I
Once upon a time, a fourteen-year-old boy went roller skating on a Sunday, March 1986, at Liberty Skate Center in Eldersburg, Maryland. He’d planned to go a few weeks earlier but got sick with the flu, delaying the anticipated trip to the skating rink.
Perhaps the illness was fate, for on this Sunday, our hero would meet the girl who’d become his first official girlfriend for the next year and five months, Amy.
The time of change and uncertainty was about to kick into high gear for this boy, and they would come fast.
That boy was me.
Amy and I were standing in the skate rental line when we met. She was the prettiest little thing. I wish I could say what sparked the conversation. I’m sure whatever it was, it was my version of flirting at that age, which usually meant some joke or witty observation.
She was there with some of her friends, one of them celebrating a birthday party, which at a skating rink was not uncommon. Liberty Skate had an entire room devoted to them. Amy and I would conveniently run into each other at the snack bar, the arcade, or the skating floor. We’d share smiles, laughs, and simple conversations when her friends were doing other things.
But I didn’t ask her to couple’s skate when the rink D.J. would announce them every so often. I’m not even sure if it was a confidence issue. I think it might’ve been fear of rejection. I just didn’t want this cute little girl paying attention to me to say no. Plus, I didn’t yet know how to skate backward. Sure, kids would hold hands as they skated forward as a pair, but honestly, that’s not how I envisioned couples skating. I always saw hands on hips and shoulders. I couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was all those years of learning to skate at Sportsman’s Hall, watching other people couple skate. Including my father, Charlie, with someone not Mom.
II
Anyone in Maryland’s Baltimore and Carroll counties who enjoyed roller skating knows Sportsman’s Hall. It was one of the first skating rinks in the area, built in 1951 by the legendary Harry Morfoot. Sportsman’s Hall was a massive complex. The original building featured a then state-of-the-art maple hardwood floating floor, with an arched wooded roof constructed to provide superb acoustics to accommodate all the organ music they used to play there. In addition, they had one bitchin’ lighting system. Very disco, very retro. And, of course, the massive disco ball hanging in the middle of the rink with spotlights that, when lit, would flood the arena with uncountable arrays of lights from the spinning mirrors. There was always something about that rink’s lighting system that fascinated me. It’s part of my unnatural obsession with lights and lighting systems.
Our family began going to Sportsman’s Hall in 1979. All four of us…at first. Mom will tell you she wasn’t a good skater, which made sense, as the hobby was all Charlie’s. To his credit, he was an excellent skater and could do some crazy jump and spin moves. And speed skate. And skate backward.
I wanted to do those things, too, as they just looked so fucking cool. But at seven, I didn’t know how to skate, much less balance myself with four small wheels underneath each foot. And poor Meg; she was only five.
Fortunately, Sportsman’s Hall contained a “beginner’s rink” separate from the main rink, with the two connected by a set of always locked wooden doors with mesh screens. I always guessed it was for kids left in that smaller rink to see their parents. I mean, we were Gen-X kids, after all. Parents leaving us to fend for ourselves in a beginner’s rink while they skated in the larger one was commonplace. We could take care of ourselves. Also, a floor monitor would occasionally check on the smaller rink. We were good.
The beginner’s rink also contained a U-shaped railing in the middle where beginner skaters of all ages had something to grab into when we lost balance, but still somehow always ended up on our asses. It took several visits to Sportsman’s Hall to master the craft well enough to leave the beginner’s rink and approach the main one, probably to Charlie’s chagrin. I guess he assumed Meg and I were as stupid as he was and would never learn to skate well enough to leave the confines of the beginner’s arena.
The first few trips to the rink were as a family. As 1979 progressed, Charlie would take Meg and me on Friday nights. Mom stopped going. Roller skating wasn’t her bag. On those Fridays, sis and I would continue self-instruction in the beginner’s rink, occasionally working our way out to the snack bar and arcade directly outside the beginner’s entrance. Usually, Charlie would come and get us for the typical skating rink dinner of in-house pizza and super-sugary Coke.
Since trips to the rink were once a week, sometimes once every two weeks, it took many months to learn to skate with no railing or suddenly losing balance, followed by the circular waving of the arms in a futile attempt to maintain balance before planting ass directly on the hardwood floor.
By the end of 1979, I was skating well enough to use the main rink, albeit slowly and usually very near to the concrete wall. I wasn’t confident enough to maintain balance to skate in the fairway or the center of the floor, where other amateur skaters seemed to converge. I occasionally noticed Charlie and his friends, of which he seemed to have a few at the rink. At first, I paid little attention to Charlie’s entourage, and that one was a woman his age. I’d observe how the other more seasoned skaters glided effortlessly across the floor while grooving to the organ music Harry would often play.
