In November of 2008, I flew to NYC to meet with a woman interested in becoming my literary agent. For decades she’s represented writers whose work has made me the person I am.
I was terrified.
The meeting went well—the agent agreeing to represent me–and I left her office exhilarated and needing to burn off my nervousness and excitement. I needed to celebrate.
So I headed down to Bryant Park, strapped on some ice skates and went out onto the ice. On opposite ends of the rink stood two tall Asian men in bright orange jackets that read “SKATE GUARD” in bold black letters. Motown played over the loud speakers and I shared the rink with happy couples holding hands, little kids in puffy coats, middle-aged men skating backwards with ease.
more at the jump…
We all sailed around and around the rink together, the air crisp, the sun bright. But inevitably, a grown up or small child would take a dive, sprawling onto the hard cold ice. Fingers splayed and vulnerable to the sharp blades of passing skates.
That’s when the nearest SKATE GUARD would spring into action, skating furiously to the fallen. Upon reaching the downed skater, the SKATE GUARD would stand over her protectively, legs wide, arms out. The SKATE GUARD would not help the fallen up, but would shield her from harm as she climbed back up on her own and skated away.
I felt like I had found the real life Catcher in the Rye. I wanted more than anything to be a tall Asian man in a bright orange SKATE GUARD jacket.
Now it’s winter of 2010 and I’m in Massachusetts visiting my friend “Veronica.” I planned my trip for this time of year because I wanted to skate the pond behind her parents’ house. An unseasonable warm snap has left the ice too fragile, so yesterday we headed to the ice skating rink in Boston Commons.
We arrived just after all the skaters had been cleared from the rink so that the Zamboni driver could ride the big machine around and around the rink in shrinking concentric circles, scraping the ice, making it flawless and new.
“The Zamboni,” Veronica cried. “When I was a kid I used to have to sit through my brother and sister’s hockey games. I’d always take a book to read, which mortified them. But I’d put the book down to watch the Zamboni.”
“It’s like watching someone rake a Zen garden.”
“Exactly,” she said. “It makes everything new and clean. And shiny.”
The sun set behind the buildings framing the park. The sky flared up a bright pink. “We have to wait,” Veronica said, “and watch the kids come out and scratch up the ice again.”
And so we stood there and watched as the Zamboni’s circles became smaller and smaller until the whole rink was perfect.
Then the Zamboni left the ice; the SKATE GUARDS opened the gates; the children poured happily onto the rink, their blades making scratching sounds as they tore into the flawless surface of the ice.