The Brass in Pocket, the Quarters in My Shoes

Two shiny quarters and a song marked the end of the innocence for me.

***

An Ancestry cheek swab isn't necessary to decode my heritage. I'm the end product of a long line of worriers. My ancient relatives invented prevent-defense. 'Hope for the best and expect the worst' is encoded in our DNA. We aren't a people that can be lulled into a false sense of security. Not even Eastern Washington in the 70s with its slow-mosey pace of life was enough to lower our guards. I was eight years old. Truth be told, my guard was down. Not so much down as holey, chicken wire fencing, not yet cobbled stone walls.

That would all change when my cash-strapped mother purchased me a pair of sneakers that had tiny pockets sewn into them.

Peachy gray and low top, the shoes were a half size too big, but Mom said I'd grow into them soon enough. Thin-soled, I knew a few weeks of hard play at recess would split the rubber, rain would leak through the bottoms and soak my socks. But for the time being, they were pristine, and modern. In lieu of laces these shoes had zippers. They were called Kangaroos because of the clever zipping pouches.

The first time I wore them, my mother tucked a shiny quarter into each pocket and said, "Use these to call me at anytime from anywhere for a ride home. No questions asked." I shrugged it off, because what did I know about desperation? I wasn't even double digits.

Back then, a phone call from a payphone cost a quarter. If you're unfamiliar with the concept, the caller would open an accordion door, step inside the tight space and shut the door. Slip a quarter into the slot near the top of the silver phone and press the numbers to the home or business you sought. A thick phonebook hung from a chain in the booth in case you didn't know the number heart. Push the numbers, hold the receiver to an ear and hope to god someone answered.

All that cost one quarter.

My mother had given me two. What did she know that I didn't? Scenarios rifled through my mind. Did she think I'd skip school, get caught and tossed into juvenile detention? Be stolen by the cult that was poisoning salad bars in Umatilla? Did she think I was stupid enough to pick a sticker of Mickey Mouse in his wizard's costume off the ground that everyone knew was laced with drugs? My old Hush Puppies, outgrown, scuffed and stinky, now felt like the last vestige of my innocence.

As my brain cooked up more wild dangers, the only phone in our apartment rang. On the other end of the line, my friend Jackie asked if I wanted to go roller skating. Her parents would drive us. Would my mother pick us up afterwards? I covered the mouthpiece and asked Mom. Soon, I was out the door, custom roller skates in my arms.

Within minutes, Jackie and I were at the rink. We paid the gruff man at the ticket booth for the afternoon session, and he turned over our right hands, stamping the backs with a blue star. Then we raced through the double doors, eager to trade our sneakers for wheels.

The Rollerina felt like home. The year before, Jackie had talked me into taking lessons with her. I'd picked up the sport fast. I was good, really good. I could skate backwards and forwards, spin myself dizzy, leap into axels, land clean, and cut crisp loop-de-loops over black circles painted in the center of the rink. I tried to bring the grace and awe of ice skating to the rolling variety–the only option offered at the time in the Tri-Cities.

Whenever I skated, I imagined ice instead of wood beneath my wheels. I watched every ice skating competition aired on television. I cut my hair to resemble gold medalist, Dorothy Hamill and recreated her routines on Rollerina's maple-hardwood floor. I even owned a skating outfit, a red unitard with a mini-flared skirt and flattering blue swoop.

The rink was my happy place.

School on the other hand hurt my head. I tried to steer clear of drama, keep up on fads, fit in, but somehow I always stepped in social mousetraps. Were we playing kickball with the boys, or shunning them this week? Could I hang upside down on the monkey bars without my underwear showing in a dress or not? Would it benefit me to name-drop to the substitute teacher that I was the younger sister of brilliant Garth? Should I hold my nose and eat the tray of cafeteria lunch or go hungry? Every aspect of school life wound me up, often resulting in an afterschool migraine.

Rollerina, on the other hand, was predictable, safe, and comforting. Like a blanket and a warm cup of milk, the place sent my anxiety-laced DNA into hibernation. From the deepest shoe cubby to the cleanest bathroom stall to the most generous snack bar worker, to the sketchiest vending machine, Rollerina held no surprises. In a good way.

Most kids at open sessions had to rent skates for an additional fee. Finding their way to the rental desk was a breeze, one that reeked of stinky socks and foot deodorizer. Band-Aid beige, withered leather, frayed laces, unoiled wheels, hulking toe-stops, stinky insoles; everything about those rental numbers conspired to make standing up near impossible and the act of rolling forward calamitous. I wanted to warn them off, but walked past in silence, fearing someone might try to steal my fancy white skates instead.

"Size five, please!" I overheard as I passed, holding my skates close.

At an empty bench, I switched into skates, then tucked my Kangaroos in a cubby. I adjusted my red laces, double-knotted the bows, fluffed the pom poms affixed to the tips that I'd made with allowance money and a skein of Kmart yarn, dusted off the white leather boots and glided onto the rink. I knew I'd find Jackie at center rink. It's where we liked to show off in the scattered light of the disco ball.

