The summer before sixth grade, I begged my mom to let me have my birthday party at Interskate 88, the roller rink just off the highway out west of our town.
Like many other establishments of its kind, the rink was about two decades past its prime: artificial light illuminating a shiny floor, carpets forever saturated with the stench of onion rings.
Mom finally caved in to my pleading, and I spent weeks preparing my invitations, planning my outfit, and imagining the play-by-play of the party.
When that day came, I skated my heart out, holding hands with my girls as we went around and around, then shoved my face with pizza, loving the plastic-like sheen that sat atop the cheese.
I was, of course, preparing for my big moment in The Birthday Money Machine — a phone-booth shaped box with glass on all sides and a siren perched on top. It was rigged, somehow, to blow a strong gust of air into the booth when a switch was activated. Then they filled it with money (at an approximate ratio of 90% Monopoly money and the rest $1 and $5 bills), thrust the lucky birthday kid inside, and gave them a chance at grabbing the fortune that would blow wildly around them like debris in a tornado funnel.
When it was time, the referee on skates told the birthday kids to line up in a row while everyone else in the rink gathered around. The kid in front of me went first. On the count of three, the wind tunnel ignited and his hair started pushing every which way, his hands clutching empty air at first until he decided to pat the bills against his body and stuff them into his pants, which seemed to work. He looked skilled, like he’d done this before.
The music thumped, the timer ticked down, and the ref glided over to start hyping up the crowd to count down.
“Ten!…nine!…eight!…”
I couldn’t participate because I was too nervous about the fact that I was up next. The boy came out and his friends, a gang of eleven-year-old boys with rattails and muscle tanks, all patted him on the back, the ref counting up his dollars and then holding up the dude’s hand like he just won a UFC match.
Before I could collect myself, my name was called and I was ushered inside the box. Through the scratched, foggy pane I saw my friends clapping, my mom angling the camera, and then, just as her flash went off in the dark rink, the blast of air began.
I was surrounded by floating money. My hands, sweaty. I grabbed with no luck, the bills flying too fast around me. It was all so much harder than it looked. I barely knew how I got there, and all I could think was, Why am I doing this? I snatched a dollar that was stuck to my shirt and soon realized it was fake.
I heard the crowd start counting down over the noise of the blower machine. The rattail boys stomping, my friends jumping, and soon, a big muffled cheer just as the whirring halted. The ref opened the door and I stepped out, empty-handed.
“Better try next time, hon!” The ref patted me on the back. “Who’s next?”
Let me try again, I thought, hanging my head. I’ll do better.
But the chance was gone.
Later that night, lying in bed, I thought about how different I’d imagined the day going compared to how it went.
I thought about how being inside the money machine was so much different than being outside, looking in.
I felt that I’d failed my friends, myself, my mom, everyone else at the rink and everyone in the whole world. I wasn’t yet old enough to understand that everyone had already moved on, that nobody was thinking of my blunder in the booth anymore and likely wouldn’t, ever again. It wasn’t that they didn’t care in the moment, it was just that their lives, all of our lives, are too vast and deep and mundane and roving to care too long about any single thing — especially when it doesn’t directly concern us.
This is the lesson I’ve been telling myself lately. Because even though The Birthday Money Machine itself is a slightly unhinged thing to make a child do, I still experience that kind of embarrassment now, especially when I share my writing.
Despite the fact that what I share is always a true reflection of who I am and what I’m learning in that moment, I can’t help but feel stupid about trying to make sense of the world so publicly, about trying to share something I created as if it’s any good, as if anybody cares at all, which is followed by the feeling that people care so much that they must think I’m absolutely worthless and why wouldn’t I just mind my own business and eat nachos on the couch instead of trying to be something so difficult and self-important as a writer?
I know I’m not the only one who worries this way. So how do we stop being so afraid of simply being seen? I think we have to remember that anything we say or do or share is just a blip of a moment along with all the other blips of content that a person reads, shares, hears, and talks about it any given day.
Plus, I know that I write because sharing my truth is what brings me closer to humanity in a world where I often feel wholly disconnected from other people.
That’s what drives me to start sharing more here again. This time, my stories will be shorter and more to-the-point — which is less reading for you and less pressure for me, a win-win!
I’ll also share some updates on my current projects and other things I’ve been reading or thinking about. On that note, now might be a good time to let you know that I finished my memoir, titled MODEL HOME, and found a literary agent. I’m currently deep in the harrowing process of submitting to editors at publishing companies.
Trying to publish a book feels a lot like being inside the money machine, but in the middle of Times Square, on New Year’s Eve.
But then I remember the blips. I remember that the person who worries most about me is me. And then I begin again.
P.S. For fun, scroll down here for a photo of the actual money machine (this might’ve all been solved if they’d just let me take a friend inside).