Rollerskating Saved My Life
I’m taking a moment out of my SJW persona to get personal with you, my reader. There’s something in everyone’s past that makes them tick, gives them depth, makes it easier to relate to and it seems I have never really gone down this path — except maybe in intimate conversations with those closest.
So here goes.
The year was 1978. I believe it was the summer of and life at home had become unbearable. Living with the self-destructive force that was my father and being a angry, frustrated teen created the perfect storm. As I found more creative ways to avoid going home, there was also time to get into trouble. Vandalism, drinking, working odd jobs so I could buy the clothes I liked and eat…
Yes, eat. That would be a completely new story, one I will leave for another time.
I was a peculiar kid. Or, I felt peculiar. But what kid doesn’t, right? Always fashion forward, I would take pages out of the celebrity pop star books to create an image that gave me comfort. Now living in a city that was built on migrating blue collar workers from out East (and me growing up as a city kid just outside of Toronto) made it a challenge. I got used to the sexual orientation slurs at that time in my life…perhaps even questioning my own sexuality because of the particular and sometimes obsessive nature about my appearance.
The first time I walked into Lloyds Rollercade, that summer, I knew. The sense of belonging was almost immediate. The sensory overload was consuming — the lights, the blaring disco, the people who stood out, much like myself. All coming together to move as one around a blue, plastic floor on 8 wheels.
The last recollection I had of being on skates was as a 5 year old, doing the leather straps up over my shoes, the metal frame firmly attached and trying my best to navigate on the metal wheels and rough asphalt. It was fun for all of what probably amounted to 10 minutes before the idea that running, on my feet was infinitely more fun. They would collect dust and disappear into obscurity faster than I could say “Evil Kenivel.”
A young guy behind the counter handed me the beige and orange leather boots with orange wheels affixed. They were heavier than I imagined they would be. The leather was worn and soft. They had a smell of perfume or deodorizer, almost like something you would spray in the bathroom. It was neither pleasant or offensive, it was a smell I would come to love over the months, and years.
One good song after another, pounding over the PA system and as I fumbled with the laces, my mind was consumed with getting on the floor. Moving to the 4/4 beat I had become accustomed to hearing, on my ritual Saturday afternoons, watching Soul Train while trying to emulate the dance moves on the TV.
Two years prior, a cousin and me polished off a 12 pack of beer at the cabin. It had happened one night over the course of a few hours, so while we sat there in front of the fire, neither was aware the beverage was having on us. I remember standing up to go pee when the ground came up to meet me. Crawling around on all fours, the world was now a very different place.
Yes, it was almost the equivalent experience, with the exception that my eyes still worked and there was no urge to throw up every 15 seconds. The first night on skates was not the heroic or amazing experience as had played out in my head hours earlier. In my mind, I would be as graceful as Gene Kelly. The reality however, was sobering.
For every two steps forward, I would take one step down. My wrists were taking a beating with each fall. With each fall, I would pick myself up and attempt a few more pushes. Watching people glide by effortlessly only spurned me on, made me more determined. Three pushes, four pushes…I’m moving, I’m actually moving!” The thud of me hitting the hard concrete surface as I fell backward took the very last breath out of me. I laid there, looking up at the faces now focused on me, making sure I was OK.
A stranger held out his hand and pulled me to my feet. “Thanks” I said, shaking off the experience as he spoke. “I’ve watched you struggling tonight, would you like some advice?” I nodded, more than happy to learn how to master the 8 wheels beneath me. “Bend your legs, relax, stop trying so hard and it will come.” He guided me to the middle of the floor and said “start here, work on your balance.” Skating off, he left me to my own devices.
Months passed and the bruised palms and wrists became something I lived with. I found a part time job that paid a little better — working as a bus boy in a busy rock bar, down the street. This afforded me enough money for clothes and admission to Lloyds 3 or 4 times a week. More importantly, it kept me out of the often volatile and toxic environment that was home. We had moved again, in the fall, and were far enough away that I needed to take the bus to get to work, and Lloyds.
It didn’t change my resolve. Everything would revolve around the rink. My new friends and sense of purpose offered tremendous hope. School, while a distraction from home life was a place to spend my time, daydreaming about skating and how happy it made me. Even the moments on stage, in front of students and parents alike, performing solos from Oklahoma or Fiddler on the Roof couldn’t top the freedom of moving around on skates to a pulsating beat.
