I hike my bag up onto my shoulders a bit more, pick up the pace and hurry down the road that runs along the lake, I don’t want to be late my first day and make someone else late on top of it, especially someone who is the assistant to Alberta Biddleton.
Dana’s “apartment” is really just her great aunt’s converted garage loft. That’s how Melody knows Dana; Melody’s late mother used to be friends with Dana’s great aunt who owns all kinds of businesses and properties on the islands, too. They were classmates back in the 60’s.
I walk up the wooden staircase that leads to Dana’s place, knock on the door, but don’t hear any response, just muffled music. After a few seconds comes a flurry of footfalls from inside. The door is thrown open and Dana, wearing only a towel, stands looking at me. She has a stud in her nose, a small barbell piercing in her right eyebrow, and an extremely ornate red and black sleeve of tattoos running down her left shoulder and upper arm. I don’t want to stare but in a quick glimpse, I identify playing cards, a shooting star, musical notes and a cat.
She’s stunning.
Not everyone can pull off hair that’s been dyed deep black and bobbed to the ears. But she has the roundest blue eyes I’ve ever seen and her face and neck are the perfect shape and length for it. Her bangs are insanely short. She’s looks like a rockabilly flapper girl or something. She stares at me from behind smeared eyeliner while some kind of old swing music pours out from a record player in the corner.
“Julianne, right?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, “You must be—,”
“Dana, right. Come on in, I’m almost ready.”
I step a bit more inside and drink it all in visually. The apartment is super small and smells like baby powder and roses. Her living room has an old black couch, an enormous black bean bag, and a trunk painted hot pink being used as a coffee table. Over the couch, on the right wall, is a giant We Can Do It! Rosie the Riveter poster and on the opposing wall is a big screen TV with an Xbox, control pads, and games strewn around it. Instead of an end table, she’s stacked three vintage suitcases up like a pyramid of stairs and on top rests an old red typewriter.
“Gotta de-glam for the Cedar Point Gestapo!” she yells from her bedroom. “Alberta the Hun will crap herself if I show up with all of these piercings!”
After a few moments, she surfaces from her bedroom wearing a blue Cedar Point polo shirt and a pair of beige shorts. Her smeared eyeliner is gone which makes her eyes even prettier. Her skin is like milk and her lips are painted bright red.
“You have a hair tie, rubberband thingy?” she says, waving a finger at my head, while tucking her shirt into her shorts. “You’re going to get sweaty and hot. It’s going to be a thousand degrees, humid, and windy. The silly bow that they’re going to give you later on won’t keep all that hair back with the sweating and breeze blowing off the lake. I promise you, you’ll want to cut it all off by noon.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that,” I say, reaching for my hair.
She walks into her bathroom, digs around for a moment, and then comes out holding a rubber hair tie and a roll of flesh colored tape.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the tie from her and pulling my hair into a quick, low pony-tail.
“Any tats?” she says, ripping off a piece of the tape with her teeth.
I shake my head.
“Can you…?” she says, holding the tape out to me.
“Sure,” I say, taking it from her. She lifts up her sleeve and I wrap the top of her arm where her tattoo is peeking out.
“Thanks,” she says, then moves around the apartment quickly, shutting down her vinyl, and blowing out the candle on the stove. After she grabs her keys from a nail on the wall, we head out. As we walk down the steps, she tells me how we’ll have to stop to pick up another person.
“He lives in Harborside Apartments where a lot of the upperclassmen live once they can’t take the dorm life anymore.”
The mention of dorms makes me immediately think of Brandon. Now that I’ll be working at Cedar Point, I should text him. He’s the only person I know. Well, except for Dana who I just met.
Dana enters a code into the keyless opener mounted to the side of the garage and the door slides up revealing her giant boat of a car.
“My aunt’s Buick. Sorry,” she says, as we get in, “Please ignore the burgundy seats and plush carpeting.”
“Oh, god,” I say, “My car is a rolling tuna can. At least yours is roomy.”
“Yes, it is roomy. Seats six. Seven in a pinch,” she says. “Don’t forget to buckle.”
