Memoir
Debauchery at Skateland
Pac Man Fever, Jord-ass jeans, and my first kiss
Weekend nights in 1982 did not always involve staying inside eating frozen Tony’s pizza with my brother and reenacting the Olivia Newton-John HBO concert in my purple culottes and leg warmers.
Oh no.
There was something bigger, something grander, something much more sacred on those Friday and Saturday nights.
Skateland.
Ah, Skateland. The smell of oil, cigarette smoke, and body odor emanating from the laundry basket hinted at the weekend’s past activities. Saturday nights were most popular but on Friday nights the evening ended with an hour-long sock hop until midnight. Our much-too-big brown skates (did rentals fit anyone?) were cast aside, and we’d hit the rink for, I suppose you could say, hopping around in our socks to such Skateland classics as “I Love Rock and Roll” and “Celebration” and “We Are Family.”
It’s amazing our parents willingly dropped us off every weekend as Skateland was the pure essence of preteen debauchery. A night of skating was preceded by careful preparation: extra-thick makeup, extra tight Jordache jeans (aka “Jord-ass jeans”), roller skate charm necklace, roach clip feathers attached to the belt loop, and half a can of Mega-Hold Aqua Net.
After all, on these nights, perhaps you’d be asked to dance the moonlight skate by some cute delinquent who would probably end up tripping you for kicks (there is no better way to skate to Kenny Rogers or Bob Seger than on your ass). Or, if you were like me, you skipped the moonlight skate (or at least the very painful exercise of lining up like bridesmaids in heat) and beelined it for the snack bar for a big honkin’ helping of french fries with vinegar. Washed down with Mountain Dew, snatch.
The thing not to miss was the triple skate. Usually, two girls and one poor boy stuck in the middle skating to a standby like “Pac Man Fever” or “Billie Jean” — whipping each other around the corners.
Skateland was the site of first kisses, the starting point of first going together, breakups, fights, food throwing, and in my case — having the ass ripped out of my jeans on more than one occasion. Some lucky kids — when we were younger — got to have birthday parties there: the hokey-pokey and assorted hilarity ensued. There was also the arcade in the back and the rush of bumming rides from other parents at midnight else facing the fear of getting stuck alone and in the dark. Oh, so alone.
[*Record Scratch*/*Freeze Frame*]
Yup, that’s me. You’re probably wondering if Skateland was the site of my first kiss?
It was.
And let me tell you, it was a pretty typical Skateland situation, and totally not romantic.
His name was Bucky. Which should tell you something right there, and not because it was my dad’s name.
He was a year or two younger than me, a small little guy — a good few inches shorter, and was from “the other side of the tracks.” Known to be from a rough family, running with a rough crowd, this cigarette smoking little shit put his eyes on me one night and didn’t stop until he had me pushed against the skate lockers with his tongue down my throat.
Oh, and the ass ripped out of my jord-ass jeans that night too, so there I was making out with Bucky — my first “kiss” — with my little flowered panties hanging out for the rest of Skateland to see.
That’s it. There was no Pretty In Pink future for Bucky and me — he was just a little too much of a ruffian for my taste. I liked my boys either creative and weird or smart and geeky.
[*Record Scratch*/*Unfreeze*]
There was always some girl with scary eyeliner (not me) and big boobs (definitely not me) making out with a boy much too old for her in a dark corner. There was always a geek girl (not me) or three (OK, maybe once or twice) sobbing in the bathroom. There were the guys who were too cool for skating and just hanging out in the arcade. Or the boys skating around tripping all the girls (totally me). There were always the chicks skate dancing around to disco-pop, showing off their mad skills while channeling their inner-Xanadu. (Ahem.) And the one who would light up whenever her theme song (yes, Xanadu) came on, narrowing her eyes, and suddenly getting lost in a world on wheels where no one else existed. (I can’t imagine how completely idiotic she must have looked to the other kids.) (OK, me.) This might explain that beelining to the snack bar thing rather than sticking around to be humiliated by not being asked for a “moonlight skate” with some unibrowed loser that smelled like skate oil and body odor. But I’m not bitter.
There was something a little bad, a little exciting, a little grownup, and a little innocent about nights at Skateland. And having fallen in love with skating as a young girl, it was one of my favorite pastimes by default. It wouldn’t matter what day of the week it was or who was there…as long as there was cheesy music blasting and a pair of quads on my feet.
One day, it suddenly wasn’t cool to be seen at Skateland anymore. It wasn’t the place to be, and it wasn’t even cool to admit that you missed it. I suppose other things became cooler like parties, drinking, and watching movies at friend’s houses (you know, with the invention of Betamax and all), music videos, dances, and eventually bar hopping in Canada.
But at that point the idea of roller skating had sort of become crippled along with the death of disco and anything considered “retro” at that point wasn’t really “retro” but just sort of lame, and something your parents would like. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
In a way, Skateland helped shape the person I am today. While I’d say that the smell of oil, cigarette smoke, and body odor on my clothes in the morning would actually be a pretty good indicator that I might be in trouble, rather than having had a good night (maybe), and my hair is probably still damaged from all that Aqua Net — even now that it’s like 80 years later — and I’d still likely beeline for the snack bar rather than stand around for some lame moonlight skate.
I did learn to channel my focus and mimic that feeling I would get when a favorite song would play…to find that place when I need it most in my own little world, Xanadu playing in my mind, armed with the knowledge that nothing can get in my way. No matter how idiotic I look.
Or so I keep telling myself.
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