We’d go skating on Friday nights. Crawl from the backseat of a Trans-Am or a busted Volvo wagon. It didn’t matter how we got there, just that we did. We’d walk down Metropolitan Street, past the prison, acting tough, hoping someone said something to us. We were full of crushed Mini-thins and teenage angst. We needed to roam. We were suffocating. Where the carpet turned to wood, we’d wait for our song to play. Play our song, we’d yell. Our feet sore from the stiff boots, our hairspray running, stone-washed jeans tight in all the right places. We’d huddle in bathrooms and between Pacman machines, at the snack bar or the carpeted benches. We’d fool around in the darkness, hands down sweaty pants, neon lights above, shooting like stars.
My mother said I was getting too big for my breeches, said I needed to watch my God-damn mouth. You hear me? She always asked. You hear me? Shouted it. I wondered how I came from her. How our brains and hearts were connected. We’re all made from moonbeams, I said to no one. She cocked her head, sweat spreading as she yelled. Moonbeams! She opened her mouth for a laugh, but a cough came instead.
We’d drive out into the county. Major Tom wailed. Wind blew bleached hair. Air drums in the front seat. For here am I sitting in a tin can, far above the world. We’d race the dim-lit alleys toward town. We’d race for papers. No one ever won or lost. The papers were joints and the joints were good. We’d imagine life in space. Weightless. Ethereal. It’s worth leaven, we’d laugh. Throw sticks into fires, rocks into windows. Plan our escape from this fucking place.
