Friday, July 16, 2010
I just want to dance...
Friday, July 9, 2010
Do I know you?
Everyone has seen someone and thought to themselves – I know that person. But where?
I’ve moved around a lot, and as such, I have that weird feeling all the time when I see someone who seems familiar. My Roladex of faces and names starts spinning. Usually, I identify them, but periodically, I go away scratching my head.
The other day, I saw a guy I remembered. Back as a teenager, I used to work at the amusement
park. Everything you have heard about amusement parks is not true. We were normal kids with normal lives, not children of gypsies looking to cheat you out of your last buck so we could buy some dope. We’d buy dope and munchies too. Kidding. Still, to this day, I have crazy dreams, which somehow result in me popping up from a slumber screaming "Do you want to go faster?" No joke.
Working at an amusement park, you had a variety of characters. We had these maintenance guys, young guys who were responsible for fixing rides when they were broken. Now we are talking about the late 70's and early 80's when worker safety was not as prevalent. These dudes would swagger around the park in untied steel-toed boots and navy blue coveralls, climbing up and down various rides without any kind of safety gear or helmets. God forbid you mess up the killer mullet forcing the ladies to look elsewhere for the next Leif Garrett.
They would always be working with a cigarette hanging out of their mouth, or over their ear until they could put it in their mouth later (Ewww) and a backup pack rolled up their sleeve or in the breast pocket of their coveralls. They were always covered in grease and smelled like stale mini-donuts. Many of them spoke English poorly if at all, yet had names like Dave or Steve, which made no sense to me.
They were actually the nicest guys, but chances are, you would think the worst of them based on appearance alone. I’m pretty sure they ate other people’s leftovers in the park to minimize costs. Little kids thought they were park mascots.
So anyways, I’m near the park and I see the same maintenance guy I worked with some 30 years ago. He still had the mullet. He was still smoking. He still had that same cool-guy walkie-talkie dangling over his shoulder. Now after some cordial ice-breaker conversation, I simply ask him what he is up to these days.
Him: “Oh, I still work in the park – going on 34 years”
Me: “No way. You’ve got to be a Manager by now?”
Him: “Nope – still fixing rides. How about you?”
Me: “’I’m in Finance now.”
Him: “Cool – can you get me a job?”
I’ve moved around a lot, and as such, I have that weird feeling all the time when I see someone who seems familiar. My Roladex of faces and names starts spinning. Usually, I identify them, but periodically, I go away scratching my head.
The other day, I saw a guy I remembered. Back as a teenager, I used to work at the amusement
park. Everything you have heard about amusement parks is not true. We were normal kids with normal lives, not children of gypsies looking to cheat you out of your last buck so we could buy some dope. We’d buy dope and munchies too. Kidding. Still, to this day, I have crazy dreams, which somehow result in me popping up from a slumber screaming "Do you want to go faster?" No joke. 
Working at an amusement park, you had a variety of characters. We had these maintenance guys, young guys who were responsible for fixing rides when they were broken. Now we are talking about the late 70's and early 80's when worker safety was not as prevalent. These dudes would swagger around the park in untied steel-toed boots and navy blue coveralls, climbing up and down various rides without any kind of safety gear or helmets. God forbid you mess up the killer mullet forcing the ladies to look elsewhere for the next Leif Garrett.
They would always be working with a cigarette hanging out of their mouth, or over their ear until they could put it in their mouth later (Ewww) and a backup pack rolled up their sleeve or in the breast pocket of their coveralls. They were always covered in grease and smelled like stale mini-donuts. Many of them spoke English poorly if at all, yet had names like Dave or Steve, which made no sense to me.
They were actually the nicest guys, but chances are, you would think the worst of them based on appearance alone. I’m pretty sure they ate other people’s leftovers in the park to minimize costs. Little kids thought they were park mascots.
So anyways, I’m near the park and I see the same maintenance guy I worked with some 30 years ago. He still had the mullet. He was still smoking. He still had that same cool-guy walkie-talkie dangling over his shoulder. Now after some cordial ice-breaker conversation, I simply ask him what he is up to these days.
Him: “Oh, I still work in the park – going on 34 years”
Me: “No way. You’ve got to be a Manager by now?”
Him: “Nope – still fixing rides. How about you?”
Me: “’I’m in Finance now.”
Him: “Cool – can you get me a job?”
He was not joking. Now you know why I moved around a lot.
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