"Can we ride again?"
"No, sorry. You'll have to
get back in line."
"But there's only like fifteen people in line! Come
on, big guy. Let us go one more time. Be a pal. What’s it gonna hurt?"
"I'm, sorry. You'll have
to get back in line."
“You know what? Fuck it. Fuck you too! This is so fucking
stupid! There's no one in line and you're gonna make us get out and walk all
the way around in order to ride again? Are you fucking nuts? Gimmie a
break!"
"I'm sorry, sir."
"No you’re not. If you were sorry you’d just let us
stay in the Goddamn boat! This is so stupid! It’s fucking insane! Come on kids,
the asshole is going to make us get off and walk all the way around to get back
on."
"I'm sorry I've set a bad example for your
children."
"Excuse me?"
That was the sort of nonsense I had to deal with on a
daily basis while gainfully employed as a ride operator at Six Flags Great
America in Gurnee, Illinois.
The ride I was assigned to was called, The Loggers Run. It was a water ride. Employees were required to call it by its technical name however: The Flumes. I’m still not entirely sure what the word flumes means, or where it comes from originally,
and honestly I don’t even care enough to take thirty seconds and Google it. I
can't think of one single instance in which I've had use for it outside of my
time at Great America, anyway.
Not once. Not ever.
Maybe it would work in a foreplay situation? You know,
something like; “Baby I'm gonna do you good with this here flume of mine.”
No?
Yeah, probably not.
Flume
isn’t a very a sexy word.
The
word dong is sexier – and dong isn’t very sexy at all.
Anyway, every morning I was expected to arrive at Six
Flags at least forty-five (unpaid) minutes early. I needed the extra time to make
my way “backstage,” get to my locker, order up a fresh costume, get dressed and
make my way to the opposite side of the park where my ride was.
The costume in question, for those of us lucky enough to be stationed on The
Loggers Run, was basically a pair of jeans so crazily tight that they not only made
even the simplest movements impossible, but also put the baby elephant trunk
and marbles on display for anyone sneaking a glance.
I also had to slide into a brown shirt made of an odd feltly
(which isn’t a word) material, with an oversized collar and a neckline that
plunged so deep it exposed far more of my doughy, sporadically-haired chest
area than anyone wanted exposed.
Don’t get me wrong, the shirt looked bonkers great on the
female employees – so great it made wearing those tight jeans all the more
difficult.
It might have even worked on a muscular dude.
I don’t
make judgments.
Putting my man boobs on display was a terrible idea though.
It’s always been a terrible idea and it’ll always be a terrible idea.
My moobs are like religious cults and the Kardashians.
The thing about working at Great America (and I imagine
this the same at all theme parks) is that people in the park have paid large
sums of money for their tickets, and because of that they seem to think they
own the damn place.
Dropping fifty bucks doesn’t make you a king and it sure
as shit doesn’t give you the right to act like an idiot. Sorry. It just
doesn’t.
Dropping a thousand bucks doesn’t give you that right.
Dropping a million bucks might.
Let’s test it.
Someone drop me a million bucks and treat me like shit.
The question I was most
commonly asked while working was, "Can we ride again?“
My answer was always, "No,
I'm sorry, you'll have to get back in line."
The response to my no was usually something along the
lines of, "That's a fucking stupid policy! Come on! Just let us ride
again! It’s not gonna hurt anything! Don’t be such a little prick, you little
prick fuck!"
Okay, maybe there wasn’t so many “pricks” or “fucks,” but
you get my point.
This happened every day - for eleven hours a day –
nonstop.
It was nauseating.
Working at Six Flags was a marathon. It required
fortitude of will and an uncanny ability to keep my emotions at bay. I was
constantly fighting the urge to grab every one of the ride again idiots by their shirt collars and scream in their faces,
“I make seven dollars an hour! Seven measly dollars!”
I pictured myself squeezing their necks until their eyes bulged
and their faces began to turn as purple and blue as the tip of a penis moments
before release.
I imagined myself knocking them to the ground, lifting my
boot and stomping it into their groin. “I don’t make decisions, you moron! I
make seven dollars an hour to not make decisions! If I let you get on that
boat, I get fired, and if I get fired I make zero dollars an hour!”
I wanted to wrap my fingers
around their necks one more time, and squeeze until my knuckles turned white. I
wanted to squeeze so hard their heads exploded and their brain matter fell from
the heavens like rain.
It would have been so beautiful and freeing.