The summer of 79 would be as tumultuous as any. I met a girl, at the rink no less. I saved up enough money and bought my first pair of skates. The smell of new leather from the stiff, shiny black skates was intoxicating. Lacing them up for the first time and stepping onto the floor was a magical moment, one of the most amazing in my then, short life. I no longer hung out with my school mates. All of my friends were at the rink. Skating had become one of the most popular past times in the country and, my obsession. We (my new friends) would head down 5 or 6 times a week and it was busy all the time and especially packed on weekends.
If not at school or work - the rink and when the rink closed down for the night — Candice (my girlfriend at the time) Art (best friend), Nancy(best friend and Art’s gf), Lenny and all those other amazing friends at the time would make a nuisance of ourselves at the Denny’s across the street, until all hours of the morning. I would sneak in the house, just long enough to catch a few zzz’s and a shower, rinse and repeat.
Rollerskating offered the ultimate distraction and joy but as I stated earlier, it was the most tumultuous time of my life. I remember walking in the front door of our house, a little earlier than normal one night to find everything smashed. There was glass covering just about every square inch of the floor. I could still hear my dad and his then live in girlfriend screaming at each other and the sound of a dish in the kitchen smashing the wall…
It was too much. I made a call to Art to come pick me up and him and his brother Lance made their way over while I stood outside on the steps, trying to block what was going on in the house, out of my head. We took off to a park and drank. They too came from a tough home with a really abusive father. I felt luckier than them. My dad was rarely physical — more on the verbal side of the abuse spectrum.
Our house had become eerily quiet in the following months. I was never home. My brother Joe would spend his days wandering the streets of downtown Calgary and I would stop in on occasion to drop a few groceries in the fridge and see how he was doing. Him and I had been at odds in our own relationship ever since we had landed in Calgary, so it was rare that we found common ground.
Late that summer, dad decided that he needed to have his whole family together and sent for our two half brothers — Perry and Neil who were living in Newfoundland with their mother. They were 8 and 6 at the time and how dad was able to convince their mom to let them come out was a mystery. Needless to say, they arrived to a house that felt like homeless derelicts lived in it.
Dad was on a downward slide into prescription narcotics and booze. If he was home, it was usually passed out in his bedroom oblivious to the world and his kids. I remember coming home one day and there was no power. Apparently, the notice had come and gone and the city did as they promised. It was tough for me because I was now splitting my time between staying at my girlfriends place with her mom and stopping in to check on my brothers.
I thought the lack of power would be temporary. It wasn’t. Dad had checked out and his solution was to get one of those small camping coolers, filled with ice and enough food items to last a few days at a time. Thankfully, it was still warm weather so the fact that there was no heat or hot water wasn’t putting my brothers out too much. At that age, like most boys, they weren’t always keen on showering any ways.
Looking down at their dirty, unkempt faces, I knew something had to be done. With Candice there as support, I called the local authorities and explained to them what was going on. It was surreal, standing in the middle of the living room while social services and the police rounded up my brothers and tried to keep dad in check. His words would haunt me for a few years after that, as he stood, in a drunken stooper at the top of the stairs — “I’m going to find you and I’m going to fucking kill you!”
I’m sure I went white that day. He looked mean and serious, while a police officer tried to calm him. It’s funny how perceptions can be. I remember years later, my brother claimed I looked smug and arrogant while everything was going down. Truth be told, I had never felt so scared in my entire life.
Although I was legally a minor, Candice’s mom offered me refuge and social services left me to my own devices. Perry and Neil were shipped back home and my brother left that night with his aunt and would travel back home to Ontario where he would live at our grandparents until he finished school.
My 17th birthday came and Candice and I were in a serious relationship, living in a tiny townhouse with her mom. I wasn’t equipped or mature enough to deal with the new arrangement. I would take a variety of odd jobs, trying to be responsible and hold up my end on the bills and food. We would spend our weekends at the rink but, life… Candice had a new job at an oil company downtown (she was a year older) and the idea of skating every night wasn’t appealing to either of us as we learned how to adult.
It was 1980. Rollerskating was at a fevered pitch and even though disco, while on the out, skating was still as popular as ever. In a mere two years since I strapped on my first pair, I had become a competitive rhythm skater. This would also be the year that I betrayed friends and I felt, Lloyd and Flo as I moved down the street to the bright, new shiny place.
Hollywood Rollergardens had opened earlier and would be the crowning achievement for rinks in North America. Everything was state of the art, the venue essentially a nightclub for skaters. I became immersed. The culture, the late night adult skates, the music. Candice and I would drift apart and I would find solace in my new home, away from home.