We ride down the access road and onto the main route.
“So you’re excited, I bet,” she says, “to be working at an amusement park?”
“Yeah, I am. I’ve never—,”
“Ha!” she blurts. “Poor lamb.”
I take in a sharp breath.
“What?” I say.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to poke fun,” she says, waving me off. “It’s just that I’ve worked there for three summers now and see it every year. Wide-eyed green tags or foreign exchange students who think they’ve landed the best summer job ever. That’s how they advertise it in the brochures, right? Best summer job. Ever. I mean, there’s a certain appeal when you look at it on paper. Carousels and cotton candy all day long? Like Disneyland for Midwesterners. But you’re looking at it from the eyes of a former park visitor; someone who comes once or twice a summer with her parents or friends. All of your impressions of the place are rooted in fond memories of family vacations and after-prom hoopla. But give it a week; seven really long, hot, sweaty days. And you’re a sweep, right? Oh, crap. You poor, poor thing.”
And I think she might be enjoying herself, getting a kick out of the idea of me hating my new job. My eyebrows wrinkle up all by themselves. I start to wonder if I’m going to like this girl. I don’t care that she’s visually stunning or that she’s giving me rides. She’s not a very good human resources assistant if she’s trying to scare off new employees before they even have a chance to decide for themselves whether they like their job. Maybe I should ride my bike to the park after all.
“Oh, your face. Oh, god, I’m sorry, don’t be disappointed,” she laughs. “Because there’s a second part that I haven’t gotten to yet.”
My eyebrows perk up before I can stop them.
“See, look. It’s like this. Your fantasy about what Cedar Point is—rainbows and roller coasters—that will be shattered into a million pieces in about seven days. In seven days, you’ll want to quit right on the spot. But the key is—and listen up—ride it out. Cedar Point is like a giant metaphor of itself. Working there is like riding one of the roller coasters. A few days in, you’ll be screaming get me off this thing! but eventually, after continuous, never-ending exposure to it, the acceptance phase washes over you and CPZ Syndrome rolls in like a tidal wave.”
“CPZ Syndrome?”
“Cedar Point Zombie Syndrome,” she says, “It levels you. Eats your freaking soul. Your spirit becomes so broken that you just don’t care anymore. You become a shell of your former self. But it’s okay because it won’t even matter. You’ll go to work. You’ll do your job. You’ll bank your check. And then…the antidote surfaces. Autumn. You’ll wake up and look at the calendar one day and think: Holy crap. It’s over. God is real. And hopefully, if you haven’t blown it all on funnel cakes and beer, you’ll have a little bit of money to show for it. Plus, you’ll meet lots of hot guys, so there’s that.”
She pulls over to the side of the road in front of a sign that says Harborside Apartments. Not even putting her car into park, she waits for all of one second before a figure comes leaping over the hedge line. Someone whips open the back door, climbs in and slams it. Dana immediately pulls back onto the road and hits the gas. A cute guy, a little on the hefty side, wearing denim overalls and a striped train conductor’s hat, is now sitting in the back.
“Hey, hot stuff,” he says to Dana, craning up over the seat to
kiss her quickly on the cheek. Then he turns his attention on me.
“Jonathan Hutchens,” he says, reaching a hand over for me to shake, “Hutch. I drive the Cedar Point choo-choo train. Meaning I drive a whole lotta fat and old people ‘round the park. Also, I like piña coladas, gettin’ caught in the rain, and I survived Katrina. Barely.”
He releases my hand and I am about to say ‘hi’ or ‘nice to meet you’ but his slow Southern drawl and that last part about Katrina throws me off.
“Oh, shut up, Hutch,” Dana says. “Quit trying to molest the new girl. She’s in high school.”
She gives me a knowing glance, jerks a thumb toward the back seat. “See, Hutch, here. He’s a twenty-one-year-old STD vector from New Orleans. He pulls that southern boy, piña colada, I-was-stranded-in-the-Ninth-Ward-during-Katrina-crap on every female who enters his five-foot radius of man-skeeve.”