The key to successfully making those wide turns at the rink’s ends was not to lean into them on shaking skates and push off through it. No, the adults crossed their legs as they pushed, which seemed to help maintain balance while gaining speed. That would be my next self-taught lesson. I really wanted to get better at skating and be as good at it as dear old dad. Sufficed to say, it took a few more months before I picked up that skating style and ventured farther into the rink at greater speeds. But Meg was still in the beginner’s rink, and often Charlie would send me back there to ‘keep an eye on her.’
Charlie could be a mean prick of misery if he wanted to. Or worse, I was more worried he’d stop taking us skating. So, I’d comply even if zipping through the smaller beginner’s rink was incredibly dull. There were also none of those flashy multi-colored disco lights back there. I took the time there to learn to skate backward. Turns out it’s a much more challenging task I didn’t fully grasp until I was older. And also because soon, Charlie would stop taking us skating.
Most times, Charlie would send me on sister duty during those dreaded couple skates. It made sense. I was eight. I had no girlfriend or anyone to couple skate with.
Usually, Meg was fine and was skating well enough that she didn’t need me to check on her. She, too, was eager to venture into the larger rink. I wouldn’t always stay in the beginner’s rink during those couple skates. I’d watch through the meshed doors into the main rink. Harry would turn off the wall and ceiling lights, activate the spotlights that lit up the massive disco ball in the rink’s center and play love songs. Kool and the Gang’s “Cherish,” Peaches and Herb’s “Reunited,” or Paul Davis’ “I Go Crazy.” Those songs always seem to trigger memories of skating as a kid at Sportsman’s Hall. Great songs, though.
Then, during one trip to Sportsman’s Hall, I left the beginner’s rink before couple’s skate finished and stood behind one of the barrier walls encircling the main rink and looked out.
I saw something that really upset me.
Charlie was couple skating with another woman who wasn’t Mom.
III
My eight-year-old brain didn’t know what to think of that. One must imagine being that young and watching either parent engage in what one might perceive as a romantic act with someone other than their husband or wife.
Besides confusion, I think I may have been offended. How dare he! And who the hell was this other woman?
I must have stood there and stared for too long. Charlie eventually noticed. When couple’s skate was over, he quickly sought me out, probably to do damage control. I asked why he was skating with someone who wasn’t Mom. Charlie explained she was just a friend of Harry’s.
In reality, that wasn’t a lie. Her name was Eileen, and she was Harry’s sister-in-law. Charlie also suggested in his not-so-subtle way that telling Mom might not be a good idea. I wasn’t comfortable with Charlie’s request. While it’s common practice as children to tell our parents little white lies, one parent suggesting the keeping of a secret from another wasn’t something I wanted to do. Plus, I was paranoid Mom would look at me, see something was wrong, and force me to spill. That was way too much pressure. I was already feeling anxious about far too many things. Both my parents used to call me a ‘worry wart.’ Well, yeah. I had what humanity would eventually label as an anxiety disorder. Plus, there’s the whole Aspie thing, and that wouldn’t appear in the DSM until 1994.
Needless to say, I quickly folded under pressure and told Mom soon after that I saw Charlie skating with another woman. The result of that was pretty much the same story Charlie fed me. She’s just a friend, and it meant nothing.
That wasn’t the truth, though.
IV
Sportsman’s Hall also contained an apartment in the building’s rear that was unavailable to the public. I don’t remember why, but I knew this. Harry and his wife Agnes lived there. He had a plethora of antique pinball machines in the storage area behind the main rink, too. I’m talking about machines from the 50s with a scoreboard comprising spinning number wheels, real bells, and the cheesiest artwork. I have no doubt they were worth more than a few bucks. It’s a crying fucking shame Harry lost them all when Sportsman’s Hall burned to the ground via arson in 1992. Or maybe it was karma. Not really my place to say, is it?
It was in this apartment that my father used to take Eileen to fuck her while Meg and I were his cover story, left clueless in the beginner’s rink. When I caught him couple skating with her, I’d busted his sorry ass without realizing it and then told Mom.
There were details I didn’t learn until 1986, when I inadvertently, once again, found evidence of Charlie having yet another affair while he was on the road, away on one of his ‘work trips.’
