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Authors: Laurel Osterkamp
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the government shutdown things changed.”
I shrug my shoulders at Jack’s comment.
“And Dole?” Jack asks. “How could the Republicans not pick a
better candidate than Bob Dole? It was over the day he fell off the stage.”
Jack is referring to an incident at a campaign event when Bob Dole stepped off
the stage and fell, which made him look old and weak. The Clinton camp must
have been gleeful; their main strategy was to make Clinton seem young and
virile, and in contrast turn Dole’s advanced age into an issue. Turns out they
didn’t have to try too hard.
“I suppose you’re right.” I twirl my beer bottle against the
table and suppress a sigh.
“That’s it?” Jack studies my face. “Why aren’t you happier?”
“I should be,” I respond. “My candidate is about to win, and
I’m spending the evening with you. Why am I in such a funk?”
Jack raises his eyebrows in answer to my question – as
if to say, “I don’t know.”
“I think you need a change of scenery,” Jack says. “Let’s go
do something fun.”
“Like what?”
He drums his fingers against his chin in thought. There is
so much to do in Minneapolis; we have a great music scene. I’m about to suggest
going to First Avenue or The Fine Line, because both of them are sure to have
someone good playing. But Jack has his own ideas.
“How about roller skating?”
I laugh. Jack is such a geek, but that’s his charm.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather play putt-putt?”
He shakes his head. “It’s too cold out for that, but roller
skating is indoors.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” I get up to go, and then
quickly sit back down. “Wait. I forgot. I left my rainbow suspenders at home,
and I lost my pompom ponytail holder.”
He leans back in mock offense. “Look who thinks she’s so
cool. Wow, Lucy, when did you develop such an attitude? No wonder Sue Ellen
hates you.”
At the mention of Sue Ellen my
stomach does a flip-flop, but this time it’s easier to push my anxiety aside.
My best buddy is here, and I’m not going to worry and ruin my good time.
Jack and I leave the bar and drive to the Roller Gardens,
where we quickly notice that everyone else over the age of fourteen is there
because they’re chaperoning a child. So we pretend we’re there with our fictional
nephew, Elton, who is so embarrassed by our goofy skating that he is hiding out
in the snack bar. We skate around in circles, and I tease Jack for being able
to sing along to The Spice Girls “Wannabe.” Every so often, when we pass the
section of the rink that’s adjacent to the snack bar, Jack or I will yell out,
“How you doing, Elton?” or, “Elton, when are you going to skate with us?” This
makes us laugh even harder than we do when we compete hardcore to win the
“YMCA” contest, or when we fall on our butts while showing off our backwards-skating
skills.
By the end of the evening I
feel lighter and the world reminds me of the way it was during the summer of
1989, when Jack and I were inseparable, and I wanted to stop time because I
knew nothing would ever feel that simple and easy again.
After skating we’re both starving, so we go get dinner at
Famous Dave’s BBQ, which is actually part of Jack’s work trip. We feast on ribs
and Jack memorizes the menu and tries to guess at the recipes. When we return
to my apartment, I’m making up the couch with blankets and pillows, and there’s
a knock at my door. It’s Sharon.
My friendship with her has survived graduation, jobs,
various boyfriends, and disagreements over political philosophy. She’s still
the closest thing I’ll ever have to a big sister, and it’s not that unusual for
her to drop by close to midnight, completely unannounced.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope. Jack’s here.”
She comes in. “Jack! Oh my God! I finally get to meet Jack.”
Jack is using my home computer, trying out my new version of
AOL, but at the mention of his name he turns around
I shrug my shoulders at Jack’s comment.
“And Dole?” Jack asks. “How could the Republicans not pick a
better candidate than Bob Dole? It was over the day he fell off the stage.”
Jack is referring to an incident at a campaign event when Bob Dole stepped off
the stage and fell, which made him look old and weak. The Clinton camp must
have been gleeful; their main strategy was to make Clinton seem young and
virile, and in contrast turn Dole’s advanced age into an issue. Turns out they
didn’t have to try too hard.
“I suppose you’re right.” I twirl my beer bottle against the
table and suppress a sigh.
“That’s it?” Jack studies my face. “Why aren’t you happier?”
“I should be,” I respond. “My candidate is about to win, and
I’m spending the evening with you. Why am I in such a funk?”
Jack raises his eyebrows in answer to my question – as
if to say, “I don’t know.”
“I think you need a change of scenery,” Jack says. “Let’s go
do something fun.”
“Like what?”
He drums his fingers against his chin in thought. There is
so much to do in Minneapolis; we have a great music scene. I’m about to suggest
going to First Avenue or The Fine Line, because both of them are sure to have
someone good playing. But Jack has his own ideas.
“How about roller skating?”
I laugh. Jack is such a geek, but that’s his charm.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather play putt-putt?”
He shakes his head. “It’s too cold out for that, but roller
skating is indoors.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” I get up to go, and then
quickly sit back down. “Wait. I forgot. I left my rainbow suspenders at home,
and I lost my pompom ponytail holder.”
He leans back in mock offense. “Look who thinks she’s so
cool. Wow, Lucy, when did you develop such an attitude? No wonder Sue Ellen
hates you.”
At the mention of Sue Ellen my
stomach does a flip-flop, but this time it’s easier to push my anxiety aside.
My best buddy is here, and I’m not going to worry and ruin my good time.
Jack and I leave the bar and drive to the Roller Gardens,
where we quickly notice that everyone else over the age of fourteen is there
because they’re chaperoning a child. So we pretend we’re there with our fictional
nephew, Elton, who is so embarrassed by our goofy skating that he is hiding out
in the snack bar. We skate around in circles, and I tease Jack for being able
to sing along to The Spice Girls “Wannabe.” Every so often, when we pass the
section of the rink that’s adjacent to the snack bar, Jack or I will yell out,
“How you doing, Elton?” or, “Elton, when are you going to skate with us?” This
makes us laugh even harder than we do when we compete hardcore to win the
“YMCA” contest, or when we fall on our butts while showing off our backwards-skating
skills.
By the end of the evening I
feel lighter and the world reminds me of the way it was during the summer of
1989, when Jack and I were inseparable, and I wanted to stop time because I
knew nothing would ever feel that simple and easy again.
After skating we’re both starving, so we go get dinner at
Famous Dave’s BBQ, which is actually part of Jack’s work trip. We feast on ribs
and Jack memorizes the menu and tries to guess at the recipes. When we return
to my apartment, I’m making up the couch with blankets and pillows, and there’s
a knock at my door. It’s Sharon.
My friendship with her has survived graduation, jobs,
various boyfriends, and disagreements over political philosophy. She’s still
the closest thing I’ll ever have to a big sister, and it’s not that unusual for
her to drop by close to midnight, completely unannounced.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope. Jack’s here.”
She comes in. “Jack! Oh my God! I finally get to meet Jack.”
Jack is using my home computer, trying out my new version of
AOL, but at the mention of his name he turns around
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