Wearing his old maroon sweater and hockey skates, Moonpie goes down to the rink every sunday to do laps on the ice and skate backwards through the crowd. Just like home, he thinks to himself as he spins and glides past Lincoln Alley. The attendants clear the rink for closing time, as he savors the last few laps alone, with his eyes closed, skating backwards his iPod playing something only he can hear.
The Zamboni driver waits as young girls linger on the ice, reluctantly leaving the rink. Moonpie has gone the other way. Choosing not to exit through the swinging opening in the rink wall. He skates at a good speed towards the Virginia Street end of the rink, stops short at the wall, hops over it one leg at a time and walks off through the planter across the street. He looks longingly at the river as it flows through town, remembering Wisconsin and the cold and the rivers that set up solid enough could skate home through the dark winter afternoons.
His glasses fog up under the lights and the cold as his breath catches up with him as he stumbles on the blades of his skates along the concrete path beside the river.
Photos by B. Donovan
Video by Wolfy
Story by Wolfy