As I was flying through
the air (nothing can launch a 50-year-old faster than a pebble of adequate size
in the path of his skates) I noticed how scuffed and scratched those skates
were. They were easy to see as they were
now eye level (yes, I was skating backwards at the time). It’s amazing what your mind focuses on just
before impact. I regressed back about 25
years (I had plenty of time as I was traveling in super slow motion as one
usually does during a fall of this magnitude), to a simpler time.
I was working second
shift in a small-town hospital. I had
just started my first career as a Respiratory Therapy Technician. That was back in the days when healthcare was
fun; when patients were patients and not customers. Those were the days when you could call sweet
little old ladies ‘sweetie’ or ‘darlin’ without being reprimanded for
unprofessional behavior. Those were also
the days when nurses (and respiratory technicians) could smoke in the nurse’s
lounge and Doctors smoked at the nurse’s stations.
It was also where I got
my first lesson on how to skate backwards (in the Surgical Recovery Room) from
a veteran ICU nurse. Like every other
small-town, closeted (only to myself because, come on, people aren’t stupid)
gay man, I was obsessed with Elaine Zayak and harbored dreams of becoming a
world champion lady’s figure skater.
Well, since North Carolina hadn’t invented ice yet, I was relegated to
roller skates. I had my skates, I had my
backwards skating lesson, I just needed a place….and I found one.
Every night, at about
11:45, I stopped at the Wesleyan Church on my way home from work, parked my
car, brought out the broom that I kept in the back seat, swept the upper
parking lot clean of loose rocks, leaves and twigs, and then…I skated.
I was in my own little
world, all by myself, well, except for that one time when a town police officer
drove in, assessed the situation, and, as I wasn’t really breaking a law,
decided that he needed to see my driver’s license anyway. But after that, it was blissful loneliness. I even talked to god in that parking lot;
back when I still had something to say to him.
But what I remember most was moving.
Gliding across the not-so-smooth asphalt surface, thinking about nothing
except what I was doing; the cross-overs, the turns, the backward cross-overs,
the speed, the shadows from the streetlights, the sound of the skates, the
sound of my breathing, the sounds of nighttime.
It became one of my safe places.
It was also the place
where I learned what may be the most important lesson there is in this
life. I learned how to fall….because I
fell….a lot. I learned quickly that the worst falls are the ones you fight when
even you realize how inevitable they are.
The best falls were the ones that I embraced and therefore decided to
add a flourish of style to. Soon, after
every fall, I would stand up immediately and give the circus salute, you know,
by holding your chest high with arms stretched overhead and, if I wasn’t
crying, I would even add a “TaDaaaa!” I
even learned how to laugh at myself (a priceless skill to have and one I
practice routinely to this day). You
see, skating, like death, is the great equalizer. Novice or pro, it doesn’t matter. You can do everything right and sometimes
shit just happens and you fall. The
trick is to not fall over the same pebble twice.
So, imagine how thrilled
I was when, just this past week, I found a parking lot suitable for
skating. I pulled in, grabbed my skates
(which have been living in the trunk of the Echo for the last 12 years) slapped
them on and, with nearly juvenile enthusiasm (and pre-arthritic knees) tempted
the fates. I could practically hear the
Olympic anthem as I wobbled to the center of the lot. Within a few minutes I was moving like Buddy
Ebsen (the Barnaby Jones years) with two new hips. It was amazing. All those old feelings came flooding back
new.
But, back to
reality. As my cruising altitude dropped
to about 2 feet 8 inches, (I was well into what I thought would be my ultimate
final decent) I was curious about a couple of things. First, I wondered what my deductible was on
my insurance, and then I thought, shit, this is going to hurt, then, a fleeting
vision of a naked Harrison Ford for some reason, and then I wondered if I could
drive with a fractured femur to avoid ambulance charges.
And then, well, it was
like a combination of the crash sequence in FEARLESS mixed with Lyn-Holly
Johnson’s death jump in ICE CASTLES.
There was lots of twisting, turning, rolling and silent screams
(not-to-mention Gorecki’s Symphony #3 playing in my head)….and then it was
over.
As I lay there, staring
up at the sky, waiting for Robbie Benson to show up, I pushed my chest out,
dragged my arms above my head and whispered, “TaDaaa!” And then I started laughing, because, let’s
face it, when the fall is all there is, style is everything.
