Skating Away
An Original Short Story
Whether for your reading pleasure or disdain, I offer this short story, Skating Away. But first, I must preface this work with a brief explanation of its conception. On one of those writing websites, as part of a contest, I was assigned three prompts and tasked to write a story of no greater than 2500 words. Those three: An undiscovered country (theme), a secret room (scene), and a DJ (character). I tried, but, giving up on the contest which I realized was not my cup of meat, I ultimately nixed the first two prompts, going only with the DJ character. I’d write a story anyway, see what develops. So drawing on an experience from my youth (meeting the DJ, Scott Muni, at the WNEW-FM studios in the city, just before attending a Jethro Tull concert in 1975, all thanks to my old friend Keith G.) this is what came out.
Skating Away
As and old soul, I can say the shape of my beingness has had peaks and valleys, which most would agree to be typical of life well lived. Though my zeniths have felt higher than most, my nadirs lower, I think all would agree the assessment of one’s own existence is subjective. Over the years, I’ve found there are myriad pathways to travel through life, a multitude of trails and tracks, alleys and passages one must choose at every juncture. It’s easy to make a wrong call, to skip off down the road to a life one envisions as fulfilling only to discover it’s become one of disappointment, drudgery, or heartbreak. It’s fair to say I’ve had more than my share of help along the way, though you may call my variety of help preternatural.
Now, as I face the conclusion of this stage of my journey, I am once again faced with an inscrutable choice. Ultimately, each soul faces death at their own terminus. But my many voyages through life have always led back to the same place and time, where I’m constantly burdened with a decision to manifest my being. Have I been blessed with a gift or condemned with a curse? Hear my origin story and decide for yourself.
***
My best friend Marty from back in the day copped tickets to see Jethro Tull at Madison Square Garden. This was way back in the fall of 1975, when premium tickets cost around fifteen bucks; we could afford them then. But even better, we didn’t need to. Marty’s dad, Herb, was a DJ at a local rock-and-roll radio station in the city, so he was able to finagle a couple of comp seats for us in the fourth row.
Marty had moved to town the year before. That year, in late November, there’d been a week-long cold spell. An Arctic blast had blown in from Canada, and the duck pond near my house had frozen over. That was our signal to lace up the skates, grab our sticks and a puck, and head out for a daylong session of pick-up hockey.
One day, we noticed a new kid at the far end of the pond, skating around, doing spins and little jumps, skating backward and on one foot. He wore white skates. I nudged my buddy, Jeff, saying, “Looks like we got a figure skater in town”. We had a good chuckle over that. Out on the ice, we set up the makeshift goals and began passing the puck around. The new kid looked intimidated by our crew as we implicitly claimed the pond for our game. With a wink to my friends, I skated over to him.
“Hey kid, where you going? We need an extra player. Come on, you’re on Jeff’s team. Unless hockey is too rough a sport for those dainty white skates of yours. Maybe you want to borrow a pair of mine?”
I was full of myself then. Many of my schoolmates thought of me as obnoxious. I fancied myself one of the cool kids, but I was a bully. Once, in gym class, I hid Ralph Kornbluth’s pants in my locker, so he had to sit through the rest of his classes in gym shorts; stupid shit like that. I’m not proud of it now; I still had a lot of growing up to do.
“No, no. I’ll play,” he said. Honestly, I didn’t expect him to join us, but he looked determined, like he had something to prove.
“Cool, grab that extra stick and let’s go,” I said, thinking, I’ll teach this wuss.
Right away, this kid started skating circles around us. He was fast and could defend better by skating backward. Jeff passed the puck to him, and like nothing, he skated right past me and scored on Tommy Frankel, who was a pretty good goalie. I nudged him a bit to let him know I would not let that happen again, but right away he stole the puck from me, passed it to Jeff, who took a slap shot that missed the goal completely. We both raced for the puck, but he reached it first. I thought, now, hard check, and I plowed right into the kid, knocking him to the ice. He got up fast and pushed me, but I stayed on my skates. Then I threw the first punch, a right to the jaw. It landed, but he hung tough and caught me in the eye with an elbow. We were both wrestling on the fragile ice near the edge of the pond when it gave way.
Luckily, the duck pond was shallow, maybe three feet at its deepest point. We were both able to scramble out of the freezing wet to the bank, where we lay, soaked and exhausted. The kid dragged himself up and offered his hand. I stared at him for a moment before I took it.
