And Dingo Came Tumbling After

If the name Central Park Dance Skaters brings to mind the snoozefest of Brian Boitano and that girl who always looks as if she slathered her hair with bear grease and had Bobo the Monkey apply her make-up Oksana Baiul on roller skates, stop right there.  Imagine the showmanship of MC Hammer dancing on a treadmill (include the Hammer pants), throw in a couple of George Clinton look-alikes and some well-meaning white people trying to channel Vanilla Ice.  Now, imagine all of them skate dancing on old-school roller skates to music you wish your parents played at the family BBQ.  Are you feelin’ it yet?  Are your feet tapping and hips shakin’ to Turn This Mutha Out? Perhaps you’re groovin’ to Stevie Wonder’s Superstition? Well, stop it.  Your co-workers are wondering if you’re having some sort of seizure.  Anyway, The Central Park Dance Skaters are free entertainment every Saturday and the crowd lining the edge of the impromptu rink and sitting on the nearby hill have as much fun watching as the skaters have skating. 

I would love to join the skaters but, alas, I have no inner Pam Grier (the only Foxy Brown, in my book) to let loose in the skating rink.  I’m more Marcia Brady, and Innernetz, believe me, no one wants to see her milkshake.  I also have a disorder that prevents me from taking part in activities requiring coordination and agility.  The scientific name for it is falldown uncoordinated cantwalkand khewgum embarrassment disorder.  Most people simply refer to it as FUCKED.  I’ve been susceptible to FUCKED all my life. It tends to strike without warning and with as much humiliation as possible. 

You’d like an example?  My, you are a bloodthirsty crowd, aren’t you?  But because I love you, here goes . . .  . It was the week before my law school mid-terms and I needed a study break and some exercise. I laced up my rollerblades and decided that I would skate to Town Center to run some errands. I had never skated to Town Center before.  The tree-lined street I lived on ran through a residential area but it was heavily traveled by eighteen-wheelers and dump trucks careening down the street like they’d just heard Carmen Electra was giving free blow jobs at the local truck stop.  And if the streets were bad, the sidewalks were worse.  Small, cramped, and controlled by the mommies with their SUV strollers riding up the back of your ankles and their organic unbleached hemp diaper bags swinging ominously from their shoulders like Poe’s pendulum.

In spite of the road and sidewalk hazards, I set out on my journey.  Hell, I’d just spent six hours studying Property Law, I think I subconsciously wanted a truck or a heavy duty double-wide stroller to put me out of my misery.  I had to use the sidewalk because the street was packed.  One of the local schools had a football game scheduled for later that afternoon and all the entrances to the football field were backed up at least two miles in every direction.  I waved to the tailgaters and rowdy fans as if I were a one-woman promotional tour for Starlight Express.  Successfully dodging the mommy brigades and their diaper bags of doom, I made it to Town Center with all limbs intact.  After a lunch of Rocky Road ice cream, I picked up a few books , toilet paper, and a 2-liter Diet Coke, stuck them into my backpack and headed home. 

“Funny, I don’t remember having to blade up such a steep incline!” I thought to myself as I stood on wobbly ankles at the top of what looked like an Olympic Ski Jump. I could see my apartment at the bottom of the hill as if peering through the wrong end of a telescope.  “And when did those retaining walls get here?” Many of the yards had the four-foot tall stone walls for which New England is famous.  Other homes simply let their lawns gently slope to the sidewalk.  Both options thwarted my plan to use the grass as an emergency brake. 

I began my descent.  All went well until I hit a root sticking through a crack in the sidewalk.  I probably would’ve been able to regain my balance if it weren’t for the books and Diet Coke shifting around in the backpack.  My arms flailed in all directions but my feet kept moving forward.  Houses, trees, and cars passed by at supersonic speed.  All I could think of was, “Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall,” as if barreling down the sidewalk like a marionette on meth was a better alternative. 

During my rapid descent and my attempts to stay upright, the tips of my roller blades danced off the sidewalk in frantic pointe work, tap tap tap, but as I picked up momentum they became mini-jackhammers, taptaptaptaptap.  I was running on my toes trying to catch up to my dignity when I hit another root.  And. Went. Flying.  My feet left the sidewalk and curved into a grassy embankment.  “Whew!” I thought, “I’ll finally stop.” But, no.  I was going too fast.  I launched up the embankment as if propelled from a sling shot.  Up, up, up, I went!  Time stopped.  I was suspended in mid-air among the clouds.  Weightless.  I could touch the sun.  Oh, Icarus! 

I landed on my books and Diet Coke.  The backpack exploded and I was doused with caramelly, carbonated, high fructose corn syrup.  One of my roller blades came off.  It was going up as I was falling down.  I could see it reach its apex and pause for a moment, a serpent about to strike, before it started its rapid free fall toward my head.  I threw my hands up over my face and rolled.  Down the embankment.  Across the sidewalk.  To the curb.  Leaving Diet Coke and clumps of Charmin in my wake.

My loose skate followed me down the embankment but when it hit the sidewalk it rolled four more feet before coming to a stop.  I don’t know how long I sat at the curb staring dizzily at the cars as I gathered my breath and checked for broken bones (there were none).  I do know that with the hundreds of eyes staring at me from the road, none of those fuckers came to help.  No one asked how I was or if I was hurt.  I tried to give them the finger but my hands were so sore my fingers wouldn’t bend.  I’m sure those who bothered to look my way wondered why the girl with one skate was giving them the high-five.  I hope their team lost.  And got jock itch.  Fuckers.  Somehow, I retrieved my loose skate and, one skate off, one skate on, hobbled the remaining quarter mile of shame home where my landlord who was out raking the leaves saw me, dropped her rake, ran inside and returned with a towel, band aids, and two cocktail glasses full of Tennesse’s finest. We drank it with what was left of the Diet Coke.

I know my limits and no matter how fun it looks, The Central Park Skate Dancers will have to do without me.  But, since I already know I can fly, I signed up for a one day class at the New York Trapeze School.  So, who wants to hold my Jack and Coke?

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