Life is a Rollercoaster – and I’m Serving Beer

When I was a teenager, like some arcane rite of passage, it was time to work at the local amusement park. They had food service positions, gaming positions and ride operating positions. I couldn’t be a ride operator, because I still had more teeth than tattoos, no substance abuse problem and no child molestation record. I couldn’t be a “gamer” because I wasn’t pretty and perky. Fat people go into food service as if our weight were some validation for the quality of the food (it wasn’t).

At first, I was put in charge of – yes, the irony is not missed – a fudge shop. It never actually opened so I was randomly shuffled around the various food concessions in the park. I sold ice cream bars, pretzels, funnel cakes, soft serve ice cream, donuts, “Chinese” food, “German” food and cashiered at what I liked to call the “Nursing Home Cafeteria.” The first summer finally saw me settling into a “Mexican Cantina” underneath a water ride. Frankly, the “Cantina” was about as Mexican as Burger King.

Imagine an eight foot cube with a closet attached. Then put a microwave, some warming plates, a vegetable station, a soda machine, two cash registers, two vats of artificial cheese substance, a steel countertop, a screened window that flies were able to fly right through and a sink that had probably come as army surplus from World War I. Add an electric box gamely trying to keep up with two fuses on ten high-draw appliances. No air conditioning – it might cause the cheese sauce to clot.

I first learned how to be a contortionist while at La Cookaracha. One hand would be filling sodas while my foot kept resetting the fuses every time the microwave cycled. I’d use the other hand to reset the microwave and hop on one foot since I never actually would get a bathroom break. Then I’d switch to tossing vegetables and cheese sauce into corn-like containers and use the other hand to ring up customers. The foot would still keep tapping the fuse box just to keep the rhythm going.

I hated La Cookaracha.

The next season I was “old” enough (18) to actually serve beer. Then I graduated to the “big time” where you could work in what passed as bars. Mostly I ended up between two places, a run-down interpretation of an old-western bordello/chorus hall and a grease-soaked ancillary bar to a rib joint. I hated the chorus hall. It was the same, warmed over and spat out renditions of “Oklahoma” performed at least 8 times a day. The performers were jaded, contracted from a separate entertainment company and were shuffled everywhere when someone was sick at another venue. Today’s Chorus Girl could be this afternoon’s Magician’s Assistant.

The Grease Pit Bar was the worst, though. Connected to a rib joint, the grease had soaked into everything. The wooden bar, the mirrors, the chairs, the beer taps, the soda machine and those horrible slush machines that dyed your hands permanently clownish were all suitably protected with a layer of insoluble rib grease. I remember three days specifically at The Grease Pit: the first fire, the dreaded Animatronic Incident and the fire that burned the place to the ground.

The first fire was actually rather entertaining. By year three, month three I had developed a pleasant numbness, likely added by the bottle of Southern Comfort I had in the back drawer. I thought Southern Comfort fit in with the theme and looked better when mixed with the soda. It's funny, when I started I didn't get rude to people until the last day the park was open. The second season I lasted until the last week. The third season I kept my tongue in check until the last month. By season four, I started rude. But this is season three, month three, so there's still some politeness left.

A line of people are waiting (some patiently) for slushies, sodas, beers, wine coolers and bottled drinks. Blindly going through the motions, a customer mentions that she sees smoke coming out from the kitchen. I look to the right and see nothing but smoke where the kitchen should be. “No problem, they’re just serving up a lot of ribs! Next customer please.”

“Sir, do you hear screaming?”

I look to the right to see the cooks dancing with the fire extinguishers and trying to pull the emergency fire retardant system over the grill. “Nothing to worry about,” I say, “They’re just calling out the orders. Next customer please.”

“Sir, the smoke seems to be getting thick, should we leave the dining room?”

I look again to the right and see that the occasional flame is licking at the doorframe. “I’m sure there’s no problem, but I think I should just serve the next three customers.”

After a short hiatus for repairs, I again ended up in the Grease Pit Bar.

I suspect that much of the park equipment was bought at bankruptcy sales for other companies. Otherwise, there is truly no way to explain why Chuck-E-Cheese and his ratty little friends became an animatronic singing nightmare in the Grease Pit Bar.

The Singing Rats went off like a wet firecracker every half hour. They would play some tinny banjo-band music while mimicking epileptic seizures on a small stage. Rarely did anyone pay attention. Often, the band would be turned off so that a mother could use behind the curtain to breast feed. I wonder if those children ended up with a pathological fear of mechanical mice? Could that be why there’s so much violence at Chuck-E-Cheese’s these days?

Only once in the entire time I was at the park did someone actually want to watch the damned thing. A woman came up to the bar and asked, “When does the shoe start?” The sign behind me clearly said “Shows are every half hour.”

“Every half hour,” I answered.

“Are you sure,” she asked.

“Yep.”

She stalks off only to come back 7 minutes after the next show. “When does the show start?”

“There was one about 7 minutes ago, so it should be about another 23 minutes.”

She nods and stiffly walks away. Could I have pressed the button behind the stage that started the show? Yes. Did I? Hell no.

Now she’s a whole 8 minutes late. “There’s no show, is there?”

“Actually, you just missed one.”

“There is no show! You’re lying, lying! You’re a liar!”

“I assure you, ma’am, if you wait another 22 minutes, there will be a show.”

“I want to see the park owner immediately!”

“Are you sure? He’s grumpy when he’s pulled away from his mistress and he’s just going to tell you you’re an idiot who can’t tell time.”

She blinked and walked away.

The day the Great Grease Pit burned down, I wasn’t even at the bar. Shuffled down to the bottom of the hill, I was slinging soft serve ice cream in a pastel-themed nightmare. It was hot, the lines were at least 50 yards long and I gamely fought with soft serve machines that hated the heat. I heard sirens in the background.

“Sir, what’s going on?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure.”

Then I saw a dark, oily plume of smoke swirling up from the top of the hill. “Oh, now I know. It’s the Grease Pit catching fire. Aren’t you glad you wanted ice cream instead?”
I turned to my coworker and asked for a break. I went into the back and laughed hysterically. I laughed even more when I realized later in the day that the whole thing had actually gone up like an oil-soaked wick. I felt some moderate sympathy for employees who had smoke inhalation – until I realized there were trying to “save” (rob) the registers. The plume of smoke was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen while at the park.