“Look, sorry we got off on the wrong foot… or skate,” he said with a smile. “My name is Marty.”
“I’m Clay,” I said, “and that’s OK, I’ll let you skate away this time,” I said, smiling back.
I wish I could say we became close friends from then on and lived happily ever after, but life doesn’t always go that way. Only the first part of that statement is true.
***
Now, we were Sophomores, and Marty and I were in a band together with Billy Davis and Jeff Sanders. It was Billy on bass, Jeff on Drums, Marty on guitar, and me on vocals. Things were different this year. I’d vowed to change my odious behavior. Thanks to my friendship with Marty, I was becoming less of a bully, more in tune with my sensory perception, intuition, my feminine side, what Jung described as Anima. I guess Marty’s demeanor was rubbing off on me. In a way, he’d been my opposite. thoughtful of others, trying always to help people instead of ridiculing them, even if those very qualities left him open to ridicule. Marty was a loyal friend. He’d become someone I wanted to emulate.
On the day of the concert, Marty’s mom picked us up from school. I still remember that bright yellow Camaro with the sunroof she drove. She was our ride in, my stepdad was our ride home, that was the plan. It was Herb’s idea for us to visit the station before the show since it was only two blocks from the Garden. He said there was a surprise in store for us, which we immediately guessed would be a meet-and-greet with our– well, at least my– favorite DJ, Sebastian Munch. I wasn’t sure why, but I had the feeling that Marty wasn’t quite as big a fan as I was.
I was secretly in love with Marty’s mom; every teenage boy in town was, and she knew it. She insisted we call her by her first name, Eve. She wore her jet-black hair in a bob, reminiscent of Barbara Feldon in the Get Smart reruns we watched after school. She had a whip-smart wit and oozed a sensuality that could render the pope to a gelatinous mess.
“You look very nice today,” I told her in the car. “Can’t wait for our surprise, I wonder what it is,” I said, throwing a sly glance at my friend.
“Yeah, Mom, what does Dad have in store for us?” Marty muttered. “Whatever it is, it can’t be any better than the concert.”
“Why, Clay, you’re sweet, but you boys will just have to be patient. I won’t spoil it for you,” said Eve, eyeing me in the rear-view and, at the same time, melting my naive heart.
The ride in from Jersey was traffic-free until we hit a minor slowdown on the Henry Hudson. Still, it was smooth sailing across town to Thirty-third Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenue, where the WYNY studios resided. The day was a perfect example of late autumn: crisp, sunny, with a hint of color and a bit of bluster. As we walked the block to the station, taking in the noises of a bustling midtown– taxi horns, crazy laughter, sirens– and the wafting smells, a mix of freshly baked pretzel and bus exhaust, I felt privileged and lucky.
***
After we met Herb in the lobby, he led us through a deserted office area, down the hall to an anteroom adjacent to the broadcasting booths. The first thing I noticed was this hulking figure: the sound engineer. He wore headphones and paced in front of a huge console of lights, knobs, and those little slider things that fade the sound in and out. He had a menacing look about him; he was jittery and looked angry, as if he’d just lost an argument. The cords of sinew in his neck and the wide white rims around his pupils told me enough to stay away. He began muttering to himself, then turned our way, spotting us for the first time. Our eyes locked, and my gut dipped. In fact, I considered telling Eve that I would wait in the car until we were ready to go to the show. But the feeling passed. My anticipation and excitement were too strong to let negative energy ruin the day.
Herb waved us over to the smaller DJ booth, where we could see someone wearing a black beret, sitting at a desk in front of a jumbo microphone. His face, tilted downward, was reading what must have been some important info. When he looked up, he was startled to see two young boys staring at him. Half of his face was covered in hair, giving him a feral mien. He grinned and looked beyond us to Herb and Eve, who were waving hello. From the anteroom, speakers blared a Crazy Eddie ad that segued into Elton John singing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” The DJ stood and, through the soundproof glass, signaled us into his workspace, as cramped as a closet.
Herb ushered us in and announced in an orotund baritone: “Boys, let me introduce you to none other than the famous Sebastian ‘Uncle’ Munch.” We shook hands with the broadcasting legend.
