Tommy never told anyone how he burned down the roller rink. No one got hurt, as far as we knew, but we were kids and didn’t pay much attention to the news. All we knew was our favorite hangout was gone.
There were four of us who hung out all the time: Richie, Vinny, Tommy, and me, Frankie. We were young, eleven or twelve, I can’t remember. Summers were spent playing handball and riding our bikes over the uneven surfaces of cracked sidewalks. Parks with ramps weren’t a thing in the 70s so the most daring tricks we did were the kind with plywood and cinder blocks. Our makeshift ramps were never sound enough to allow for a jump, so we made due with skipping over the curb between the closely packed cars.
Roller skating was the next best thing to biking. We had gotten good at keeping our balance over the grooves in the sidewalk and had fun letting our voices vibrate along with the pebbly asphalt, but when a roller rink opened not three blocks away, we made the smooth transition to slicked-down cement easily. We sold lemonade and did extra chores around our respective homes to afford to go skating at least once a week.
Birthday parties at the rink were all the rage, knocking McDonald’s to an afterthought. I don’t remember whose party we went to that led to the fire, but I can still see us huddled in the back by the lockers. Tommy had what looked like a real lighter. Not one of those plastic gas station jobs, but a gleaming compact rectangle of metal, complete with a hinged top and exposed wheel.
“Lemme see that,” I said and snatched it out of his hand. From an early age, I loved all things mechanical and I needed to see how it worked.
“Don’t break it!” Tommy grumbled and pulled his next surprise out of his pocket, a pack of real Marlboro Reds. I had no interest in smoking; the bubble gum ciggies were enough for me. They were fun. A cherry flavored cylinder of red gum with a paper wrapper and between that and the gum was a layer of fine, powdered sugar. If you were careful enough to not get the paper too wet, you could blow through it and a puff of sugary smoke came from what was supposed to be the lit end. The effect was real enough to make my father snatch it out of my mouth the first time he saw it.
I turned the lighter over in my hands, inspecting the craftsmanship. It was a solid piece of construction with finely welded seams. I thumbed the wheel and a brilliant golden spark danced for about a half second where the flame should be. Scowling, I tried again, yielding the same result. I shook the container near my ear and thrust it back to Tommy. “It’s empty.”
“But it still sparks,” he snipped back. “The tobacco is dry and it’ll still catch.”
“Not so sure about that,” Richie said and glanced over our group, checking if any adults were hunting for us.
“Coast still clear?” Vinny asked and got a positive nod in return.
Tommy pulled a cigarette from the pack and clamped his lips over the filtered end. He cupped his hand around the front where he held the lighter and thumbed the wheel once, twice, and again with the same result. Nothing.
Vinny dropped back on his heels in a pout. “Maybe I can go swipe matches?”
“Where you gonna find matches?” Richie’s attitude was harsher than if Vinny volunteered to produce a roll of quarters for each of us to hit the arcade section.
Vinny shoved at him with a knock it off vibe and rolled his eyes. “They gotta light the cake candles with something, don’t they?”
Tommy was adamant. “Nah, man this is gonna work.”
“No it ain’t,” Richie answered.
“Yo, guys,” I said and waved my hands. “Cool your jets. The solution is simple.”
“Great. Frankenbrain’s gotta another plan,” Vinny groaned.
“And when have my plans not worked?”
“Alls we need is a light, not a Mission Impossible style operation!” Richie warned.
Tommy tapped a T with his hands. “Time out. Time out. Let’s here what he’s got to say.”
“Thank you,” I said and glared at the others. “I don’t gotta say anything. Just chill and I’ll be right back.”
Most of the light in the place was focused on the skating floor and the tables circling it were in the shadows. I followed trails of blue smoke until I found my target. Now…walking on roller skates then was simpler since we had four wheels instead of the roller blades people use today. Just about everyone would walk/slide along the carpet that bordered the actual rink. But it wasn’t fool proof. Sliding when you should step would cause the wheels to sputter and you end up on your butt with all your friends laughing at you.
Or… on your butt next to a skater’s grandma. On purpose.
“Oof. Ow,” I said when I landed.
“You ok boy?” she asked in an accent I couldn’t place. Wherever she was from, she played her part exactly as I needed. She grabbed me under my arm and lifted, which is to say, I stood up on my own and let her hand guide me.
As I came up, I put a hand on the table and palmed her lighter. “Yeah. I’m good,” I answered. “Thanks.”
“Be more careful on those things. You’ll break your neck,” she called after me.
I returned to my cohorts with my prize and was cheered. Tommy declared his lighter got some smoke after a few more tries, but he was more than happy to use the grandma’s lighter. He tossed the metal contraption in the corner.
“Why’d you do that?” I asked.
“The thing don’t work. Why bother?”
That evening I discovered I enjoyed the bubble gum cigarettes over the real ones and that the grownups who were supposed to be watching us had no clue we were off on our own. Our smoke blended into the thick haze and no one was the wiser. Not even when each of us coughed up a lung trying to be cool.
Honestly, it wasn’t such a memorable night, just one of many going around the oblong rink over and over. Smashing into the sidewalls instead of learning to stop with the rubber thing on the toes. Grabbing hands ands and spinning until the centrifugal force was so great our shirts blew into parachutes behind us and letting go so we’d zoom off, not caring who or what we collided with on the way.
In fact, I probably wouldn’t even remember that night if the place didn’t burn down. The arson investigation determined there was a gas leak and a spark. I asked how they knew and was given a long explanation that didn’t stick beyond the sentence “there was a gas line that ran to the concession stands from behind the lockers.” My mind immediately went to the small metal lighter with the flip top and exposed wheel lying on the ground in the corner. By the lockers. Where anyone could have picked it up and checked for a flame. When I relayed this information to the others, Tommy paled a shade and we all found something else to do fast. We never spoke about it again.
Maybe Tommy didn’t actually burn the place down, but to a pre-teen the whole thing was too coincidental. I know now it wasn’t very probable, but the scenario in my head was possible. As an adult with internet access to all sorts of public reports, I still haven’t typed in a search that would satisfy my 50 some odd year old curiosity. The four of us are still friends in the Facebook sort of way and I’m sure if I mentioned the Skate Scene memories would spark.
But I’ve seen the havoc a spark can wreak. Adding fuel to the fire just isn’t my style.
P.S. I returned the lighter to the grandma. I’m not a thief. Just a possible accomplice to arson.
