The Wall

Gina Migliaccio, Department of Art and Archaeology

Honorable Mention

One day in November, I went ice skating. Because that’s what you do during a pandemic. You go ice skating.

As I flounced to the rink’s entrance, wobbling all the time on the dratted rental blades, I knew I was going in the wrong direction. The parking lot was the other way.

But, no. I was walking toward the ice.

I shook my head the whole way over. This was stupid. I was stupid. “I shouldn’t be here—I don’t skate,” I told myself.

Fat people don’t skate.

And I was never really an avid skater to begin with, either: just a few trips to the rink here and there in my teens with a group of fellow bored youths with nothing better to do. And even then, I mostly just sat at a crusty café table and sipped hot chocolate, barely touching the ice.

However, here I was: a lonely, bored adult with plenty of better things to do—like go back home and stare at the ceiling. I guess I could’ve. Nobody was forcing me; I could’ve left. Still, I trudged over. This fat girl didn’t waste $12 to turn back. That’s worth four whole Big Macs. It would’ve been highway robbery!

Eventually, I made it to the edge of the rink. The frigid temperature of artificial winter pinched at my skin. It reminded me of a similar pinch: one I took to the arm—three times over—which afforded me the opportunity to even be in this space.

I stepped onto the ice with the grace of an infant deer. Speaking of infants, there were hundreds blitzing past me at breakneck speed. I swear I had barely scraped the surface when one skater—no older than three, one might wager—only stopped once to pick up her dropped doll before zipping past me. A blast of her residual tailwind snapped in my eardrum as she zoomed.

Zoom. What I wouldn’t have given for the sanctity of a Zoom “Hide Video” button at that moment. Something had to mask this grown woman, who was clinging to the plastic edge of the rink wall like it was the last Thanksgiving turkey in the supermarket.

And my legs. My poor ham hock, underworked legs. They trembled and burned, gaining no respite in trying to keep my pudgy torso upright. Curse the Quarantine-Fifteen.

Who was I kidding? Definitely twenty.

There was a gaggle of a family in my path. Little ones lined the wall, meaning, as the quote/unquote adult, I had to go around them.

I had one goal for the day: don’t crush any children. I wasn’t about to blow it all in the first five minutes.

To my dread, I pushed off from the wall. The family must’ve covered the children’s eyes as I flapped my arms like a drunk, terrified goose. I might’ve even honked, I don’t know. I blacked out.

Thankfully, the laws of inertia favored me, and I made my way back to the wall. One hand clutched the wall as the other keeled over on my shaking knee. My sweat-laden brow glanced up from my quaking feet for a moment to lock eyes with a fellow skater. Though I would hardly call myself a skater, he clearly was. The man was upright, for crying out loud! And doing a casual figure eight motion as he glided over to me.

A panicked breath hitched in my trachea.

“Oh, God. Go the other way. Go the other—”

“Bring your feet together more. Helps the balance.”

My frazzled mind was shaken by his gentle tenor. Grey eyes, matching his matted salt-and-pepper hair, shifted to my fidgeting cankles.

“And it’ll relieve some pressure on your feet.”

I attempted to bring the lines of the skates more perpendicular.

“Like this?”

“Exactly. And little glides, not steps.”

The man patiently showed me, and I mimicked him. He was skating backwards the whole time, watching my cockeyed tootsies awkwardly slide. My taut chin lifted, and I looked up. There was a twinkle of approval in his irises.

“Fine,” the pro nodded. “That’s just fine. Keep that up.”

He kicked off, shifting his entire frame to turn forward. He looked over his shoulder, revealing a sideways smirk as he picked up speed.

“Oh. And ya gotta get off that wall. Damn thing’s a crutch. You’ll get there.”

It was a good thing his back was turned. He wasn’t able to see the indignation on my face.

“Get off the wall? Doesn’t he know this wall’s keeping me alive right now?”

My skates carved deeper, sharper lines into the fractalated surface. The icy floor was all I could look at. That and the wall. The safe, maternal wall. The bosom of security, thy name was Wall.

I looked up again. The man was well into his Olympian pace as he lapped around. This time, he was joined by more infants and children and others whom I should’ve been able to skate better than. I watched as the ice made these total strangers kin. They took their jaunt to the middle of the rink, beaming and chuckling like a bevy of athletes and playfully spinning circles around one another.

Meanwhile, the fat girl was on the wall. Craving Zoom. Craving hot chocolate. Craving her bed. Her cozy, crumb-filled bed.

Isolation was easy, and the pandemic made that socially acceptable. It was like the wall: very strong, very sturdy, and there to protect me. At home, there were no invisible eyes to judge me.

It was safe. And I missed it.

My feet began to wander with my thoughts. And before I knew it, I was away from the wall.

“Holy sh—”

My eyes darted. Oh, Wall-y! Forgive me!

But, wait? A miracle occurred.

I was not dead.

And, what’s more, I was upright! Far from Kristi Yamaguchi, and still quite flappy, but the drunk goose had sobered up. Yes, even though it was the bare minimum in the technical sense, I was—by the slimmest definition of the word—skating. My lip twitched, the edges of it going upward. My ear twitched with it at the sound of a woman’s buttery voice.

“Excellent!”

Another rush of wind blew my ebony curls back. An older woman, with an emerald helmet, joined my side as she kicked up her heel in a twirl. Though her rainbow mask hid her mouth, there was an unmistakable smile in her eyes.

“I’m so happy you got off the wall!”

She slid off with a wave, and I even found enough confidence in my own balance to give a (smallish) wave back. Then, as if on cue, the man came scooting around once more.

“Toldja!” he cried.

I nodded. “Damn crutch!” I called back.

We shared a belly laugh, and I did a few more—slow but steady—laps.

Hours later, sore ankles carried me back to the rental booth. As I slapped my skates on the desk, I looked the teenage clerk in the eye. “How long do your season passes go for?”

“’Til about March.”

“I’ll take one.”

She rang up my total, and I looked back at the rink. I looked at the unusually kind, unusually warm people. People who could’ve laughed at the wobbly fat girl in rental skates, but didn’t. People—strangers turned kin—whom the pandemic made me forget about.

And I looked at the wall and a few others who clung to it like I did.

I shook my head.

“They’ll get there.”