The doorbell had barely stopped chiming when the door swung open. The guy standing in front of me was maybe in his fifties or sixties. He was lean. And wiry. And bald. And wearing shorts—kind of short shorts—and a thin tank top with tiny roller skates all over it. His very tanned legs were taut with muscles. He kept shifting his weight back and forth from one leg to the next, like he was performing some kind of warm-up dance. In each hand, he squeezed those springy hand-grip exerciser things in and out. He stared at me for a moment, practically vibrating, and blinked. Then his eyes lit up. “Madam!” he said. “Might you be an associate of our long-term lesbian friends?” Squeeze, squeeze.

“Uh, yeah—Bee and Yolanda? They said to meet them here? That you might have some reasonably priced skates?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” He threw his hands up in the air, still squeezing in and out. “We have reasonably priced skates for the masses! Give me one hot second!”

He disappeared around the corner, hollering for Bee and Yolanda, and then came back with keys in his hand instead of the squeezy exercise things.

“Come, come! Follow me! Right this way! I’m Joe, my dear! Bee and Yolanda will be right out!” He leaped past me toward the garage.

Something about this guy reminded me of a circus ringleader. Come in, come in, one and all. Follow me into the effing madhouse. His steps were quick and light, like a skipping pony or something, and I had to jog to keep up with him.

He unlocked one of the wide garage doors. Yanking it upward with a flourish like it weighed nothing at all, he revealed a wonderland of skate stuff. He flipped a switch on the wall and a disco ball began to twirl, scattering little square patches of light around the space. In front of me, across the cement floor, rows and rows of roller skates spread out, with narrow pathways here and there for navigating the merchandise. Along the back wall, shelving held boxes of random bits and pieces, like spare wheels, toe stops, protective gear, etc.

“Here we go, here we go! What d’ya need, hon?” He clasped his hands together and waited, eyes bright and wide.

I still hadn’t crossed the threshold of the garage. My brain had resumed its second thoughts. I was, after all, about to step inside a garage with some guy I didn’t know. Skate fanatics could be psychopaths too. Had Bee and Yolanda sent me to my death? Where were they, anyway?

“Um. I need roller derby skates… and some gear.”

“Well, well, then—let’s find you a pair of skates that will make your feet sing!” He waved me in, and I couldn’t help but think that this guy was way too excited to find me some skates to pause long enough for murder. I shuffled inside.