“It’s the truth,” he says, plainly. “I set on a roof for ten hours until they rescued me and my brother. I have the news articles to prove it.”
“Nobody cares,” Dana says, looking into the rearview mirror, “Nobody but virginal, eighteen-year-old farm girls or doe-eyed foreign exchange chicks looking to get hitched before their student visas run out.”
“Don’t pay her no mind,” he says staring at her through the rearview mirror, “She’s just bitter ‘cause she ain’t been laid in almost a year; or not properly anyway. Also, she hates the known universe ‘cause she didn’t get some fancy study-abroad internship and had to settle for her old seasonal secretary job at Cedar Point. Boo-hoo-hoo.”
I look at Dana to see if she’s going to reach back and smack him or something. She looks poised to say something smart-alecky to him but then just shrugs in defeat.
“Oh, god, it’s true. He’s so right,” she says. “I can’t believe I’m back for another summer working for Alberta the Hun. I really thought I’d be tearing my way through Italy right now; exploring The Colosseum and the ruins of Pompeii, sipping espresso with hot guys named Antonio. But that privileged cowww Olivia St. Clair swiped the internship right out from under me because her daddy donates to the alumni fund. She’s not even majoring in history! And about getting laid? With the exception of a completely forgettable night with that candy apple joker from Poughkeepsie last August, I haven’t so much as kissed a guy. He’s right. I’m bitter and I hate the known universe.”
“It’s okay, darlin’,” Hutch says, leaning up and putting a hand on her shoulder, “Remember our motto. Just ride it out. We’ll just ride the summer out together.”
She takes his hand and squeezes it with her non-driving hand, “Thanks, Hutch,” she says.
“You’re welcome, sugar. And remember, if you need a slump-buster, I’m always available for a pity poke.”
“Agh!” she says, flinging his hand back at him, “I hate you!”
Hutch laughs and then eventually they are both laughing. This makes me smile but then miss Lindsey and my other friends at home.
“So, what’s your name?” Hutch says.
“Julianne,” I say, but it comes out like a croaky half whisper, so I clear my throat and say it again, turning to face him a bit more.
“And you’re in high school?” he says.
Like a dork, I nod and shrug like I’m apologizing for something. He smiles and his face sort of relaxes into itself, landing on an expression that is somewhere between disappointment and relief. Having taken a good look now, he settles back into his seat. In his mind, he’s moved onto bigger, better, more mature things like doe-eyed foreign exchange chicks desperate to keep their visas.
10.
After a very thorough orientation session, a tour of the park, and an oddly invasive uniform fitting, the newbie sweep brigade is about to be unleashed into the park. I will be assigned to “zone one” near the park entrance. My training group consists of me and two girls from France. They speak very broken English and seem to already know one another.
I’m kind of excited to get to my zone. It has a lot of cool stuff in it. Three carousels, lots of games and food stands, an arcade, a bunch of kiddie rides, and then towering over everything is Raptor, a stand-up roller coaster that twirls in giant loops. All day long I’ll get to smell delicious elephant ears, listen to happy carousel music, and watch people squealing their heads off while they are flung around the giant roller coaster overhead.
Also…there’s a sketch kiosk.
I looked for Brandon during the orientation tour but didn’t see him; the person doing sketches in my zone is a woman. There’s also a couple of other sketch kiosks in the park but I didn’t see him in those either. It’s probably his day off or something. I’ve decided that I’m going to give myself a week to let this job settle in. Alberta the Hun might decide she hates me or I might do something stupid again and get fired like I did at Burger Boy. If I’m still standing in a week, I’ll shoot Brandon a quick text. Or maybe I’ll just find a way to randomly bump into him like: “Oh, hi! Yeah, I work here, too! I meant to text you but I’ve been so busy with training. So, how arrrre you?”
The French girls and I are lined up outside the main employee building, holding our brooms and dustpans at our sides like rifles. Alberta the Hun gives us our final orders. “Now, remember,” she says, punctuating her words by slapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other. “Sweeps are the ambassadors to the park. You are the face of Cedar Point. You will be friendly, informed and always smiling when a guest approaches you for directions or help. The following items must be on you at all times. Maps to hand out to guests in your right back pocket,” (check!), “Walkie-talkie latched to the left hip,” (check!), “gum scraper and tongs at the right hip,” (check!).
