Jan 072010
 

The following is an account of only the second time I ever hung out with Alisha, and also the reason why she might not be attending our skating fiesta this weekend.

Wanted: A Skating Costume

Originally posted February 2005

The typical skating troika of Janna, Henry and myself was thrown askew  as we added a new member to our elite skating club: Alisha.  She had no idea what she had subscribed for.

Let me just say that she made Janna look like a bona fide Olympian out there. The new catchphrase of the night became, “Are you going to cry?” which replaced the traditional, “Where did Janna go?” It took her about a half hour to make it around one lap, but to her credit most of that time was tied up in untangling herself from the amassment of limbs and wheels after she crashed into a roller blader. I was proud of her, though; she accepted the blader’s helping hand to get her back on her feet, brushed off her jeans, and went right back to hugging the wall. She’s got moxie, that girl.

There were some new faces there in addition to MulletTail, Spandex Dancer, the YaYa Sisterhood (a quad of doughy middle-aged women who eke around the rink leisurely, clipping coupons and trading masturbating tips), and Knee Pad Girl. Most notably was the desperately aggressive lesbian who honed in on Alisha instantly. Apparently, her attention was making Alisha uncomfortable. I can’t imagine why – I thought she was quite attractive; the way her cotton potato sack shirt billowed atop her lumpy body in the most flattering hue of olive, her crew cut bristling in the breeze while her pacifier bounced up and down against her floppy bosom. She was probably one of the hottest folk there and Alisha was totally snubbing her. I found that very rude.

We had an off-rink conference where, judging by the minutes I kept, Alisha vehemently insisted that the boxy broad was not her type, so I promised that if it would make her feel better, I would steer the lesbian toward Janna’s direction, whose type is “Breathing, and even then sometimes not.” I asked Alisha later what her type exactly is, and she goes, “Blond, amazingly hilarious, nice rack. You know…you” and I was like, “Yeah I know, I just wanted to hear you say it.”

I think the real issue was that Alisha was pissed she wasn’t the token lesbian of the night.

Henry was glad for the girl drama because it gave him quiet time on the rink to reflect upon his days in the service getting screwed (in the very non-sexual sense) by prostitutes. “Look at me now, whores,” I imagine he was saying in his head while power fisting the air. I also turned my head just in time to see him attempt some weird swirly thing with his feet.

Suspiciously, Janna didn’t have to exchange her skates once, not with Alisha there. Instead, I believe she was trying to mentor Alisha, Then it occurred to me that Janna was using false compassion toward Alisha as a new excuse to take copious breaks. Every time I looked around, I saw Janna cozying up to her along the wall. But then she’d get cocky and push off the wall like she was about to speed skate, because for once she was better than someone and felt compelled to visibly display her skills. It was a shame when, by the end of the night, Alisha had matched those skills. Janna was crestfallen.

Frugal Henry was just happy because we didn’t have to pay for our pizza, which by the way was comped and already placed in the oven in anticipation of our arrival by the fine Vallerena proprietors. That’s a good feeling, right there. It was probably free because we brought them a newbie. Or Henry’s peddling free BJs again.

During Limbo, Alisha was relieved to see that the awesome and talented Spandex Dancer had fallen. “See look! He falls, too!” She looked too smug and I just couldn’t have that, so I explained to her that it was different when someone of his wheeled endowment falls as it’s generally because they’re attempting to do something wildly skillful, not complete half a lap around the rink. I mentally applauded myself as I watched her face begin to sag back into a frown.

Something happened to me last night, though, that brought skating to the next level: I skated through an invisible blanket of odor. That’s right, I broke through the curtain of someone’s goddamn fart. It was entertaining imagining whose anus generated the noxious fumes, if it maybe temporarily got caught in a psychedelic spandex web before wafting into a flatulant wall. I’d love to blame it on one of those in my company, but their location at the time rendered it physically impossible. Though, Janna’s raunchy ass could probably produce a stench that lingers.

Alisha whined incessantly about breaking two nails, but those are the sort of sacrifices one needs to make for the love of the skate. Now she’ll have memories that will last a lifetime.

ETA:
Upon reading Alisha’s journal, I am sorry to admit that I have misinformed everyone. She broke three nails, not two. My condolences, Alisha.

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