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When I Was A Kid
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Not so much a confession as a simple memory of one moment in time, thirty years ago.
It's 7 o'clock on a summer Saturday night in July of 1982. I'm ten years old and skating in slow circles around the Roller Town rink in Fresno, California as the DJ plays "Bette Davis Eyes".
I look toward the video game arcade to one side of the rink. My dad is sitting there sipping a Coke and occasionally glancing at his watch. He's bored and really doesn't want to be here. But he promised me a trip to Roller Town more than a week ago and he hates breaking his promises.
I'm wearing rental skates and my right foot itches. I think about something my older brother told me the day before over the phone. That you could catch foot herpes from dirty strangers who used the skates before you. I'm not sure I believe him, but anything is possible. I decide to really wash my feet extra thoroughly when I get home. The itch seems to intensify, I frown.
The song changes to something slow and romantic. Couples skate the DJ informs us. I skate off the floor and make my way toward dad. I'll ask for a quarter I think. A game of Mr. Do! should take about as much time as the stupid couples skate. I wish my brother was with me. My sister too for that matter. And mom. But mom and dad are separated and I don't live with mom or my brother and sister anymore. The realization causes the usual slight wave of nausea to pass over me. Dad surrenders a quarter when I ask.
Kids bigger than me with acne on their faces and thick bangs hanging down in front of their eyes crowd the best games. No Mr. Do! then, looks like I'm stuck playing a baby game. Noah's Ark. Oh what fun, I smirk. I plug in the quarter and start to play, then spot a kid I know from school. He's walking in my general direction. I abandon the game, not caring that I just wasted a quarter. I'd never live down the scandal of being seen playing such a baby game. I settle for watching a chubby nerd about sixteen years old play Pac Man. He's one of the geeks who have committed every pattern to memory. He plays the mazes like a robot, steadily racking up more and more points. The ghosts never come close to devouring his Pac Man. Secretly I wish I knew all the patterns too, but since I don't I mock him in my head.
The couples dance ends and I go back to my dad. Just half an hour more he says tapping his watch. I nod okay and head back out onto the skating floor. Hey! The DJ growls, no drinks on the floor! I look around, then realize he's talking to me. I'm still holding dad's Coke. I had taken a couple of sips a moment earlier. I feel a warm flush rise in my cheeks and neck. Embarassment. I hate the DJ.
I hand the soda back to my dad who walks to the edge of the rink to get it (and shoot the scrawny DJ a murderous glance) I start my circling again. The J. Geils Band is singing about a girl in a centerfold. Soon I'm lost in a crowd of skaters, all of us circling and circling as the music plays.....
It's 7 o'clock on a summer Saturday night in July of 1982. I'm ten years old and skating in slow circles around the Roller Town rink in Fresno, California as the DJ plays "Bette Davis Eyes".
I look toward the video game arcade to one side of the rink. My dad is sitting there sipping a Coke and occasionally glancing at his watch. He's bored and really doesn't want to be here. But he promised me a trip to Roller Town more than a week ago and he hates breaking his promises.
I'm wearing rental skates and my right foot itches. I think about something my older brother told me the day before over the phone. That you could catch foot herpes from dirty strangers who used the skates before you. I'm not sure I believe him, but anything is possible. I decide to really wash my feet extra thoroughly when I get home. The itch seems to intensify, I frown.
The song changes to something slow and romantic. Couples skate the DJ informs us. I skate off the floor and make my way toward dad. I'll ask for a quarter I think. A game of Mr. Do! should take about as much time as the stupid couples skate. I wish my brother was with me. My sister too for that matter. And mom. But mom and dad are separated and I don't live with mom or my brother and sister anymore. The realization causes the usual slight wave of nausea to pass over me. Dad surrenders a quarter when I ask.
Kids bigger than me with acne on their faces and thick bangs hanging down in front of their eyes crowd the best games. No Mr. Do! then, looks like I'm stuck playing a baby game. Noah's Ark. Oh what fun, I smirk. I plug in the quarter and start to play, then spot a kid I know from school. He's walking in my general direction. I abandon the game, not caring that I just wasted a quarter. I'd never live down the scandal of being seen playing such a baby game. I settle for watching a chubby nerd about sixteen years old play Pac Man. He's one of the geeks who have committed every pattern to memory. He plays the mazes like a robot, steadily racking up more and more points. The ghosts never come close to devouring his Pac Man. Secretly I wish I knew all the patterns too, but since I don't I mock him in my head.
The couples dance ends and I go back to my dad. Just half an hour more he says tapping his watch. I nod okay and head back out onto the skating floor. Hey! The DJ growls, no drinks on the floor! I look around, then realize he's talking to me. I'm still holding dad's Coke. I had taken a couple of sips a moment earlier. I feel a warm flush rise in my cheeks and neck. Embarassment. I hate the DJ.
I hand the soda back to my dad who walks to the edge of the rink to get it (and shoot the scrawny DJ a murderous glance) I start my circling again. The J. Geils Band is singing about a girl in a centerfold. Soon I'm lost in a crowd of skaters, all of us circling and circling as the music plays.....
