Back in the Day

I hate roller hockey. I hate it with a passion. I still go when Stefan calls and tells me that he is heading out to the rink, however. I still lug my heavy gear to the cramped benches to strap on my ice hockey goalie equipment only to risk ripping something on the less than slick surface. Why? Because back in the day…

It’s that little phrase that causes a lot of us to do things that we would rather not do. It makes us do things that are only fun for nostalgic purposes. Back in the day we used to go to that bar. It was smoky, dark, loud, and the bartender had a severely short pour. Still, though, they never checked our IDs and, since we were eighteen, that was a good thing. Now, being of age, we are welcomed into the finest bars and clubs in the city. We can go to that place downtown where everyone knows us and we only pay for half of our strong drinks. Sometimes, though, we go back that bar and have a damn good time listening to the same songs on the same jukebox that we did ten years ago. Why? Because back in the day…

Thompson Elementary School was where it all really started. Don’t get me wrong. We were playing hockey long before. Most of us begged our parents for gear as soon as we watched Mike Modano and the Dallas Stars, back in 1993, play the first NHL game in Dallas. It was a win versus Detroit, by the way. We did not know good gear from bad gear or a hockey skate from a figure skate. Ice was too expensive so we adapted our play to the streets. We wore generic inline skates with bright blue plastic straps. You know the kind made for recreational skating as opposed to hockey. We wielded solid wood sticks with screwed on plastic blades that we got a Wal-Mart and smacked around tennis balls. However, Thompson is where we learned that everything we were doing was all wrong.

Our first day at Thompson, we witnessed real inline hockey skates and the difference between Mylec and CCM. We noticed the difference between Wal-Mart and The Hockey Shop. It wasn’t long before I traded in my flat bladed plastic goalie stick for a Curtis Curve and the paper-thin leg pads for some old Coopers. I painted a skull on my mask. Stefan, in his new skates, tore up and down the rink like the wind. He developed a slapshot that was not only accurate but hard and fast too. We named it “Boomer”. We turned ourselves in to a couple of good hockey players out there.

Sunday nights were the magic nights out there. Stefan and I would go almost every day after school and we would stay until the lights went off regardless if it was freezing cold or a hundred degrees. Normally we would be there with a handful of old guys, kids our age, or young kids. On Sunday night, however, that place was jumping. Benches would be so crowded that players would have to stand until a spot opened up for them. They played ten-minute shifts. Goalies would switch out every other shift change. At one point there were so many goalies that some would get frustrated enough to remove their gear and skate as a defenseman. Talent ranged from barely skating to highlight reel moves and we had a blast. Sunday night was our league in a sense. Monday through Saturday was our practice. The leagues were still a couple years away.

Well, we grew up. It sucks, doesn’t it? Growing up. It was a blast though, back in the day. We played in various leagues on the same team and against each other. We met some characters. One a goalie who had to take smoke breaks. Another guy who swore he played juniors up in Canada yet barely kept up with us beginners. There was Dallas who wore extensions in his hair but had a wicked wrist-shot. When the Stars lost in the playoffs we played until I split Stefan’s lip with a puck. He had to get eight stitches. When the Stars won the cup Stefan and I were in D.C. When they tried to defend it we watched Jason Arnott spoil it from a booth at Sports City in Mesquite. Over the year we went our separate ways. Stefan got married and had kids. I moved from Dallas to NYC to Vegas and back again. We still play hockey though our bodies and bones are older and sore, but we love the game. That’s why, when he says that he is headed to the roller hockey rink, I go.

Last night we skated around shooting the puck and talking about “back in the day”. Memories came forward like the time we were all suspended for an entire season for brawling. One of our players took a baseball style swing at the other teams goalie, which started a fight. Both teams cleared the benches and a brawl ensued. I recall the 1-0 shutout win that determined first place where, with second left in the game, I snagged a well placed shot with a desperation wave of my glove hand. That caused problems too when an opposing player slashed at my hand trying to jar the puck loose. He was quickly and forcibly placed on his backside behind the net. Last night we broke two of those plastic roller hockey pucks. I guarantee that none of us had a shot that hard “back in the day”.

Gene Simmons Kitty

N everbodi sayz she lukin gud
N tha ladi noes it undrstud
Strutter.

No... I am not a psycho. It is fiction... get it?

I know my friends ad I know that each of you will send me an email wondering if I have flipped. I have not. The protagonist here is a new character I am working on. I am not sure I if I will develop it or not but I wanted to get the thoughts down. So here you go... The Addict.

Heroin addicts know the feeling. It is hard for normal people to grasp a complete understanding of the shear euphoria and sense of peace that washes over me in these situations. A druggy could. Maybe even an alcoholic. I had to laugh as I thought of that. It is very ironic that peacefulness should be a feeling that washes over me at this moment, but it is like that, isn’t it? Just as one has an uneasy, restless, and anxious feeling before the needle enters the vein. Then that sudden comforting cozy feeling as the chemicals enters his blood stream flowing straight to his brain. He is at ease. He got what he came for and, for a little while, his inner turmoil is quieted. I have gone without my drug for too long. I need a hit.

My heart races and I am sure the beating can be heard echoing throughout the garage as it does in my ears. However, no one looks up at me as I walk towards the elevators. This one is special for me. It isn’t as random as in the past. I usually pick some poor sap out of a crowd and follow them for a few weeks learning their routines and habits; their perversions that they think are secret. I like using their secrets against them. Young Brain enjoyed random sex with much older men in gas station restrooms. That’s how I finally got him. Of course I could have just attacked him a hundred times before but what fun is that? When he entered the piss-scented restroom he smiled and dropped to his knees on the grimy shit stained floor. He unzipped my pants and where he expected to find my cock, he found a silenced pistol. You see, I cut a hole in my pocket and, strangely enough, through my blue jeans it looked like an aroused penis. Brain was an impish sort of guy and a simple hand on the back of his head kept him from jerking away at the sight of the black steel. I made him put his mouth on it. He was expecting a throat-full of cum. Instead I fired a piece of lead down his neck. His head was nearly severed as his body twitched on the cold tile. That rush lasted me for months.

No, this time is not like that at all. This time is vengeance. I haven’t tried this particular brand yet. I knew exactly how it was going to happen too. I have not repeated myself yet. That way nothing looks related. I don’t know what gets me off the most, the killing or the getting away with it. In the elevator I am riding down with an Asian girl in her early twenties. She is smoking hot with lilac skin and jet-black hair. I stare at her in her tight skirt and silk blouse. Through a gap in the buttons I can make out a hint of a purple nipple. Her breasts are not big but they are perky and she gives me such a hard on. I almost forget about why I am here and I want to pin her down right here and have my way with her. She is small and wouldn’t be able to put up too much of a fight. No! I have to do what I came here for. She smiles as she gets to her floor and exits the elevator. I smile back. Maybe I’ll see her again soon.

The elevator reaches the lobby and I make my way to the rotating door at the front of the building. My palms sweat as I cross the street despite the cold and snowy weather. I am reeling inside and I need my fix. I can feel that my eye is starting to twitch. Soon I will be in position. Soon I will smell her perfume and she probably will not even know who I am until after the syringe is in her neck. It will be too late to scream then. The drug would have already taken effect. She will, however, have time to think about ignoring my calls and leaving with no explanation all those years ago. I heard she was married now with a little girl. I am sure they will miss her. I can hardly wait now as I duck in to the restaurant from the back door. I worked here before and I know that they never lock the storage area. I find myself a dark corner and I wedge between a stack of wine boxes and a couple of beer crates. As long as I stay crouched, no one will see me until she comes down to stock her bar. The waiting is the hardest part.