Not Just a Regular Friday Night

In January, when Josie's weekly rollerderby practice switched from Friday evenings to Sunday afternoons, the kids and I instituted a new policy: every Friday night we head over to Bellevue for "Hot Hits" night at Skate King. Sometimes other people come too -- Josefina's been a fixture, and Lauren joined us almost every week until she started volunteering at Harborview on Friday nights instead (it's a nursing school requirement, I'm told). Once in a while Josie opts out and it’s just Simon and me heading over the bridge after dinner. But, like John D'Emilio's Saturday night spaghetti, some subset of our family is always there.

And so, it turns out, are a lot of other people. Every Friday, weaving in and out among the retro birthday partyers and wobbly first-date couples, you'll find an eclectic, fast-moving company of "regulars." There’s the pony-tailed disco dancer with skate tops all unlaced, the off-duty rollergirl who gets crabby as hell if you pass her, the bespectacled eight-year-old who hurls himself headlong through the crowd (and spends a fair amount of time sprawled on his butt), the figureskating rollerblader who spins all night long on one front wheel, the Asian girl in white boots who always skates backwards, the tiny girl outfitted with knee and wrist-guards, long hair flying out behind her as she is towed by a friend.

The conspicuous core of regulars, though, are the rec skaters. Mostly teens, with a few well-respected elders among them, these graceful speed demons travel in pairs, bobbing along to the music, curling one foot behind with the toe almost dragging, as they glide forward on the other foot. The cockier boys will occasionally punctuate the smooth rhythm with sharp braking curves, wheels squealing -- the mating call of the rink rat, perhaps. These are the skaters the DJs know by name, the unbeatable Duck Shooters, the ones whose little brothers get to roll the giant dice during the Four Corners game.

All these regulars, whatever their age, share the slightly competitive camaraderie of people who are secretly, spectacularly good at this one very particular thing. All week long they are earthbound, you see. I imagine them plodding unremarkably down the hall at school or work, surrounded by people who have no idea that at Skate King they are gods. Maybe this is why the employees regularly show up on their nights off, and why that one boy came for a month straight with his arm in a sling, even though he couldn’t skate. (The night he was back out on the floor we all went home a little happier.)

I gotta say, as a way to while away one’s teen years, a person could do a lot worse than hanging around the Bellevue Skate King. It’s what you might call "good, clean fun" -- nobody is particularly tempted to get shitfaced drunk, for instance, while whizzing around the rink on eight wheels. There was that one time I rolled into the bathroom and found a crowd of fifteen-year-old girls gathered around a forty-year-old whose eyes burned with cold fury as she told one of their number, "You stay away from her, or I will take. You. Out." -- but otherwise I’ve never seen a hint of trouble.

Our little crew hasn’t exactly achieved "regular" status yet, but the lady who inspects your skates at the door has started waving us through, saying, “Seen ‘em.” We get an occasional nod of recognition in the snack bar line.  And the rec boys don’t seem to mind too much when we follow behind them trying to learn that cool toe-dragging thing.

Last week I had the honor of chauffeuring a carload of Irene’s pals to Skate King for her thirteenth birthday party. (It was, ironically enough, "Twins Night": Skate King has these goofy theme nights once in a while, with prizes for the best costumes. I say "ironic" because Irene and her twin sister Claire are so not identical, Claire wasn't even planning to come. Claire's party -- a celebratory horseback ride with two close friends -- had happened the weekend before. She did decide to join us at the last minute, but she wasn’t about to put on an outfit that matched Irene’s, even if there had been a second Blondie T-shirt and black tutu available. Lauren, Lexi, and I had joked about going as the triplets we were once mistaken for on a bus in Chicago, but Lexi was up to her eyeballs in Bikeworks Auction prep, and Lauren, of course, was in the Harborview ER. Half-hearted last-minute attempts to coordinate outfits with other people fell through, so the twins contest went on without us, alas.)

At first it was a little disconcerting to see a dozen of Irene’s friends mixed in with the regulars on the skating floor. For one thing, we’ve gotten used to weaving through the crowd anonymously... and suddenly here were all these familiar middle schoolers (some of whom we’ve known since they were five, for heaven’s sake) smiling and waving at us, sometimes going so far as to shout out “Hi, Mikala!” The regulars never do this, of course -- and why should they? -- but we hadn’t fully realized what a difference it makes to see a few friendly faces on our way around the rink. Most especially welcome was the sight of the birthday girl herself (who really is one of our favorite human beings) all decked out with black lace fluttering in her wake, definitely and absolutely a teenager at last. Happy Birthday, Irene!

(The otherwise fabulous evening was marred by an unfortunate spill that sent Karma to the hospital with a broken wrist -- Lauren later confirmed that she had seen a bored-looking girl sitting in the Harborview waiting room for three hours reading Mockingjay and nursing her left arm. Josie, who was at least partly responsible for the accident, spent the next day preparing a Get Well basket of cookies, topped with a pair of hand-made "POW!" and "BAM!" earrings. Apparently she’s forgiven. Heal fast, Karma!)