My curly hair whipped around my head, strands sticking to my sweaty face as I did a loop around Central Park. A Walkman from my dad’s shop was strapped to my belt; a mixtape of Level 42, the Moody Blues, and Depeche Mode made me want to move faster.  My high-waisted jeans flattened against my shins as the smell of freshly cut grass rushed at me. 

The roller skates were new, white boots with red wheels.

 I was 22 years old. 

I wasn’t always a skater.  A year earlier I was walking hand in hand with my boyfriend when I saw the stunt skaters on the slalom course. It was the first time I’d noticed them, there on the hill along the main road between Tavern on the Green and Sheep Meadow. We stopped among the hundreds who were gathered to watch. One short muscular guy, shirtless, went down the slalom in a handstand atop a short skateboard like the neon green one I had when I was 12. My boyfriend wanted to continue walking, but I wanted to not move, to not even blink.  I wanted nothing else but to stay where I was and watch the skaters for the rest of the day. 

The following weekend I came back without my boyfriend. I pulled myself away from the throng of spectators and walked up the cobblestone side path to see the skaters prepare.  There was one girl, blond, thin, and Marsha Brady-perfect;  I heard someone call her Shawna. She joked easily with the boys and moved confidently on her skates.  Her grace had me transfixed. 

I had my hands in the pockets of my favorite leather jacket, the one I’d bought in Paris from a street vendor. A tall lanky boy with green eyes and olive skin said, “Hey.”  

“Hi” I said.  He put me at ease somehow.  He may have said something funny or self-deprecating.  His name was Fernando.

“Do you skate?” he asked. 

I shook my head and said, “Not really, not like this.” 

“Do you have skates?”  I shook my head again.  He said he knew of a skate shop not far from the park.  “C’mon,” he said, and he changed into his shoes and we walked together to 8^th Avenue.  The shop was small; we found a pair of skates that he said were really good.  They looked just like Shawna’s.  I bought them.

“Come to the park next weekend,” he said.  “I will show you how to do the slalom.”

“Sure,” I said.

I went home to Queens and put on my skates.  I skated around the block a few times and tried not to fall.  When I got home, I threw myself on the couch where my dogs, Fonzie and Cujo, fell on me with kisses.  I laughed and hugged them harder than usual. 

“What are you so happy about?” my mom asked.

“I made a friend.” 

My parents were getting ready to go out.  My mom checked that her earrings were on and said,  “Good, I love that.” 

The following weekend I drove to the city in my burgundy Honda Civic and parked on the Upper West Side.  I no longer had the boyfriend and felt free. I slung my skates over my shoulder like I had seen Fernando do and headed to the 68th Street entrance to the park.  Fernando spotted me right away.  “Let’s do a warmup,” he said.

I laced up, and we did a lap around the shorter path of the park.  I felt giddy and excited. I wore jeans and a white button-down cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up past my elbows.  That was my only protection. There weren’t a lot of people that early, and they mostly stayed out of my way.  We passed the dancing skaters by the Bandshell, Bethesda Fountain, the old dairy, the zoo, and the carousel, but didn’t go as far north as the reservoir.  I reached for Fernando when we gained speed going down a hill along Central Park West. “Keep moving your feet like this,” he said, sashaying with long strides, his arms swinging like an Olympic speed skater. I copied him and felt like I was flying.

We slowed down together, and he showed me how to come to a full stop from that speed.  “We just did a couple of miles,” he said. 

“Wow!” was all I could say. 

“Let’s try the slalom before it gets busy.” 

There were only a few kids there, and he introduced them to me.  It was mostly boys in baggy pants and oversized T-shirts.  Shawna was the only girl. She wore loose jeans and a body-hugging shirt.

My muscles were still tingling. Empty soda cans were set up in a row all the way down the hill.  I watched Shawna and then Fernando do the course with flair.   Shawna’s specialty was squatting down to a balletic second position and weaving through the cans.  It was dizzying to watch her legs move seemingly independently from the rest of her body.  Others took the hill going forwards and backwards, on one leg, on two, and crisscrossing. 

“Ready?” Fernando asked.  I nodded yes.  He took my hand and skated beside me. I felt my wheels graze the cans and then knock some down.  We bailed after six cans and fixed the course for the next skater.  When it was my turn again, I wasn’t afraid anymore.  I got better and more daring.  A giant crowd of onlookers waited for me to skate simply because I was female.

I knew I had to think beyond skating, about what I was going to do with my life.

At the time I was working in a trendy costume jewelry store called Ylang-Ylang on Madison Avenue, where I had worked all through college.  I liked working there, surrounded by clothing stores like Betsey Bunky Nini, Henry Lehr, and Katherine Hamnet, where I was offered courtesy discounts.  I was on my feet all day. Famous people came in, and I made good money for someone who lived at home. 

My parents occasionally threw ideas of a career path at me: maybe law school, said my father, or a translator at the United Nations, from my mother.  One morning when I was lounging on my mom’s bed, she asked, “What do you like to do?” 

I thought for a bit and said, “I like to read.” And after a pause, “Can I get paid to do that?” 

She took a sip of her coffee and appeared to think about it.  Later I overheard her say to my father, “Ach, I hope she marries well.”

During this time my dad and I drove to the city together since his shop was on Madison Avenue, only a few blocks south of Ylang-Ylang.  This is when we had most of our conversations. 

My father was a salesman, had been all his life, and suffered from leg pain, varicose veins, long hours, and high rents. “How much longer do you want to work in retail?” he asked during one of those drives. 

“Definitely not much longer,” I said. 

“Do you want to work in a bank?” he said. “I can call Cyril at Republic National Bank,” referring to a friend from Lebanon who was a high up there.

“Quel cauchemar!” I said.

“Be serious,” he said. 

I applied at Barclay’s Bank.  I figured I had a good chance with my degree in economics, but the only thing they wanted to know was how fast I could type.  “Fast,” I said.  They tested me; I wasn’t fast enough.  My dad asked how the interview went.  “There was no interview,” I said.  “Only typing.” 

“Maybe you should have brushed your hair,” he smiled. 

“Dad, this is my hair!”

I wished it were the weekend and I could head to the park and put on my skates and skate so fast that all thought would be obliterated and my wild curls would get whipped by the wind. 

---