The 49th Street Galleria

When I was a kid, we went to the 49th Street Galleria like every day. It was 1989 and the world was only as big and as far as my mom could drive us. She dropped us off at 3 and picked us up at 10. (Sometimes I would call her from just outside the roller skating rink and convince her to wait until 11.) It was what they called the good old days.

I pegged my pant legs, sometimes I let my sister dress me, we listened to R&B music but never thought about what it said, and we made it rain with tokens.

We drank Orange Juliuses until our chests hurt, we had pockets full of tokens and appointment books full of nothing, there were girls everywhere, and they even turned the lights off while we roller skated.

I still have callouses from the batting cages, I still wear glasses from standing too close to the arcade games, my voice still hurts from karaoke, and all I want to do these days is dance. My stomach hasn't felt like that since forever.


Last week the building came crashing down. I just spent 12 minutes trying to come up with a metaphor, but sometimes real life is more poetic than poetry.

I've been sad all week and I couldn't figure out why until I wrote this post.