Best to Laugh: A Novel by Lorna Landvik Page A

my apartment to Beat Street Records, and I enjoyed getting there on my own two feet—especially after Maeve turned me on to roller skating.
    My weightlifter neighbor had turned into my weightlifter friend. Although Maeve had grown up in Beverly Hills, she was fairly new to Hollywood and had decided I was a worthy sidekick in her neighborhood explorations. The first invitation she extended had been to breakfast at Schwab’s Drugstore.
    “Look,” she said, swiveling on her counter stool, “there’s that actor who played the bad guy in The Godfather. ”
    “Maeve, there were a lot of actors who played bad guys in The Godfather. ”
    We watched as the man in question sauntered to the nearby pay phone.
    “Yeah, but that guy was really bad.”
    The second invitation was to a roller rink on Sunset and La Cienega.
    “You’ve got to try it,” she said. “It’s great for the quads and the calves—not to mention the glutes—and besides, it’s a lot of fun.”
    Disco was supposedly dying, but not at the roller rink where a blasting throbbing beat accompanied skaters and damaged eardrums. I had skated as a kid on little metal skates that affixed to your shoes and were tightened with a key, and it took me a little while to get used to the heaviness of a boot skate, but once I did, I could skate circles around Maeve. Then again, she could skate circles around me.
    “You’re smooth!” I shouted over Donna Summers telling me she’d love to love me, baby.
    “Why does that surprise you?” asked Maeve, skating backwards.
    I shrugged before shouting, “I guess it doesn’t!”
    “I’m not just some big galoot, you know!”
    Maeve presented an imposing-looking figure but it was sheathed in the thinnest skin known to humankind, and I’d learned it was best to ignore her when she went into one of her I’m-so-misunderstood rants. This strategy seemed to work; without attention, the tears threatening to rise out of her hurt feelings would evaporate, and her usual good cheer returned.
    A shirtless skater wearing tight vinyl shorts and a black motorcycle cap whizzed by us, twirling around like a music box dervish.
    The beginners stayed on the perimeter, tethered to the railing by their sweaty hands. The utilitarians skated beside them, content to move around the rink without falling. The next tier—to which Maeve and I belonged—was composed of fairly good skaters who could easily skate backwards and could do a basic spin turn, whereas the center of the rink was reserved for those who moved like dancers and gymnasts on wheels, executing jetés and arabesques and the occasional flip. As flashy as their athleticism was their dress code, whose basic tenet was that skin should be seen and not covered.
    The second time we went to the roller rink I again rented skates, but the day afterwards I bought my own pair and now used them as a means of transportation.
    It was a straight shot down Hollywood Boulevard to work, and thepolished granite Walk of Fame, from Sycamore to Gower, was a skater’s dream surface. During the morning skate the Boulevard was light with traffic, and I’d read the names on the stars I slalomed through: Fred Astaire, Debbie Reynolds, Red Skelton.
    Heading west on the way home, my ability to dodge was the more important skill as buskers had set out their guitar and saxophone cases and tourists clogged the streets, armed with maps, sun hats, and cameras.
    From La Brea to Fuller, the street inclined, and by the time I got home I had worked up a reasonable sweat and had a perfect excuse to jump into the pool.
    Having just skated past the neon Peyton Hall sign, I saw that I might not be getting into the pool as early as I had intended.
    “Hey,” said Blank Frank, perched on the bottom of the steps that fronted my building. “How’s it going?”
    “It’s going hot,” I said, lifting the back of my hair to fan my neck.
    “So did you listen to it?”
    “Listen to what?” I asked innocently.
    “Oh, I