Dave Crawford was his name. Adhering to my “everything happens for a reason” motto — it was the natural progression. My love of skating and of music would have me at the DJ booth every night, constantly at the door, not to request a song but to ask what was playing. So much new music, all being imported directly from New York way before digital or Shazam. I couldn’t get my hands on most of it but it didn’t stop me from wanting to know what it was.
I’ll never forget the day Dave looked at me and said, “get in here” as he motioned for me to enter the booth. “I’ve never met anyone as obsessive about music as you, you should be a DJ.”
That’s how it started. He spent about 10 minutes showing me how the mixer worked and how to cue up and listen to the music I was going to play and pointed to the large collection of vinyl to choose from. The endorphins started firing off in my head as he left the booth, and me to my own devices. I started playing one track after another, losing all sense of time until he finally returned to let me know that the night was over and we had to pack it in.
Candice and I broke up shortly after and I ended up befriending and becoming a roommate of Davids. We became good friends and he taught me everything about being a DJ. We would have crazy parties, transforming the garage into a nightclub and once again, my life revolved around a rink. I worked there in my free time, doing odd jobs and even DJing. When I wasn’t picking up other odd jobs to pay the rent. I spent all my time skating — and if not at the rink, on the amazing bike paths around the city. There was a time where the skates were attached to my feet more often than shoes. I remember us taking late night runs to downtown parkades and turning them into our personal playgrounds at 2 and 3 in the morning.
David would eventually quit Hollywood and I would inherit a couple of his nights while he pursued a new nightclub downtown. I worked on and continued to hone my skills before the fateful news came that Hollywood was bankrupt and would be closing for good. While the concept was amazing, it was just too late into the cycle and with the massive mainstream resistance to disco and everything it stood for, rollerskating got caught in the crossfire.
I would continue to skate outdoors, ashamed or afraid to go back to Lloyds because I felt a certain sense of betrayal on my part.
Eventually, through all the crappy jobs — David offered me a Monday night DJing in a club called Manhattans, part of the now infamous Electric Avenue. There was no turning back. I found my niche and the strange kid tucked up in the corner, singing and dancing to every song he played had a infectious effect on the crowd.
Electric Avenue would become my home for quite a few years as the scene morphed and bars opened and closed. Skating would start to get in the way of my now excessive lifestyle. I would play 5 to 6 nights a week, sometimes days and spend my down time getting high and recovering from all the drinking from the night before.
The last time I would lace up the skates to hit the paths was around the summer of 84 and remembering, as I was dancing with my walkman and passing a bunch of young teens on rollerblades, those words — that stung. And they were just words. Something that usually bounced off me. I couldn’t ignore them. The laughter and pointing as they called me fag, and loser all I could think about, even at the young age of 20 was that I was redundant.
I became a professional DJ — playing constantly and immersing myself in the music biz. My friends and I started a music distribution company, I got married, took over the company solely, got divorced, opened a dozen or so clubs, started a radio show, played nationally on Electric Circus and opened for big name DJs, got married again, sold the biz, quit DJing, got divorced, drove across the USA in an RV, found myself, started life and DJing again, became disillusioned with DJing, opened a club, sold club, tried the 9–5, thought I would kill myself, found DJing again, got married, got support, embraced my skill set and dumped all the shame that “friends” had imparted on me over the years for wanting to be a DJ (even in my thirties) and at the ripe age of 54, have found a completely new and accepting audience for my craft.
Two years ago, my wife bought me a pair of rollerskates for Christmas. She knew how fond I was and the great memories that came with my experiences at the rink. I found my way back to Lloyds and rekindled all those amazing memories and feelings about the pastime I love so much.
Like I stated earlier — everything happens for a reason. The owner of Lloyds - Flo as we all called her passed away late last year. The world is a mysterious and constantly moving ball of energy and whatever forces came together to push me in that direction; I was able to spend the last two seasons enjoying the pure bliss and freedom that comes from expressing myself, to music, on skates. Everything had come full circle. As of this past Sunday, Lloyds closed its doors forever. The end to an era. I thought it would make me really sad but I feel grateful. That I was able to experience those feelings one last time, in a place where it all started.
From the ashes…I have made new friends in the industry and we are cooking up new plans. It seems there is a calling and, no matter how big or small my involvement in what is coming next — I will answer that calling. Perhaps, I can be responsible for a whole new generation of kids finding their passion, much like Lloyd and his wife Florence did back in the late 50’s when they first opened the doors to Calgary and generations of human beings that love the sport.
February 21st, 2018