It would have been the end of The Shawshank Redemption brought to
life in Gurnee, Illinois.
For example, take the conversation I was having with this
large 240, 250lb guy at the beginning of this story. The guy's boat had just
pulled into the station with himself, a woman I assumed was his wife, and his
two kids sitting behind.
I had about ninety seconds once a boat pulled into the
station, to get the old riders out and the new riders in before it cycled and
was shot out of the loading area.
This guy was going to push that ninety seconds to the
max.
"Can we ride again?"
"No, sorry. You'll have to
get back in line."
"But there's only like fifteen people in line! Come
on, big guy. Let us go one more time. Be a pal. What’s it gonna hurt?"
"I'm, sorry. You'll have
to get back in line."
“You know what? Fuck it. Fuck
you too! This is so fucking stupid! There's no one in line and you're gonna
make us get out and walk all the way around in order to ride again? Are you fucking
nuts? Gimmie a break!"
"I'm sorry, sir."
"No you’re not. If you were sorry you’d just let us
stay in the Goddamn boat! This is so stupid! It’s fucking insane! Come on kids,
the asshole is going to make us get off and walk all the way around to get back
on."
"I'm sorry I've set a bad example for your
children."
"Excuse me?"
I was being a smart ass. I knew I was doing it and I
didn’t care. The end of my rope had been reached and it was slathered in
grease. I was sick of climbing. I didn’t even want to hold on anymore. Maybe I
should have just kept my mouth shut, but it had been a particularly long and
especially annoying day.
I blame
the Warner Bros. Corporation more than myself on this one.
"What?"
"Did you just say that I'm setting a bad example for
my children? Because I haven't done anything wrong here, you're the jackass who
won't let my family ride again even though there’s no one in line!"
The guy’s kids and wife had already got out of the boat.
They were heading for the exit to and yet this guy refused to move. He was
sitting there, soaking wet, and arguing with a sixteen year-old kid about
something the kid obviously had no control over.
His wife grabbed him by the arm.
"Come on Fred. Just forget about it. Let's go." Fred shucked her away.
His face redder than the rear end of a well-spanked gimp,
AngryFred slammed his hand on the front of the boat. "No! Who does this
little prick think he is? I'm not forgetting about anything!"
His boat was rapidly nearing the halfway point. My
supervisor noticed there was a problem and decided to intervene. "Is there
a problem here, sir?"
"Yes there's a fucking problem! All my family and I
wanted to do was ride again and this little dickface won't let us!”
Dickface?
I always thought I was more of a vagina
face, myself.
“Plus he's giving me lip! This is what I paid good money
for? Really?"
As Foul-MouthedFred screamed at my supervisor (who was
seventeen years-old) I noticed that his boat was nearing the Critical Loading Point.
Ooh.
Sounds dangerous, doesn’t it?
Basically, the Critical
Loading Point was the spot at which we were no longer allowed to
load guests on the boat because they
might slip and fall, and possibly die.
Or worse, they might slip and fall, and possibly sue.
StubbornFred was intent on remaining exactly where he
was. He wasn’t going anywhere. This was his battle for the day and damn it, he
was going to win it!
He motioned for his kids to hop in the boat with him and
barked, "Danny! Jessie! Get back in, we're going on again!"
His wife buried her head in her hands, grabbed the little
girl (who I assume was Jessie) by her wrist and headed for the exit. Though he
looked terrified, Danny hopped in the boat alongside his father moments before
it left the loading station.
Fred assumed he’d won. He believed he’d beaten the sixteen year-old punk with the
smart mouth, and the sixteen year-old punk's seventeen year-old supervisor in
their disgustingly low shirts and super-tight jeans.
He was proud. It was his greatest accomplishment. It was
something to tell the boys at work about and it was going to make a bonkers-fantastic
story at the next Bar-B-Queue.
He was excited and he was happy, he was laughing his ass
off.
StupidFred leaned over and gave his son a pre-ride
noogie. He pumped his fist and readied himself to get soaked again!
He was getting his fifty bucks
worth! Rules and common sense, and basic human decency had been tossed out the
window and he couldn’t have cared less!
This was the defining moment in
Fred’s life - until I hit the ride stop button and a huge steel wall popped in
front of his boat, anyway.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Fred immediately turned to me. He leaned out of the boat,
pointed a finger in my direction and screamed, "Fuck you! Fuck you,
asshole!”
People are nuts.
It's as simple as that.