“Uncle was there to meet the Beatles when they landed on our shores back in ‘64, you know,” My mouth must have hung open for a good ten seconds before I could say anything, and then it was something stupid like “I’m a big fan”. Marty, unimpressed, only nodded.
Then Marty asked the legend, “Hey, Uncle, could you play Skating Away from the new Tull album?”
“Uh, Skating Away? OK, I’ll see what I can do, little guy,” Munch said. He looked bothered by such an offbeat request, as if he doubted the song was even in the station’s rotation.
“So hey, listen, it was nice meeting you guys,” he went on, “though I’m going to have to ask you politely to step out of the booth, we’re back on the air in 20 seconds.” Marty and I joined Eve in the anteroom. Uncle Munch whispered something to Herb that seemed to upset him, and with the honeyed tones of Elton John slowly fading, began his sign-off patter:
“Stand by, folks, it’s Mean Herbie Green up next on your choice for rock and roll, WYNY-FM. But first, I want to dedicate the next song to Herbie’s boys, who were nice enough to stop by and say hello this afternoon. I’m always happy to greet such big fans of mine. Now here’s Bruce Springsteen and the East Street Band with Growing Up.“
Marty uttered a loud groan as ‘Uncle Munch’ left the booth and, instead of approaching us, went directly to Eve, hugging her hello, with a peck on the cheek that didn’t go unnoticed by “Herbie’s boys”. She parted her lips in a broad smile and placed a hand on his chest, “Nice to see you again, Sebastian,” she breathed.
Beyond the smitten pair, I noticed the troubled engineer again. He seemed now to be arguing with someone, but there was no one else in his booth. I was sure he wasn’t talking to Herb because his imposing profile was now facing in the opposite direction, like there was someone behind him, goading him, or as if there was some annoying noise, inaudible to all but him. My uneasy feeling returned. I searched the engineer’s booth for anything out of the ordinary. I don’t know what I was looking for, but I had an intuition that I might have overlooked some clue that would explain his odd behavior, but nothing revealed itself.
Then, in my peripheral vision, I sensed a strong pulsing, a disruption in the air as if some cloaked entity were trying to materialize.
“Boys, why don’t I show you the record room?” said the DJ. “Your concert doesn’t start for a couple of hours,” he glanced at his watch. Then, to Eve, he said, “That’ll give us some time to catch up, have a drink.”
I looked over the room one last time for any further signs of anomalous disturbances, but there wasn’t a trace. Only dead air.
***
The radio station’s record collection was extensive; you could spend a few hours just browsing through the LPs. It was enough of a distraction to snap Marty out of his mood, but I thought he must still not be happy with the fact that his mom was enjoying a cocktail with the wolfish guy who was once known as the “Fifth Beatle”.
“How well does your mom know Uncle Munch?” I blurted out. My ability to read social cues was still evolving. I realize now that Marty must have been mortified.
“I think she worked with him for a few years before she met my dad.”
“Yeah, it seemed like they were kind of close.”
“I really don’t want to talk about it, Clay, OK,” Marty said. He’d been engrossed in the cover of The Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack.
I nodded and pretended to be interested in a Rolling Stones bootleg.
After a long silence, I asked, “Do you think your parents are getting a, uh, divorce?”
“No!” Marty faced me. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”
He shook his head, disconsolate. His eyes dimmed. We stared at each other for a long moment, and Marty began to tear up. I stood there dumbly.
“You wanna know why we moved to Highland from Morristown?” said Marty. “Because of me. I had a kind of breakdown, or whatever you want to call it. I was constantly picked on, and I had no friends. I hated going to school. I mean, why should I? To take a beating every day. That’s why I took up the guitar. I thought it would make me seem cool, or something. I thought I was bound to make at least one friend; I even prayed, and you know we’re not religious. But no. It didn’t change a thing. After the breakdown, my parents decided it might be better if we moved to a new town: a new school, new kids, they thought maybe it could be different.”
A moist, blue smile fell over his face. “You’re my only friend, Clay.”
Marty moved toward me, and my first reaction was to retreat. But he threw his arms around me, holding on firmly, placing a soft kiss on my cheek. He held my face in his hands, and I thought he might try to kiss me on the lips.
I pushed him away and stared at him, shocked; confused may be a better word. I had really cherished our friendship, but now this seismic shift. Why all of a sudden? Why me? I thought.
Marty said, “Look, sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking. You know, I guess I’m just not feeling right, I’m not...”
