3: Rollerblades

Red bricked walls became my afternoon lover (but they had little choice). It was a moderately steamy summer afternoon in 2015, and my friend Grace and I toured sections of Denver via rollerblades. It must have been the second or third occasion I had worn them, and for good reason: my stopping abilities were practically nonexistent. The rubber slope stationed behind the back wheels didn’t really help me slow down or break with any kind of real effect. I would stomp my right foot, scraping the concrete sidewalk, but end up having to dart into a patch of grass, hurl myself into Grace, or, on the Platte River bike path, throw myself into the solid guard wall.

Before joining the pockets of cyclists or other rollerbladers along the Platte River, Grace and I had to descend about thirty yards down a ramp. Grace went first, her pearl white blade wheels nicely glossing the concrete and ebbing to a final pause at the bottom. She ushered me down, and I laughed at her request. Me? Down? Like you?

Perhaps if I hadn’t been in such a playful mood (I never failed to be around Grace), on a gold-lit afternoon, and a tad inebriated, I would have glowered down this Everest decline and strolled away to a nearby cafe to sip on a frothy cappuccino. Instead, I constructed semi-circles. It was the only way.

Still chortling, I glanced to the brick wall on my right, directed my toes forward and to the left, caught gravity’s edge, and zoomed on down! Quickly adjusting my weight to the right, ten feet from the wall, I opened my arms to the sides and clinched my eyelids closed. With a thud, I smashed into the wall. (Could you imagine if we hugged with a running start? What love!)

My body and blades bounced three or four more semi-circles toward Grace before resounding a final SMACK. And then, we were off again.

*

After wall loving, lunging away from bikers, and slick concrete-painting (OK, we weren’t that skilled or that cool), Grace and I were thirsty. Because we were (are?) decently intelligent, we skipped drinking from the Platte (and possibly ingesting some trending, waterborne mad-cow-disease-esque microbe) and hobbled up and out of the path. (This time I married the rail and gave some personal space to the wall.)

Because we weren’t that intelligent, we made a slight scene at the grocery store.

At the entrance of King Soopers, our wheels rolled over the mesh floor gate, and we perked our chins up, helmets in hands. Like stepping over some invisible laser, I lifted my right rollerbladed foot onto the grey vinyl floor, expecting some alarm to erupt. We were clear, so I followed with my left, bending my knees a smidge and tightening my quads. Grace and I limped about five more yards when a security guard appeared out of nowhere and shouted, “YOU. SHALL. NOT. PASS.” (OK, he might have said something like, “No rollerblades are allowed, sorry.”)

Thirsty and determined, we did the only thing left to do: we de-bladed and sat down in the electric wheelchairs. (Dear god, we were in for a whole lotta bad karma; thank god we were also in for a good, hearty cry.)

*

Detaching the wheelchairs from the outlets, we throttled the basket-sporting mobiles to the bakery. (I wanted to avoid making eye contact with fellow customers, as our blades presented as swords jutting out from the baskets. We were clearly able-bodied troublemakers.) They went about as fast as I expected them to, which was about as fast as you’d expect.

Cruising by apple tarts and bright yellow lemon cookies, we realized if we wanted cold beverages (by now we would claw a cat clean for a drop of liquid) we would have to cover some mad ground. The drink cooler sat on the opposite side of the store: a seeming football field away.

Grace steered toward our ice-chilled hope, but made a left into the hygiene aisle. Right behind her, I witnessed an obstacle: an employee was re-stocking shampoo, and we would have to make a U-turn. Grace (no pun intended) un-gracefully swerved and knocked some shit off the shelf. Some tears trickled down my cheeks, and my body wanted to stand up and shake itself (are you familiar with the full-body reaction to just GET UP BECAUSE A SITUATION IS TOO MUCH?!).

We managed to get back on track, keeping our heads down, wheel-by-wheel-turn nearing the buzz of the freezers and chilled sections of the store. (The hardest part of all this was stuffing my perpetual laughter back in my throat.) To onlookers, we probably looked dumb, hot, and sweaty; internally, we were battling ourselves from dehydration, unrecoverable fits of crying laughter, and finally getting kicked out of King Soopers.

*

With an epic reach at some glass bottles, a satisfying twist of a lid, and a slow-motion lip-to-bottle-lip connection, we rehydrated and took a few deep breaths. Whew.

*

Denver, Grace: thank you for an afternoon I will never forget. A mighty curry indeed.

July 1, 2016