I had been visiting very close friends of mine (in Switzerland; longer story) when I learned that the
Empire Roller Skating Center had shut its doors for good. I'd come across the article via the
New York Times and was stunned by how deeply it affected me.
I suppose I should have been; skating there was a significant part of my pre/adolescence. My mom used to drive my cousins and I to the rink every other Saturday. (When not at Empire, we could be found at Roller Castle in Elmont, Long Island.) And, you know, this was around the late 70s/early 80s, so there were lots of sweatshirts emblazoned with puffy letters monikers (mine read “Shorty L”--I kid you not), designer jeans, polo shirts, double-belts, feathers, and other fashion travesties. As a matter of fact, I came up with the name Bourgeois Dork while reminiscing about said rollerskating shenanigans (dork) and the labor-intensive preparation (bourgeois) we put into looking as “fresh” and as “fly” as we could.
The last time I'd visited the rink was during the summer of 2001, when
Tiger Beat sent me to interview Lil’ Bow Wow for a story that never made it to press. (Primedia folded the magazine on October 11, 2001...and eventually sold it to a West Coast publisher.) And though I was disoriented by the tiny rink that once seemed the size of an indoor football stadium, I was also happy to see the younger generation pick up where mine had left off. So many songs (“
The Hustle,”
Native New Yorker,” “
Another One Bites the Dust,” “
Too Hot,” “
Rapper’s Delight”), so many memories (learning how to “roooooock skate!” with friends, mastering the art of skating backwards, roller-tag, and the inevitable pratfalls)--so when I went to visit my grandmother in Brooklyn, I decided to stop by the rink for one last nostalgic look-see.
I drove down Rogers Avenue, made a left on Empire Boulevard, and parked across the street from the rink. I stared at the repainted facade and the Herculean dumpster blocking the souvenir shot I’d wanted of the entrance. As I did, a phrase-fragment I’d recently heard on public radio cut through me: “...but the place they don’t want to leave is already gone.” And it was true; the Empire of my youth, much like the Brooklyn/New York City of my youth, was--and is--long gone. The reconciliation has been an excruciating one, but one I’ve finally made a degree of peace with.
Hoping but not really hoping to shake it off, I crossed the street, walked around the dumpster, and saw...a sea of roller skates on the sidewalk; the owners had thrown them out. Some of them were single skates; others were pairs. For some reason, my eyes zeroed in on the following pair:
As the fates would have it, they were size 12--
my size! A man about my age--who I assume was quasi-coordinating the souvenir effort--saw me trying them on and, sensing my excitement, told me to take them. So I did--but not before helping a few other prospective souvenir-hunters find skates of their own.
I haven’t used them yet, but am seriously looking forward to the day I’m able to (when physical therapy is finally done). I’ll probably head out at my usual midnight hour, strap on my little Buddy (name for the iPod), and “roooooock skate!” in the streets--the only other rink I’ve used since the old Empire days.
