Wax neon strobe

Every Friday night, the kids turn out en-mass,and gather in the dusty parking lot of the roller rink on the quiet edge of town.

The teenagers take a final swig from the brown paper bag of bourbon,and wash down with Pepsi-Cola.

It’s a fine white line between spunk and drunk,fine tuned to check in sneakers safely, before slipping on de-oderised boots and slamming sobriety in the locker room.

The younger skaters perch on the fenders of the station wagons near the blue glow of the entrance, white boots with pink ribbons swaying from their small shoulders,
still smelling of Christmas, synthetic fibres and lip gloss, paints beyond the years.

Cindy leans on the Pepsi machine with a back up plan and a string of numbers in her mind,waiting to see who’ll show, before entering the ring tonite.

Come nine o’clock the rink is full, freshly waxed pine gathering streaks from the spinning wheels as they smear in fresh orbits. Cindy is in the washrooms, applying fresh mascara.

The boys without blemish glide backwards, weaving without glance around the pimpled wrist guarded twelve year olds, who squat on all fours, begging for a safe gap in the circuit in which to struggle to the side. Fighting off jeers and tears, they ask themselves why they come every week, to publicly fall, losing face flat on it, but to be seen, at least until mom comes at ten thirty, and the race to head her off at the road is on.

Melissa saves face by hiding it, shadowed in the wings, un-rolled wheels on new boots, the professional skater, watching the blonde in the traffic, too shy to show, she stands chewing cinnamon gum, her hair covers her face, braided by her mother at their smooth wooden kitchen table. She now gathers splinters from the rough railing on which she leans un-noticed.

Bradley dyed his hair on Thursday afternoon, now the blonde streaks across the disco lights that spray down, swaggering to the tinny bass the speakers convey. He spies a giggle of girls, twirling their hair as they slurp on cherry slushies through red ribbed straws. One of them stares back and smiles. He doesn’t see the glint in her retainer as he slides on over, passing Melissa on the way. In an hours time his gums bleed, as Judy leaves her scrunchy in the back of his van, and runs two miles home, alone in the rain.

Tristan pushes Zack, because he always does, he falls and topples Cindy, who was still looking for the vanished blonde guy, and not where she was going. Her wrist will mend by spring break, but her reputation will not.

It’s a quarter of twelve, and the lights go out inside, save the fluorescent glow of the Wurlitzer. The kids spill into the lot, stretching curfews further, as the parental tapping of watches loudens, yet beats unheard.

Adrenalin, bruises and egos, all diary entries or long calls for Saturday morning...late morning, the phone wire pulled across the kitchen floor, in the path of older sisters.

The warmth of the radio draws the oldest to their cars, and the cold of the drizzle, the rest to theirs. Stragglers smile at vaguely familiar faces from the halls, in the hope of a ride, at least part way home.

Flashlit gridlock, horns, saliva and wipers, the skaters disperse on superior wheels, where balance is a given, and horizontal a choice of the chic.

Many wont be back next Friday, grounded for a while,
but patrons aren’t scarce for the roller rink,as groundings turn full circle,and last months kats return,wheels highly spun, boots well buffed,as the pharmacies stock up on gold spot,and curfews re-prescribed to headphoned ears,
they all rejoin the cycle, of roller rink sadness.


Roller Rink Sadness Every Friday night, the kids turn out en-mass,and gather in the dusty parking lot of the roller rink on the quiet edge of town. The teenagers take a final swig from the brown paper bag of bourbon,and wash down with Pepsi-Cola. It’s a fine white line between spunk and drunk,fine tuned to check in sneakers safely, before slipping on de-oderised boots and slamming sobriety in the locker room. The younger skaters perch on the fenders of the station wagons near the blue glow of the entrance, white boots with pink ribbons swaying from their small shoulders, still smelling of Christmas, synthetic fibres and lip gloss, paints beyond the years. Cindy leans on the Pepsi machine with a back up plan and a string of numbers in her mind,waiting to see who’ll show, before entering the ring tonite. Come nine o’clock the rink is full, freshly waxed pine gathering streaks from the spinning wheels as they smear in fresh orbits. Cindy is in the washrooms, applying fresh mascara. The boys without blemish glide backwards, weaving without glance around the pimpled wrist guarded twelve year olds, who squat on all fours, begging for a safe gap in the circuit in which to struggle to the side. Fighting off jeers and tears, they ask themselves why they come every week, to publicly fall, losing face flat on it, but to be seen, at least until mom comes at ten thirty, and the race to head her off at the road is on. Melissa saves face by hiding it, shadowed in the wings, un-rolled wheels on new boots, the professional skater, watching the blonde in the traffic, too shy to show, she stands chewing cinnamon gum, her hair covers her face, braided by her mother at their smooth wooden kitchen table. She now gathers splinters from the rough railing on which she leans un-noticed. Bradley dyed his hair on Thursday afternoon, now the blonde streaks across the disco lights that spray down, swaggering to the tinny bass the speakers convey. He spies a giggle of girls, twirling their hair as they slurp on cherry slushies through red ribbed straws. One of them stares back and smiles. He doesn’t see the glint in her retainer as he slides on over, passing Melissa on the way. In an hours time his gums bleed, as Judy leaves her scrunchy in the back of his van, and runs two miles home, alone in the rain. Tristan pushes Zack, because he always does, he falls and topples Cindy, who was still looking for the vanished blonde guy, and not where she was going. Her wrist will mend by spring break, but her reputation will not. It’s a quarter of twelve, and the lights go out inside, save the fluorescent glow of the Wurlitzer. The kids spill into the lot, stretching curfews further, as the parental tapping of watches loudens, yet beats unheard. Adrenalin, bruises and egos, all diary entries or long calls for Saturday morning...late morning, the phone wire pulled across the kitchen floor, in the path of older sisters. The warmth of the radio draws the oldest to their cars, and the cold of the drizzle, the rest to theirs. Stragglers smile at vaguely familiar faces from the halls, in the hope of a ride, at least part way home. Flashlit gridlock, horns, saliva and wipers, the skaters disperse on superior wheels, where balance is a given, and horizontal a choice of the chic. Many wont be back next Friday, grounded for a while, but patrons aren’t scarce for the roller rink,as groundings turn full circle,and last months kats return,wheels highly spun, boots well buffed,as the pharmacies stock up on gold spot,and curfews re-prescribed to headphoned ears, they all rejoin the cycle, of roller rink sadness.

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