Maybe that’s one of the reasons he hated or at least resented me so much as I grew older. I felt that way many times until that bitter day in March 1992, when he finally showed me how much he hated me through his actions.
V
Charlie fancied himself a biker and desperately wanted a motorcycle. Mom was against it, as she thought they were dangerous. He got one anyway, which Mom tolerated, citing clearly that he was not taking Meg or me for rides on it. In his spiteful, passive-aggressive way, Charlie did it anyway. Mom found out and busted a gut. Rightfully so. Charlie was not practicing safety when he plopped me on the seat before him and took off. I’m sure I innocently ratted him out on that as well.
Fucking idiot. Mom was right. Charlie’s genuine resentment of me began when I turned three and became more intelligent than him.
The aftermath of Eileen becoming a known variable and the incident with the motorcycle was a massive fight between them. They blew up at each other one afternoon while Meg and I played with the neighbor kids outside their trailer. The excessive shouting caught the attention of the four of us. I couldn’t hear exactly what they were yelling at each other, except they were loud enough to be heard next door.
Listening to them scream at each other was traumatizing. I wanted to break down and cry. I didn’t want my parents to get divorced, and I feared the result of what happened that day would be exactly that.
I asked Mom later on if they were going to get divorced. Whether or not it was the truth, she assured me that wouldn’t happen. It’s just that sometimes mommies and daddies don’t get along. What else could she say, really? She certainly wouldn’t tell an eight-year-old boy the truth about what was happening. Part of the truth was we weren’t well off financially. Even if Mom wanted to leave, there were two elementary school-aged children to consider. Where would we go?
In 1981, Charlie sold his motorcycle. We were moving to Woodbine, Maryland, that winter as part of a plan for them to have a fresh start.
I really wish I could say, ‘and we all lived happily ever after.’ That doesn’t happen in real life. It’s all fairy tale bullshit. By 1983, the company Charlie worked for was sending him on the road again for long-term projects. First, to Montrose, Colorado. Then to Dayton, Ohio, in 1985. He didn’t change. His fucking around started up again.
Those were the years I was in middle school and needed a father the most. I know now that it would’ve made no difference if Charlie had been home. He wasn’t my biggest fan. I was only interesting to him if we were doing things he wanted to do. Otherwise, I was an inconvenience. He would also often say shit about Mom that was utterly inappropriate.
That would all come to a head in the fall of 1987.
VI
The Sunday session at Liberty Skate ended. Amy and I sat on the bench across from the D.J. booth, talking and laughing. I did something utterly uncharacteristic as we were unlacing our rental skates and prying them off our feet.
I asked her if I could have her phone number and maybe call her sometime. Perhaps we could go skating again, minus the birthday party. Kind of like…a date?
Amy enthusiastically agreed and wrote her number on the ripped half of the ticket she received to enter the rink. The best time to call would be in the evenings, after six, but before nine.
Then she asked for my number. I wrote it down for her on my ticket stub and told her she could call whenever she wanted. It’s funny. Before Amy left with her friends, she looked back and said, “Kev, why didn’t you ask me to couple skate with you?”
I, not expecting that question, stared back deadpan. “I, uh…I don’t know. I wanted to.”
“You should have. Ask me next time. Okay?”
I smiled. “It’s a deal.”
I stuck my hand out for a shake. Amy took it and gave me an exaggerated shake. Then she kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “Call me.”
My jaw dropped, and I watched her walk out the door into the lobby.
Charlie, who’d already arrived to pick me up, began teasing me about having a girlfriend. I rolled my eyes when he wasn’t looking and informed him she wasn’t my girlfriend…yet.
I wouldn’t see Amy for another month.
VII
I called Amy later that night. If we had rules about how long one needed to wait to call a girl they had just met, I didn’t know them. I had a phone in my room but not a dedicated phone line. Not yet, anyways. Those were expensive. So were features like Caller ID and Call Waiting, all new things recently introduced in our area of Maryland.
Call Waiting had become necessary by that summer because Amy and I were hogging up all the phone time. Spats about who got the phone and when were becoming a thing not well-liked by anyone. Not just between Meg and me, but also with Mom. She had an emotionally unstable friend who was always calling to talk about her drama-filled life and could never get through. Conversely, if Mom’s friend was clogging up the line during the small window of opportunity to talk to Amy in the evening, I’d be mildly irked. I’d complain that this person could call any freakin’ time she wanted, and Amy’s time was limited to a few hours in the evening. We wouldn’t get a second line until 1987, as the demand for one line between three people became too great.
