyfriend looked on, laughing.

“You know, you’re going to have to get down the stairs somehow.”

I didn’t care. Since I was 13 again, it was perfectly reasonable for me to sit and scoot my way down the stairs.

When I got to the bottom, he was there to hold me up. He raised me and I clutched his thick body as if I had no legs. I had absolutely no control over my feet.

“Wait until we get out to the sidewalk,” I said. “Don’t let go yet.” Along we scooted until we reached the outer sidewalk. The smile wouldn’t leave my face. He reminded me that the stopper was on the back of the skates.

“Are you ready?”

“I think so.” I righted myself as best I could and the instant he let go of me, my feet slipped and I landed flat and hard and loud on my back on the concrete, unable to speak or breathe. I was pretty sure I’d broken my back. I was struggling for enough air to say, “Help me, I can’t breathe”, but couldn’t manage it. Terrified.

I looked up at him with pleading eyes and saw him laughing.