The first thing I noticed when Henry and I arrived at the Neville Rollerdrome for adult skate was that Roller DJ’s slimy ‘fro was replaced with a shiny pate.
“Dude, you’re bald!” I exclaimed without decency.
“I lost a bet,” Roller DJ frowned, slapping a hand on his nude scalp for emphasis. “The Steelers lost,” he sighed.
I feigned a sympathetic pout with my lips, but I was cracking up internally. It was even better that the abysmal “Stillers” played a part in the shearing.
Henry and I were the first to arrive. As he laced my skates (a woman of my stature does not stoop to lace her own skates), Roller DJ permeated the empty rink with a hot and pulsating mix of Depeche Mode. This is what all of these skating sessions had been missing–the sonic sex of the ’80s.
This particular adult skate was sponsored personally by Roller DJ. He rented the rink and then prayed that enough people would show up. It was looking pretty bleak for awhile there, as it was nearly 8pm and there were only about 10 other people there aside from us, Kim and Chris. But then something outstanding, absolutely extraordinary happened: some of the Steel City Rollers began filing in.
“AW SHIIIIIIT!” I squealed to Henry, who rolled his eyes. (Surprised?) Their presence inspired me to step it up, so I quickly in my head choreographed a Really Hot Valentine’s Routine designed specifically for me and Henry.
“Look,” I explained to Henry, in a very no-nonsense fashion. “You’re going to make a heart with your hands, then I’m going to shove my fist through the heart, at which point you will grab me passionately by the wrist and twirl me around like the tiny ballerina that the world refuses to believe I am.”
“Why don’t I just skip all those steps and knock you on your ass now, then?” Henry suggested.
“JUST DO IT!” I bellowed in the middle of the rink, underneath the sparkly lights.
And this is when, my friends, I learned that Henry does not know how to make a heart with his hands. He made a circle. An oval. Something uncannily akin to a Snork. But that derelict with the defective meat fists could not even come close to molding anything remotely comparable to a heart.
“Just forget it,” I huffed, mumbling a quiet addendum of “retard” as I skated away. This is about the time I began to really realize, really REALLY realize, that I was in love with my roller idol anyway, who was busy skating in a squat while playing air guitar on an extended leg.
“He skated up on me!” I bragged to Henry, who had no idea who I was talking about. So I refreshed his memory. “That guy over there who is like the best skater ever! I’m in love with him this week.” I mean, the more I admired his slick moves, the more I began to notice that he was definitely handsome. For an older guy. And I like me some older guys, apparently, though I’m not sure if I ever actively decided that or if someone LURED me down this path with empty promises and Michael Myers figurines.
I was trying to psych myself up to give him heart hands, you know–show Henry how it’s done. But I lost my nerve every time we made eye contact. Now how will he know to propose?
There was only one real sour patch all night long: We had just left the snack room where Henry’s snack counter nemesis told me my finger tattoos are awesome (holla!) when Diddy’s seminal urban hit “Last Night” came on. I clutched Henry’s hand real tight-like and began tugging him onto the rink. “Aw shiit, it’s mama’s jam!” I hollared, making sure all the Steel City Rollers heard.
“It is?” Henry loudly asked over Keyshia Cole’s chorus cameo, sincerely perplexed. “Since when?”
Was he honestly going to try and discredit my inherent g-funk swagger right there in front of a bona fide pack of my idols-on-skates? Bitch doesn’t know me at all.
And Daryll was back! I almost didn’t recognize him without the honkin’ ice pack on his head. And there was some new-to-me broad there in a trucker hat and leggings, dancing on the toes of her skates. It was mesmerizing. I need to stop hanging out with so many white people. They’re not teaching me shit!
Something devastating nearly happened, and I’m not talking about the time I almost fell on my ass from all the show-boating. I was still wearing my damn ratings device clipped to the pocket of my jeans, and I had skated around a good 10-15 times before realizing it and quickly stuffing it in my pocket. Can you imagine if it had fallen off and become the latest impediment in Daryll’s path? IT HAS MY NAME ON IT, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE.
Hey, speaking of my new manacle, I thought I had the ratings system beat in regards to superseding Henry in the points race. I left my stupid device at home while I was at work last night, right next to the radio, figuring it could be molested with signals while I was at my radio- and TV-free workplace.
But when I put it on the charger last night, it said I only had 48 points. Henry had NINETY-SOMETHING for the day! And then you know what it actually said to me, in tiny calculator-type?
PLEASE KEEP ME WITH YOU.
But today, the first thing I noticed when I woke up was that Henry’s device was still in the charger. Mr. Dilligent Ratings Company Servile Pawn actually left his precious device far away from his person.
I cheered. And then I called him immediately to gloat.
“Is that the only reason you called me, to gloat?” he asked, and I could almost touch his exhaustion through the phone.
“YES!” I screamed and then laughed evilly, so evilly that even Marcy, the Resident Purveyor of Evil, woke from her nap and gave me a blanched look from across the room.
You best believe my device has been glued to my jeans all the livelong day. I might even wear it shamelessly to work if it means elapsing Henry in the race to nowhere.
“I could leave mine on the charger today, tomorrow and SUNDAY, and would still have more points than you,” Henry taunted me from work, which is where he does all of his taunting because he knows he’s too far away for my flailing telekinesis to shove physic pokers in his dick.
Oh, its on, motherfucker.