Phone time challenges aside, Amy and I called each other daily for that first month. We’d already planned another trip to Liberty Skate. This time, she’d dutifully inform me I would couple skate with her. Over those weeks, I’d take weekend trips to Liberty Skate as often as I could afford it (or beg Mom for some money if I promised to do chores) specifically to learn how to skate backward. When I tell you I committed to the goal with the utmost seriousness, it’s no exaggeration. On the weekend before Amy would meet me at Liberty Skate, I’d learned the technique well enough not to fall over as long as I went slow. I wasn’t worried. It was for a couple’s skate, after all. Speed wouldn’t be a factor.
VII
During those phone calls, as part of what was budding into my first long-distance relationship, was when Amy and I began to really get to know each other. I’ll preface this tale now by saying Amy and I, not once in the time we dated, ever slept together. We were too young. I was fourteen, and she was twelve when we met. That would have been too soon for either of us. Sex was not part of our relationship, at least it wasn’t until toward the end. But before then, she and I were all about finding ways to see each other to do innocent boyfriend/girlfriend things, with maybe a little kissing and necking on the side as 1987 drew closer.
I quickly learned about Amy’s family. She had two younger siblings, Aaron and Becky. Her father, Irv, was a former bodybuilder and one big dude. His voice was unusually deep, like he might be a radio D.J. Turns out he was an auctioneer. Her mother, Debbie, was a stay-at-home mom and a very sweet lady. At least she always was with me. On the other hand, Big Irv (what Mom and I called him due to his sheer size) tolerated me as best he could.
Why?
Besides the fact that Amy had a boy in her life who liked her and wanted to spend time with her, she was also part of a Jewish family. Jew, Christian, Catholic, Baptist, whatever! That meant nothing to me. Who cares? People are people. I wasn’t old enough to understand the politics behind a Jewish girl not seeing a Jewish boy. Big Irv, it seems, may have had a bigoted attitude where I was concerned. I always assumed he didn’t care for me because, eventually, Amy and I were ‘going steady.’
Honestly, I’m glad I didn’t know. The last thing I needed was Amy’s dad telling me I wasn’t good enough for his daughter because I didn’t practice the correct religion. I’d have gotten defensive. I can almost imagine Amy’s mother telling her father to calm down for a minute. It’s not like they’re going to get married! They’re just kids!
They lived in Randallstown, Maryland when Amy and I met. Randallstown is a predominantly black area, the next town from my old stomping grounds of Lochearn and before the Liberty Reservoir bridge that separates Baltimore and Carroll counties. The proverbial ‘right and wrong sides of the tracks,’ if such labels suit ya fine! In my eyes, the town was good for only two things: Lionel ToyTown, where one could choose from a wide array of model cars unfound at Kmart in Eldersburg, and Recordtown, one of the largest record stores I’d ever visited, far more expansive than the tiny one-room record store at Carrolltowne mall. Families were moving away from the area because of the crime and the danger. My family did, and Amy’s would be no exception. Big Irv bought a home away from the area during our first month of chatting over the phone.
After careful scheduling, Amy and I arranged another rendezvous at Liberty Skate in early April, on a Sunday. Charlie took me and dropped me off after meeting Amy’s father. When I saw Big Irv for the first time, I nearly shit my pants. The dude was tall and stacked. He wasn’t someone that anyone would want to piss off or meet in a dark alley.
To my surprise, Big Irv dropped Amy off, leaving us to our devices. I thought for sure he’d stay and watch us like a hungry vulture. Our much-anticipated reunion was much like the day we met. Only this time, we knew each other better and were more comfortable. I couldn’t tell you everything we discussed, except I forgot to bring her the novel I’d been writing. Its working title was “The Orange,” which refers to the color, not the fruit. I’d described it to her over the last month and that I was still actively working on it. She wanted to read it. So I offered to bring her the only known copy, half typed and half handwritten, understanding that a second date would be required so I could get it back.
We spun around the rink for the first hour, which was considerably smaller than Sportsman’s Hall. Amy wasn’t using the cross-step techniques during turns and had difficulty keeping her balance. Sometimes we’d grab hands to hold on to each other as we made the wide turns.
Then the moment finally came. As Mötley Crüe’s “Smokin’ In the Boy’s Room” ended, Kenny the D.J. called out, “Guys, it’s time to grab your girl and get out on the floor for couple’s skate.” I watched the sign on the far wall change from “All Skate” to “Couple’s.” This was it. This was the moment we pondered for nearly a month.