“An employee break trailer is located in each one of your zones; they’re kind of hidden away, so just ask another employee and they will point it out to you. In the break trailers you will find a restroom, a table and chairs, and a refrigerator if you wish to bring your own lunch. If you choose to leave personal belongings in the break trailer, the park is not responsible if they are lost or stolen. There are lockers available in the employee building as well.”
“So, all set then?” she says, and looks at us individually, one, two, three. We all nod. “Hunky dory, then. Off you go, ladies. See you back here in five hours. Happy sweeping.”
As soon as Alberta is back in the building, out of earshot and eyesight, the French girls start talking French to one another and walk away from me. They don’t even say goodbye which is kind of rude since we just spent the last three hours in sweeper boot camp together. I thought we’d formed a new recruit bond.
Whatever; I’m not supposed to be talking to other sweeps, anyway. I’m supposed to be sweeping, scraping gum, and handing out maps to disoriented visitors.
So, that’s what I do. I walk to my zone and for the next two and a half hours, until my assigned break, I smile and sweep and point out the restrooms and entry queue to Raptor. I hand out maps and take pictures of people with their cameras. I do my job. And I don’t care that I’m starting to get hot, thirsty, and hungry. I don’t care that my palms are starting to get blisters from my broom and dustpan. I don’t care that Dana said that I will hate this job. She’s wrong. I like working at Cedar Point.
I wait in line at the cafeteria, half-starved and salivating. Every bit of food smells and appears more appetizing than it probably is. That’s another thing about having diabetes. Even vending machine fare looks like five-star cuisine when you’re hungry. I pick the barbecued chicken, mashed potatoes, and a small salad. I cringe when the lady at the register tells me its seven dollars. I need to pack my lunch from now on or I won’t be saving squat this summer.
Then comes that awkward moment of finding a place to sit in a crowd of people who already know one another. I look around, hoping to find Dana, Hutch, or maybe Brandon. Even the Frenchie-French girls would be a welcome sight at this point. I end up sitting at the end of a table full of girls who are nice and say hi at first
but don’t really go out of their way to include me in the conversation. I medicate discreetly under the table and then force myself to wait a few minutes before diving in.
I hurry up and eat and then head back to my zone. About an hour into the second half of my shift, a really large man comes stumbling out of the exit queue from Raptor and then throws up in the middle of the walkway. The other people in the crowd groan and yell gross! and walk around it. The guy looks at it for a second, dazed, then wipes his mouth with his hand and walks away.
I don’t know what to do. I walk over and just stand there staring at the disgusting puddle. Pools of vomit weren’t covered in the orientation session. I pull out my walkie-talkie and start pressing buttons and flipping dials. I’m not sure how it works because it’s different from the kind my dad gave me. We were shown how it works in our training session, but I can’t seem to—
“Oi! Green tag! You there! In the yellow dungarees!” someone with a British accent yells over a speaker. A girl in a referee uniform, running the ring toss game, waves at me. I walk over to her booth and she lowers her microphone. Her nametag says Nita.
“Go down the gift shop under the Sky Ride and talk to Dieter,” she says. “Big German bloke. He’ll point you to the cleaning cupboard that holds the blue sick powder. Sprinkle it round, wait till it dries, then sweep it up.” Her attention turns to a young couple strolling by. “All right, mate? Have a go at the ring toss and win your lovely a prize! Don’t fancy it? Have a Cedar fantastic day!”
I thank her and then hurry to the gift shop to look for a big German bloke named Dieter. I see him as soon as I walk in. Tall, broad, clean-cut; the German equivalent of the All-American Hot Jock; kind of hard to miss. He’s ringing up a woman at the register so I stand back and wait for him to finish.
“Hi. Dieter?” I say, when the woman steps away, “I need into the broom closet. Someone threw up.”
Doll Hearts Page 9
