From "The too weak notice"

I was still determined for my summer to include lavish tales of my time on midway.

 Be it the ring toss, the milk bottle challenge, that lily pad game… 

No. I’m having a hard time with full disclosure.

I knew precisely which game of skill I was suited to promulgate with unfettered passion— That one where you shoot a water gun into a mannequin clown’s mouth until the balloon pops on his head.

 Unfortunately, I had no idea how seniority works within the “Game of Chance” community.

And this was intimidating. 

Would I be laughed at and called “green” for my expectation?

Is the Clown Water Balloon game the top tier equivalent of first shift and weekends off at the UAW assembly plant?

Did carnie culture even disseminate into the Six Flags midway?

Perhaps I was overthinking this.

I reported for duty on the negotiated start date.

Simply finding Human Resources was exciting. 

I walked across the park through an unmarked door- a secret door with no knob, designed to blend into the wall of a Wild West fort. 

Then to a portable classroom-like trailer tucked beneath a roller coaster.  

The entire trailer shook every time the roller coaster cycled through- shook with anticipation. 

I stepped in- determined to politic my way into the midway if I wasn’t already.

 “Pat Downey? OK. Let me see. Looks like she’s got you down for Guest Services.” 

Guest Services? Isn’t that what they call the counter in front of Walmart where people return things and theatrically complain? The saps punching the clock up there never seem to emanate life satisfaction.  My vision for this summer experience finale most certainly did not require me hogtied at the front entrance in an arcade fortune teller machine watching people complain at me through Plexiglas. 

● Ride closures due to high winds or mechanical issues. 

● Cold chicken tenders with extra sauce surcharges. 

● Inconsistent ice cream scoop sizes. 

● Lost sunglasses, keys, or children. 

The purpose of this job was about me.  

Me, defining the concrete point of delineation that punctuated my transition into adulthood.  

I felt like I was backsliding.  

The Human Resources clerk didn’t seem to be appreciating the ramifications at play here.

 “Guest Services...” I pondered aloud as though this, her first offer, signified the beginning of the negotiation process. 

“I’m leaning toward games. Do you know if they need any help on the midway? Every time I walk by that one- that one with the plastic clown’s head where you shoot a squirt gun into his mouth...”

 “She has you down for Guest Services. I could make a note that you’d like to interview for Games if an opening comes up.”

 Interview? I thought.

 I already have a job here. Is there some second tier screening? Audition to see how well I can hawk to beleaguered kids and families? 

I drifted my eye contact toward the pad of paper on the counter to definitively passive aggressively notate that she still hadn’t physically “made a note” communicating my aspirations to the higher-ups in the biz. 

“So in Guest Services,” we like to start you off at the front. We call it “working the gate.” 

“Oh. So what will I be doing?” 

“Basically, taking tickets... 

Ticket taking… 

Oh, and scanning season passes. You take those, too. 

We like to start people off taking tickets... 

Then, if it is something you become skilled at, you may work your way up to a position in the Guest Services building... 

Janet is the supervisor out there. When you leave this building, just head back to the front entrance and look for Janet. 

She’ll show you what to do.

Bye now.”