VIII
To watch Amy and me, the scene looked like something out of a teen coming-of-age movie. We were already on the floor. We stopped skating and looked at each other. Since Amy was at least a foot shorter than I was, I looked down into her deep brown eyes and smiled. She stared back up, hopeful. I swear I could have seen little hearts popping over her head. Or maybe they were mine. Who can say? We’d not come close to saying those three intense words that would take a relationship to the next level. Technically, we were still in the ‘getting to know you’ phase and liked what we saw.
I turned around and faced her, my back to the flow of rink traffic, and held out my hands. She took them and allowed me to pull her closer. Her arms encircled my neck as my hands wrapped around her waist.
I pushed off with my right skate, sending us slowly forward as the music began. Madonna – “Crazy For You.” A big smile grew across Amy’s cute face. Madonna was her favorite performer.
We said nothing as the music played. I’d stare into Amy’s eyes between the occasional quick glance to ensure I wouldn’t run into anyone as I was asking backward with no line of sight. She stared up into mine and smiled.
“I’m crazy for you. Touch me once, and you’ll know it’s true. I never wanted anyone like this. It’s all brand new. You’ll feel it in my kiss. I’m crazy for you.”
The power of music during those formative years between twelve and twenty-two is an undeniable phenomenon. When I hear that song today, I can still see her face and the unbelievable number of butterflies dancing inside me. There’s nothing in life more intense than teenage love. Just because the words hadn’t been spoken didn’t mean I didn’t feel something intense for Amy. She was the first. I wanted that overdose of endorphins to last forever.
Remember, this wasn’t about sex or some kind of sexual lust. This was pure, innocent first love, and my God, I can only surmise that we keep dating after the inevitable breakups because we’re chasing that dragon, that high of the first.
Nothing feels so good. I miss that kind of raw, unfiltered intensity. I suspect that’s why I enjoyed getting high so much later in life. It was to make up for the love I wasn’t getting.
When the song was over, Amy and I left the floor to sit down and have a bite to eat. You know, skating rink pizza and overly sweet Coke. We agreed that forevermore, “Crazy for You” would be our song.
IX
We ate our meal at one of the rearmost tables of the snack bar. A booth set at the back of the building, past the arcade. No one else was back there. I’m sure had others been, they’d have seen little hearts fluttering up from between the table and popping in the air. We sat next to each other, not across. When lunch was over, Amy positioned herself between my legs with her back toward me as I leaned against the concrete wall. She snuggled in, and we sat there talking for the rest of the skating session. I had to promise never to sit in that seat with anyone else. It was ‘our spot.’
I can honestly say that I never shared that booth with another person between that day and when Liberty Skate closed in 1989.
X
Three significant events were happening the months of April and May 1986. First, Amy’s family was moving out of their apartment in Randallstown to a house on the outskirts of Reisterstown near Interstate 140. That was a big deal for them and certainly an upgrade. Second, my family was planning a reunion where cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandparents would gather at Piney Run Park in Eldersburg and socialize. Amy and I worked it out with our parents so she could go with us. But her home in Reisterstown and mine in Woodbine were more than a half-hour apart. After negotiating, our parents agreed on a ‘halfway spot’ directly over the Liberty Reservoir bridge leading into Baltimore county. There was a Little George’s convenience store on the hill after the bridge that would suffice. It wasn’t exactly halfway, though. Big Irv had a lesser drive. True halfway would have been between the two Liberty Road bridges at Shervette’s Corner, but whatever. I didn’t figure that out until 1987 after looking at it on a map. I didn’t dare tell Charlie out of fear he’d want the location renegotiated and Big Irv rejecting it. I always felt walking on eggshells around Big Irv was a prerequisite for dating his daughter. Every pickup and drop-off during my relationship with Amy happened at that Little George’s on the outskirts of Randallstown. Those didn’t happen as often as one might think. If Amy and I saw each other once a month, save for special occasions, we considered ourselves lucky. We did most of our relationship over the phone. It took its toll in the end. One of many reasons.
Finally, Bad Relative promoted me to the lighting crew’s ‘chief’ for South Caroll’s production of “Strangers in the Night,” the spring play starring our former heroine Joy, her beau Paul, and a girl named Dawn, who would play the role of Sylvia Lee. We’d perform the third weekend in May, which meant many rehearsals for the first couple of weeks of May.
Dawn would be half the reason for the first argument Amy and I would have when the “Strangers in the Night” production ended. The other half was on me for not telling Amy the next day what happened at the cast party the night before.
To be continued…