It was hard to ignore the new skaters who struggled to acclimate. If they had tied their laces too loose, they had zero chance of staying upright. Some stood on shaky legs and hobbled across the carpet to the nearest opening. They'd step onto the rink holding the pony wall in a death grip. Often their skates would slip out from beneath them and they'd topple to the ground. If they were lucky, a friend skated by and lent a hand.

I'd circle the rink and watch as they tried again and again. They'd test out their wheels, steady their legs and push off into the wide open floor. If they took steps instead of rolling, their feet would fly out ahead of them and down they'd go again. By my fourth or fifth lap around the ring, most of the newcomers were figuring it out. But those early successes were fragile like a butterfly's wing. If they dared wave at a friend, down they'd go again.

Those afternoon sessions attracted a fair share of junior high kids, often at Rollerina on forbidden business. Yes, they were there to meet dates, which made my single-digit stomach a little queasy. The couples rarely graced the rink, choosing to linger in the carpeted perimeter and mash faces. If a slow song came on overhead, though, they'd grip hands and hit the floor. I made certain they had no peace during those 'Couples Only!' skates. I spent every note of those starlit ballads ducking under their laced fingers, causing them to jolt and skitter. I'd turn around and skate backward watching them trip in slow motion.

In the furthest bend of the rink behind a curve of plexiglass sat the deejay. He was a teenager and in all the hours I'd spent here, I'd not once seen his legs. Not once. He was a tenth grade torso, neck and face dotted with angry red acne. I never laughed at him though because he had a position of power, and he knew it. Rivaled only by the likes of swimming pool lifeguards and high school PE assistants, the deejay knew true responsibility. He was the heartbeat of the rink. His music choices set the tone and the pace of every session. And rumor had it if you asked nice, he'd play requests!

The week prior, Jackie and I worked up the courage to ask for a song. We'd watched others pass the deejay a slip of paper, so we scrounged a napkin from the snack stand, begged off a pen from the guy at the rental desk and, because Jackie said I had nicer handwriting, printed out, Staying Alive by the Bee Gees. At the last second, I added a heart. We skated over to the booth together and Jackie slipped the napkin over the plexiglass. We waved and smiled, but his expression was flat, unreadable. We held out hope he'd play our song. Instead, Donna Summer crooned, Bad Girls over the speakers. It had to be a message. We swore to never ever give him our attention again.

All skating sessions included a round of Shoot the Duck! An announcement was made, then a song played. Everyone on the floor skated in the normal fashion, then a countdown began. At One! everyone squatted down and rolled forward, then grabbed the toe of one skate boot, lifting it off the rink. I don't know what the awkward position had to do with shooting ducks, but we all held steady as long as possible. One by one skaters slowed, then tumbled until I was the only one upright, stock-still, pom pom in hand.

And to the victor come the spoils. The deejay announced that the winner was to report to the concession stand.

I sped to the nearest gap in the sideboards and shouted "I won!" to the entangled teens in the shadows, then beelined to the snack bar. I always ordered a small soda, a three-foot-string of red licorice and a bag of popcorn. The feeling was electric. I was finally pulling my own weight!

One afternoon after lessons, Jackie and I hung out for the afternoon session. We planned to dazzle all in attendance with our new skills. We raced to center rink and linked hands, then crisscrossed wrists, jogging them up and down. We spun around and around in tandem to the sounds of Brass in Pocket by the Pretenders.

We broke apart, gained speed, then jumped, spinning in the air in synchronized axels. Brass in Pocket by the Pretenders played again.

Jackie and I skated backwards, fumbled into baby lutzes and spilled onto the floor. Laughing, I picked up the fat pink plastic comb that had fallen out of the back pocket of my jeans, and tried the jump again.

Brass in Pocket played a third time, then a fourth, then a fifth.

As the song played for the sixth time, Jackie and I skated to the deejay booth and pounded on the plexiglass. We looked inside and no one was there!

The song played 19 times straight.

"The brass...in pocket..."

It was musical torture. I knew the next playing would scramble my brains. We had to get out of there. And fast. That's when I remembered the quarters zipped into my sneaker pockets!

"Use these to call me at anytime from anywhere for a ride home. No questions asked."

I told Jackie about the payphone money and she squeezed me tight. We switched out of our skates into sneakers and held our hands over our ears, exiting the building. We found a payphone and dialed my home number. As we waited for our ride home, we asked the ticket booth guy if the session had been a special Brass in Pocket event? He shrugged his shoulders. Ten minutes later my mother pulled to the curb. Jackie hugged me again.

As promised, on the ride back to the apartments my mother didn't ask for details. In fact, I don't remember her saying a word, even at home while she zipped a shiny new quarter into the pocket of my shoe.

That was the last time I skated at Rollerina. What's that saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me? There wouldn't be a second time. To my mother, the lesson of the quarters had been clear. Disappointments were inevitable. Isn't that why she'd put two shiny quarters in my shoes?

That’s me in the peach three piece outfit! (my Cheshire-cat smile is because I elbowed my way through the crowd to stand beside Danny Fiore, the boy I loved more than my fancy white skates, BY FAR!)