I had been grounded for some pimply offense or other. I don’t remember exactly why. My mother forbade me to leave the house, that much I knew. But, I was fifteen and a half years old and going through a difficult time. Rambunctious behavior was the norm. Still, I had never deliberately and with malice aforethought gone against my mother. Not until the ice rink episode.
It was the Saturday night before Christmas. I knew all my friends would be at the Stadium Ice Rink hanging out trying to get up the nerve to talk to girls. It was prime time and I knew that the place would be buzzing. What’s more, I knew Francis Terrinoni would be there. She wasn’t my girlfriend, none of us had any real girlfriends yet, but she knew me and called me by name and I knew she liked me because one of her friends told me so. Let me tell you, Fran Terrinoni was a genuine teenage goddess. She’d developed breasts before any of the other girls and she looked like one of the Ronettes. I was hopelessly, madly in love with her.
Word had gotten back to me through mutual friends that she would be there and she wanted to see me. Thoughts of skating arm-in-arm with her around the hockey-sized rink while romantic Dave Clark Five songs played on the P.A. occupied my mind like a 700-pound gorilla. I visualized her, in her little figure skating outfit, skates flashing, gliding effortlessly next to me as we shared unspoken vows of love. I knew she’d be devastating in a tight sweater, probably with a cute little matching beret. It was the uniform of the damned, as far as I was concerned. After all, I was grounded. It wasn’t fair.
The gravitational pull of the ice rink was irresistible. It was only a few blocks away and my hockey skates were hanging inside the closet, calling my name. And Fran was probably already there, lacing up her skates.
I thought my head would explode. Back when I was fifteen and a half, if there was something going on and I wasn’t part of it, it drove me crazy. And this… this was torture. Agony!
It was hot young teenage love versus traditional motherly love. Pure and simple. I knew which side of the bread got buttered.
Knowing that Fran was only a few blocks away, skimming over the ice alone, or worse, with another guy(!), short-circuited my brain. I knew in my heart that before the night was over I would disobey my mother for the first time ever and it caused me great consternation.
For some reason, during that winter, there was a fad going around school where guys would bleach a streak in their hair. I know it’s dumb, but that was the fad. Several of my friends had done it with modest results. My mother was aware of the fad and forbade me to indulge.
Maybe it was the proximity to Francis Terrinoni. Maybe it was teenage angst. Maybe it was just me being rebellious. But, after my parents left the house to do some last minute Christmas shopping, I strolled into my parent’s bathroom looking for trouble. I found it in the form of a bottle of some sort of hair color. I had no idea how to use it so I just poured it on my head over the sink. Maybe I should have thought it out a little more or at least read the directions because the result was stunning. I had a streak of bright orange hair extending from my crown to my forehead, an inch wide, front and center. It was impossible to miss. Somewhere in the back of my twisted brain I actually thought it looked cool. In reality it looked absolutely ridiculous. Of course, reality wasn’t on the menu that night. I had chewed through the leash and I was runnin’ wild.
My heart was pounding when I went down the stairs. My younger sister saw me and started screaming, “Oh, my God! You’re gonna get it! I’m tellin’!”
I brushed past her with disdain. She kept repeating the mantra of little sisters everywhere, “I’m tellin’! I’m tellin’!” Ignoring her, I threw my skates over my shoulder and headed out the door. The night was bitter cold, the temperature in single digits. My breath formed great clouds in the icy air. I walked down the block with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. I was off to see my beloved. What did I care what happened back at the house? I was on a rocket to Venus.
I walked briskly, no time to spare, and by the time I got to the ice rink my ears were burning. I had forgotten my scarf and hat. Actually, I didn’t forget, I just thought I looked cooler without them. Anything that might appear even the least bit dorky would be jettisoned for Fran. Anything for Fran.
All the kids were there and the ice was crowded. I changed into my skates and got out there in record time. It didn’t take me long to spot Fran. She stood out in her figure skating outfit, her big hair bobbing as she gracefully slid across the ice. Her skates were white and the blades were polished to a mirror finish. They flashed as she pushed off, one perfect leg in front of the other. Fran sported young Italian breasts high and proud, and I imagined them to be as firm as ripe plums. I was a quivering mass of uncontrollable hormones.
