- December 20, 2024
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It was her birthday, and Mallorie wanted to go roller skating.
So that we’re all on the same page, let me state upfront that Mallorie was turning 25 years old, not 11. And it was Teen Night at Skate & Shake, she said. It would be fun, she said. But we all knew better.
This would be the scene: A bunch of twentysomethings, strapping on blades and doing the Chicken Dance with a bunch of ten-somethings — and keep in mind, none of us were summer camp counselors. It wasn’t my usual brand of fun, I had to give her that. I imagined parents (completely skateless) leering at us (fully skated) as we circled their kids inside the rink, laughing loudly and limbo-ing like there was no tomorrow.
I imagined them pointing and whispering.
“Oh my gosh! Isn’t that bad-boy journalist Mike Cavaliere?” they’d say to friends and police officers. “Yes, I believe it is,” bystanders would answer. “Although I’ve always thought of him more as a heartthrob humor columnist.”
The whole thing reeked of potential public outcry, mass suspicion and, the only logical conclusion, me being thought of as a turkey, losing my job, moving back in with my parents, getting dumped, losing all ambition and eventually dying alone as an unkempt, unloved shut-in.
But, hey, it wasn’t my special day.
The thing about birthdays is that, no matter what, the birthday girl gets to choose the weekend’s activity. It’s some sort of consolation prize for getting older, I think, and, you know, the whole losing-your-innocence thing.
“I’m getting roller blades!” Mallorie said, as we closed out our tabs at Caffeine. “Aren’t you all exciiiteed?!”
We weren’t, but at this point, we were trying to be. It was Friday, after all.
“Yeah!” we yelled, "Woo!" pumping our fists and loading into cars. Then we got to Skate & Shake. We walked up to the door. We walked into Skate & Shake. We took a look around. Then we walked back out of Skate & Shake.
As a disclaimer: Let me stress that this had absolutely nothing to do with Skate & Shake itself. It’s more that odd things tend to happen when you revisit places you haven’t been in forever. Reality sets in. You realize you’re getting older and there are new kids, new yous, who have taken over your old stomping grounds.
And they look unfamiliar.
Also, if you haven’t taken a trip to the rink in a while, let me tell you: Roller skating has changed.
Back in my day (so far back you likely don’t remember) — the mid-’90s — roller skating was pure. You fell, you laughed, you ate nachos. But now, kids go on the rink with their sneakers — their SNEAKERS, people! The teens of Teen Night booty dance with other teens. And the place is blanketed in black light, which seemed that night to expose a truth that none of us were ready for.
We all stood outside the door, loitering, and in our own ways, we licked our wounds.
Times had changed. Skating had changed. That part of us was over now.
“So, what do we do now?” Mal asked. And some of our shoulders bounced in uncertainty. Some laughed. Others kept quiet.
Somewhere far away and deep inside the city, we could hear the rumble of Bike Week, past the trees and under the stars. And we knew what it meant: leather and liquor and late-night parties.
But behind us, in that rink, kids were laughing and yelling, their tiny voices carving veins through the thump of teen pop songs. Girls and boys were gliding in circles there, gazing through the black light to see each other differently. Yesterday was happening today somehow, and it was loud, and it was close, and it was looking right at us.
They didn’t know it yet, but those kids inside would turn into us one day, just like we’d turn into someone new again. But for now, they danced, and skated and sang, blurs orbiting the middle of the rink as if it were the center of the universe.
BY MIKE CAVALIERE | ASSOCIATE EDITOR
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