Making Kids Puke

Making Kids Puke

          Florida: home of amusement theme parks. The fun-filled parks of Disney World and Universal Studios is where I spent my summer of 1999. Upon returning home, I realized it was already halfway through summer and that I was jobless with no work experience. I needed that first job. After hearing “Sorry, we have no open positions,” and “You have to be 18 or older,” and of course, “We’re out of applications, check back later,” I decided as a last resort to apply at Enchanted Village, a local amusement park in my hometown of Federal Way. And as it so happened to be, I landed a job as a Ride Operator.

          Having had a blast in Florida, I wondered what it would be like to actually work at an amusement park. I came to the conclusion that amusement parks are “fun” so working at one should be sort of “fun” also. On my first day (after training) I was assigned to a simple kiddy ride. “The Cars” is made up of about half dozen small antique-type cars attached to a rail and slowly traveling around a track. I grinned widely as my first customers arrived and loaded up the four and five year old kids and buckling them up. This isn’t too bad, I thought to myself, pushing the start button. It wasn’t until ten minutes later that it dawned on me: Wait, I have to do this all day? This job sucks! About an hour later, as if the cosmos decided to respond to my comment, smoke began to rise from one of the white cars. I looked over and watched a red flame poof up from underneath it. “That car is on fire!” one of the parents shouted out with panic. The little boy who was riding in it had a calm look in his face, with both hands on the wheel carefully navigating it, oblivious to everything. I quickly hit the large red emergency shut down button, cutting the electricity to the whole track, as little kids standing in line jumped up and down, screaming “Fire! Fire! Fire!” in melody as if it were some type of song. The flame died out by itself before I could reach the fire extinguisher, and I frantically called maintenance to inform them that one of the cars had caught on fire, which they bluntly acknowledged as if it were no big deal.

          Each day I received a different ride to operate, and after a while I mastered each one, knowing the ends and outs of the procedure as well as all the bizarre messages engraved into the controls by previous operators. The job slowly started to become dull and boring. Push start to make the ride go, push stop to end it, then unload the people. In the late afternoon I found myself entering into “Zombie Mode,” where my brain seemingly shut down while my body stayed awake, carrying out the required repetitive actions. One day, a lady tried to stir up a conversation with me while I was in this dead state. Being in “Zombie Mode,” I responded to her friendly inquires in grunts and then set her off on her way. It wasn’t until afterwards that I realized that she was actually talking to me. Annoyed, the lady complained about my rudeness to a fellow ride operator, who later called me up over the phone and jokingly told me, “Be nice, asshole!”

          There are good rides and then there are bad rides to operate. Kiddy rides, where only children come, are considered bad rides, while roller coasters and the like are considered good rides. “The Combo” is the worst kiddy ride. It consists of little cars and motorcycles traveling in a circle. It doesn’t seem too bad, until a five-year-old kid pushes a small button, which sends out a shivering loud screeching noise that devastates the eardrums. “Ohhh, push it again, honey!” the parents cheer on as the child smiles and decides to just hold down the horn until the ride comes to an end. This, combined with kids who want to go on it over and over, makes it a “punishment ride.” If you take a two-hour lunch break, you get the Combo the next day. If you don’t follow the rules, you get the Combo. However, if there is no one to punish, then someone has to operate the ride. And as the cycle goes around, choosing a new ride for someone to operate, I happened to be assigned to the combo one dreadful day. My solution to these obnoxious horns was to open up the switch box found next to the ride, and flip each control until I found the one that cut the electricity to the buttons. I finally did find it, and later explained to the curious parents that the buttons were “not working properly.”

          One of the better rides to operate is the cups. This twirling ride puts people inside teacups, allowing them to control their spin and speed, while the ride itself spins in a circle. As the operator, I can change the lift on this ride, making it go up and down. If I time it just right, I can make a cup go over a “stomach spot,” which literally makes your stomach jump, like what happens when you go down a hill and back up again quickly while driving fast. This is a popular ride, though, and there are always people who want to go on it. One hot, boring day, I saw a boy with a pale face who was staring coldly into space while his friends spun the cup faster and faster, laughing and screaming. This guy looks kinda sick, I thought to myself, as I initiated another lift and ran their cup over the stomach spot. He immediately covered his mouth as his eyes opened wide with panic. Yup, he’s sick. I looked at the long line of fifty plus people waiting to get on next. Ah, what the hell, why not, crossed my mind as I immediately lifted the ride as high as it would go and slammed it back into the ground. The boy grabbed the sides and swung his head outwards as chunky brown fluid flew through the air as if it was being blasted from a garden hose. I quickly shut down the ride, trying to hold back my smile. I knew I shouldn’t take pleasure in another’s suffering, but I found myself trying very hard not to laugh. His friends looked over at me, also holding back their grins. “Ride’s closed,” I announced to everyone standing in line. I received some puzzled looks, and replied “Someone puked” to a questioning parent, which was followed by a sqealing "Ewww!!!" from his little girl. I walked over to examine the brown liquid carnage. From the looks of it, and by my expert opinion, I would have to say that this young man's lunch included a hot dog with a side of fries washed down with a large Pepsi Cola. The foul reeking smell began to overwhelm me, and I quickly left the scene, feeling my own queasy stomach.

Now, normally, it would take about ten minutes to clean up someone’s “mess.” But for me, it takes anywhere from half an hour to 45 minutes. I like to call the cleaning process, “walk around slowly and go the extra mile.” To clean up puke, one is supposed to wash it down with a hose, spray disinfect, wash it down again, and then dry the seats with a towel. With messes on my rides, however, I decided that I needed to be extra sanitary (for the sake of the customers), and repeat this cycle numerous times. And maybe even clean the seats next to it. Or perhaps water the flowers and concrete. Or spray some cute girls walking by. When all is done and good though, the time always comes to reopen the ride, but by then I feel refreshed by my half hour break.

          The summer ended quickly, as it usually does, and the time to leave my job soon came. I felt relieved and happy, knowing that I will never have to clean up someone’s regurgitated lunch again or live through another second of ride operator “Zombie Mode.” I often find myself looking over my days as a Ride Operator, pondering about my maturity as a teenage boy and the actions I carried out. If I had to do it over again, I would still choose Ride Operator as my first job, because the unique experience is something that I will probably hold on forever… even if I do remember it as making kids puke.