I positioned myself where she couldn’t miss me when she came around. I glided out onto the ice and waited for lightning to strike. It did, but not in the way I’d hoped. Four buddies of mine grabbed me and pulled me along into a whip. After a few moments of slapstick comedy at my expense they launched me like a slingshot and I hurtled over the frozen water like a maniac. I tried to stop when some little kids skated in front of me. I fell, sprawling and sliding, in the direction of Fran Terrinoni.
I slid about ten yards and came to rest at her feet.
I looked up, my face as red as a beet. She laughed. I guess I must have looked pretty silly. She pointed to my hair. I’d forgotten about the orange streak. I tried to be cool as I got to my feet. I stammered, temporarily unable to put together words and phrases.
I wanted to say a thousand things. I yearned to pour out my heart to her. It wanted to bare my very soul, but, all I could get out was, “Wanna skate?”
She must have said yes, because my next memory is skating next to Fran, supremely happy, with the world as perfect as it could get. It is often at these times, at the height of our triumphs, when fate intervenes to remind us of who we really are. And that’s exactly what happened next.
Somebody called my name. The only problem was that none of my friends called me “Gregory.” That’s when it struck me; my time had come. The dream was over.
My mother pulled our huge family station wagon (two and a half acres of red 1965 Chevy Bel Air) right up to the skating rink. She stood next to it looking very perturbed. Steam rose from her head and her nostrils flared.
“Gregory! Gregory! Get over here this instant!”
Francis Terrinoni slipped from my arm and melded back into the crowd of skaters around us. She was gone. Long gone.
I stood alone at center ice, the whole place suddenly aware of my drama. Every eye was on me as I slowly complied with my mother’s orders. Shame racked my shoulders and bowed my head. It took a half an hour to get across the ice to where she was; at least that’s what it seemed. Gawd, I have never been so embarrassed in my life. Every kid’s worst nightmare came reigning down on my poor soul. In front of Fran!
I was busted. Now the only question would be how much punishment I had coming. My mother greeted me with her hands on her hips, the stance that mother’s have used to intimidate since the beginning of time. I cowered, waiting for the axe to fall. She glared disapprovingly at the orange streak in my hair. I waited in silence, expecting the worst.
Then something happened that would change my relationship with my mother forever. Instead of humiliating me in front of everybody, she lowered her voice and explained that she was not at all happy with me, and that there was much to discuss when I got home.
My mind tried to grasp what was happening. Did I hear her right? When I got home? Did that mean I didn’t have to get in the car like a whupped dog? I could stay?
My mother had allowed me to save face in front of all my friends. A miracle had occurred on 33rd Street. My heart swelled. She reminded me of the time and told me to be home within the hour, but she didn’t destroy my already shattered ego in front of Fran and everyone else that mattered to me.
She got back in the car and drove away. I stood there dumbfounded.
I stuck around the ice rink for a while, trying to repair the damage to my rep, and trying to save what little credibility I had with Fran. But the bloom was off the rose. I could tell. I wasn’t cool anymore. I’d lost my Mojo.
I walked home with my head hung down. I’d try again with Fran, but it wouldn’t happen anytime soon. I had a world of punishment waiting for me.
I would be grounded for life, that much I knew. But, with time off for good behavior, I held out hope that I might get out of jail while I was still young. Such was life. Besides, I had it coming.
Christmas came and went, the relatives visited, Turkey and Kielbasa were served. Apart from my status as house prisoner, my parents didn’t mention the ice rink incident after that. I had to get a haircut, of course. Mom insisted they cut it extra short to get the orange out. That in itself was punishment enough in the post Beatles world.
As fate would have it, I did hook up with Fran again, but not until that summer. By then my hair had grown out. I got my Mojo back.
I don’t recall what Christmas presents I got that year. It doesn’t matter. They were just material things with a limited shelf life anyway. But I’ll always remember that particular Christmas, because that was the year my mother gave me the best gift of all. She gave me respect.
So when and where did this happen?
very nice.