Roller Rink Days with Matt
When I was 16, I found solace in the rhythmic glide of roller skating, often heading to the rink alone. The rink had its atmosphere—a blend of flashing lights, the smell of popcorn, and the steady pulse of pop music. I’d try to flirt with the girls who skated by, but my attempts were about as smooth as a Brillo pad. Awkward and unsure, I often ended up skating in circles, more comfortable with my thoughts than in the company of others.
It was at the rink that I met Matt. We were both 16, and both a little lost in our ways, but we hit it off immediately. Matt was everything I wasn’t—outgoing, effortlessly cool, and able to strike up a conversation with anyone. He thought I was the cool one, which always baffled me. Maybe it was my quiet demeanor, or maybe he just saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself. Either way, we became fast friends, united in our teenage quest to meet girls at the rink.
Matt didn’t have a car, but I did—or rather, I had inherited my older brother Robert’s Volkswagen van after he was murdered. The van became our ticket to freedom, our mobile base of operations. Matt was about 5’10”, with long, bushy brown hair and a perpetual smile that seemed to say he was always up for whatever came next. He had a taste for adventure, and while he could easily charm girls back to the van, things never really went that far. We’d smoke a joint, do a little hugging, and that was about it—at least for me. Matt, ever the optimist, probably got their phone numbers, but I never knew if he followed up with them.
I remember the winter nights when I’d pick Matt up from his house. The van, though reliable, lacked a heater, making those drives on the freeway bitterly cold. Matt would sit in the front seat, scraping ice off the inside of the windshield, laughing as he did it. He brought a lightness to those dark, freezing nights that I desperately needed.
I went to his house once, and the visit left an impression. His family was dysfunctional, to say the least. He had a black brother who seemed to enjoy teasing him endlessly and a mother who just sat around, detached from it all. I think Matt liked hanging out with me because, to him, I seemed normal. It’s ironic because that couldn’t have been further from the truth. But as long as I kept my mouth shut, my face could pass as that of a typical, untroubled white kid.
As time passed, Matt and I drifted apart, as teenage friendships often do. But I’ll always remember him for the way he could make me laugh, how he brought me out of my shell, and how, in his presence, I felt like maybe I could be normal too—even if just for a little while.