I asked him where the bathroom was. He wiped his eyes, sniffed, and said he had no idea.
“I gotta go,” I told him, opening the door.
“Wait, Clay, I’m coming,” he said. “I’ll go find my mom. We should get going anyway.”
***
Just down the hall from the record room, I spotted the restroom and ducked in. I was shaken and needed some time to process what had just happened. Did Marty really have romantic feelings for me? Was he gay? Maybe he was muddled, conflating fraternal love with romantic love. You could have called us best friends, but I liked girls. Had I missed some of the signs? I splashed warm water on my face and told myself to forget it for now. Marty was still Marty. He was my best friend, and we had a concert to get to.
I was drying my hands when I heard a weird noise, like the sound burning plastic makes as it melts away. Someone else was there. From the farthest stall, a man appeared. He looked ancient: hoary, gossamer thin, stooped. But was I looking at a substantive being? It looked more like an apparition than real. I was suddenly asthmatic and wheezing. I needed to escape that claustrophobic feeling. But then words spewed from the wraithlike vision.
“Stay here, boy!” The voice was stentorian, resolute.
To my bewilderment, the incarnate form resembled my grandfather, who had died three years before. Gooseflesh rippled my body.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“Clayton!”
“Do I know you?”
“Listen to me. Do not leave this room. It is unsafe.” It demanded.
I backed away toward the exit, but after two steps, I was overcome with paralysis.
The man-ghost came closer, exuding the cloying odor of fresh death. A cryogenic frost emanated from it. One craggy hand palmed my head, and the vision spoke again, this time sotto voce.
“Go, live your life with this knowledge. Find purpose; there are many paths to take, choose wisely.”
Then the fateful thunder came: At first, like M-80s blasting in rapid succession. boom! boom! boom! boom! boom! boom! Screaming, deep bellowing cries. gunshots: boom! boom! boom! boom! Silence. And then one last eruption.
I fell into a panic, close to fainting. The man-ghost was nowhere now. Evaporated. I struggled to get out the door, but still the occult force held me. And then, collapse.
I woke to the sounds of sirens: police, ambulance, fire. Voices grew louder from outside the door. Firefighters barreled into the bathroom where I lay powerless. One of them threw me over his shoulder and, in what felt like slow-motion, rushed me through the chaos, only to dump my slack body onto the grimy Thirty-Third Street sidewalk.
What I saw on the way through the crime scene: Copious plashes of blood, chunks of bio-matter, the slug-riddled husks of Uncle Munch and Herb. Eve, her unspoiled face, placid and vacant. Then Marty, head slumped to his chest, as if, bored, he’d dozed off. His body was blown back against the DJ booth.
We didn’t call it ‘going postal’ until the 1990’s, and back in the seventies, there was no euphemistic slang for this kind of rage-borne spectacle. This pristine hellscape had been triggered by the misplaced aggression of a disturbed engineer with a bone to pick. The perpetrator sat splayed amid the detritus of his anguish, the rear of his skull rent by his final shot. The resulting tableau, a portrait of audacious butchery, became the stuff of my intrusive nightmares; a torment I would dedicate my life to escape.
I would never fully recover from the trauma of that day, but I would carry on, however divergent my life would become from that late autumn day to this. Since then, I’ve considered myself possessed with a desire to pursue my bliss, to make of this brief, but turbulent flight, a nirvana.
***
So, I ask you, a blessing or a curse? My life had been spared that day, and for what? I came to believe that the wraith was not my dead grandfather. The knowledge it had imparted just before the slaughter felt prophetic. I believe now that the ghost had been my ghost. I believe that I am my own savior. I can never be certain. But I believe.
The questions remain: How many cycles have thus far played out? Each time imparting more knowledge. How many lives have I lived since that fateful day? Each life taking a different course. Will my spirit, traveling through space-time to the autumn of 1975, be forever damned to that last stall in the restroom of the WYNY studios? Will that be my soul’s eternal reward? Fated to protect and enrich my unformed self? Will Revenant Clay ineluctably empower Child Clay to simply skate away in perpetuity — to live again and again until I become what? like some perfect Hindu God? — and in consequence, condemn my own soul?
But there is ultimately a choice, a final reckoning. This endless loop can be broken. When this riddle of existence is offered once again, how will I answer it? Will I spare my life or my soul?