Summer of Shamu

Summer 1994
Aurora, Ohio

I remember it all starting with my dad growling at me, "We expect you to get a job this Summer," as if I wasn't already looking forward to finally having money of my own. I believe my first stop was to apply at McDonald's, the very same one that had built just a few years earlier by a vague process where the townsfolk were advised to "Put a yellow ribbon on your mailbox if you want a McDonald's in town." It may or may not have already been a done deal until my initial interview. I sat down at a booth and interviewed with this girl who told me that boys had to make sure their hair was cut above their ears. I told her it wasn't gonna happen.

I had made a point to recently become a freak, a grunge dude, a punk rocker, an "alternative guy," or whatever mixture of weirdo label we could never really collectively decide on in the early 90's. Kurt Cobain had just died a couple months prior, and I was already in the process of growing my hair like his, come hell or high water. She laughed and said something along the lines of "I know it's kind of taboo to ask," and I still don't really know what she meant by that. She also inquired if "I was in a band or something?," and I shyly told her yes, because in my mind going to my friend's house and randomly wailing on an electric guitar through a tiny amp meant I was in a band.

I don't recall where else I applied if anywhere, and I think I might have gotten the tip about a Sea World mass hiring from somewhere, so I ended up in some building filling out an application alongside a bunch of other kids. (This is where I pause and let you soak in the fact that I grew up right behind a Sea World. I suppose it was always my destiny to work there; we went there countless times when I was growing up, and on Summer nights would often perch ourselves by the window and watch their nightly fireworks display over the lake. And get this, we also had an amusement park called Geauga Lake right up the road from that. It's one of those times where I have to lament the fact that growing up was so difficult, because on paper this all sounds pretty magical).

I do recall when hired that they also had a "boys cut their hair" policy, but I thought the hell with it, I'll just take the job and then refuse if anyone ever asked. I figured if worse came to worse, I could tuck it away in the crummy Sea World trucker hat we were given to wear. I was officially hired as a dishwasher in an Italian restaurant called Mama Rosa's, but they weren't going to open until a couple weeks into the season, so I was assigned odd jobs around the park until then. The first job I was given was to prepare food in their employee commissary. I made friends with this boy I was working next to, and since I had recently decided I was now a smoker, I asked him for a cigarette. I learned a valuable lesson that day that if you put a cigarette in your pants pocket, it will break.

The next job I was given was scooping ice cream, which was extremely hard work. This was before the days where they had those heated spoons to assist with scooping, and digging into the ice cream was like trying to penetrate hardened cement. I honestly wasn't strong enough to consistently create sizeable scoops for the cones, so a lot of people got screwed over. Time seemed to move at a blindingly fast rate, and I ended up with a lot of bruising on my arms. I do remember a mom telling her kid to "Tell the guy what you want," referring to me, and that was the first time I'd of ever been referred to like that, and it was pretty cool.  

Once my job at Mama Rosa's began, I discovered I would be washing dishes alongside a couple of guys I knew from school, Chris H. (who I knew especially) and Chris G., who was a grade behind me. There was also a young looking and stout boy named Eddie, some additional auxiliary characters I'll skip over, and Bill, our 18-year old supervisor (for more on Bill, click here). I shortly realized after starting that this job was very hard work, and time moved very slow. The dishes would be bussed from the tables in the dining room, then given to us to clean in a steamy back room. First we'd rinse the dishes with a spray valve, pile them onto a rack, then send them on track through this large industrial washer. Once the dishes came out the other end, they were blazing fucking hot, and I took to eventually wearing rubber gloves to handle them. Bill had worked there three Summers already, and had somewhat proudly declared to all of us that in that time he had lost some feeling in the tips of fingers from handling the hot dishes, and I wanted no part of that.

In addition to the main dishwashing area, we also had "pots and pans" handwashing duty, where if one was assigned to they disappeared for hours at a time. I also was introduced to the concept of a "wet dry vacuum," which smelled terrible. I would use it to clean the floor when I was on closing shift, sometimes until 12 or 1 AM. I realized long after the fact that I would often be working an illegal shift for a 16-year old, often more than 8 hours per day or 40 hours per week. One day I worked a 12 hour shift, noon to midnight. They asked a lot for $4.65 an hour.

I got into the habit of singing loudly while I worked out of sheer boredom. Word got out that I could sing, and this dopey kind of tough guy waiter asked me to demonstrate for him. I sang a few bars of Teenage Fanclub's "Mad Dog 20/20" while he stood looking at me, and when I was done turned to someone and said "Can he sing?" in a manner indicating that I hadn't just sung in front of his face. We eventually managed to get a CD player back there, and Chris H. brought in The Crow soundtrack. I found myself singing with great expression Nine Inch Nails' cover of "Dead Souls" by Joy Division out loud after just one listen, which Chris H. pointed out was a bit odd. I agreed that it felt awkward, and wondered to myself how many times does one need to hear a song before they can rightfully sing it out loud? 

Chris G. would consistently crack me up. He was so strangely funny for a 16-year old, and would make these bizarre quips throughout the day. It's not like he was an underdog either, he was a good looking guy and a great soccer player, but he also wasn't the upper crust of popular. He would obsess over Julio Iglesias, and would randomly ask the waitresses if they liked Scott Baio. I can honestly say this was a precursor to the concept of "Sitcom-Core," because one day we found ourselves laughing hysterically while both asking the waitresses "Would you let Charles be in Charge of you?" (to which one enthusiastically replied "OH yeah.") One night recently Mary Alice and I had both had a few, and it suddenly became the most important thing in the world to try and locate Chris G. We found a Facebook profile that could be a possibility, and so I messaged this person, but to this date the message has not been viewed. I will make an addendum to this story if this ever changes.

Despite the long hours we all put in, it was amazing that we got anything done. We'd fuck off for what seemed like hours at a time. We naturally would spray each other with the sink valve when given an opportunity, and eventually it broke from all of our abuse. We invented the "glove bomb," which involved filling a rubber glove with dish soap and throwing it at someone. Sometimes the waiters would steal food from the kitchen and bring it in this secret utility room that was behind ours, and eventually we started doing it too. At one point I just said fuck it, and started stealing beers from the restaurant cooler in broad daylight. I remember standing near the front of the secret room downing a beer while a waiter walked past me laughing. I was a pretty skinny kid back then, so quickly drinking two bottles of beer got me drunk for the very first time.

The debauchery didn't end at work. I went to my first rock concert that Summer, and I had to lie to my parents to get there. I told them I had the day off from work, and was going to the aforementioned Geauga Lake with a friend that day. There was a comedy of errors that made my lies fall apart. First, they had said when we started at Sea World that if we ever felt like "We needed a day to ourselves," or something generic along those lines, that we could take the day off. When I called in to the restaurant that morning, I told the girl who answered "Um, I need, I feel like need to take a day," and she interrupted me and said "You're sick?," and I said yes, and she laughed and said "Sounds good." Whoever I spoke to didn't tell my supervisors until much later that day, so they called my house leaving messages asking where I was, which my parents heard. Second, a person who was supposed to be a part of the lying cover up made the error of calling my house and said that they were my friend who my parents had just seen with me, and when confronted he hung up on them.

The lineup for the show included L7, Violent Femmes, Candlebox, Material Issue, Sons Of Elvis, Gigolo Aunts, Machines Of Loving Grace, The Judybats, The Clarks, and Hot Tin Roof (possibly more, but that's all the info I'm seeing). I was skinny and small enough to easily be passed around, so I'd stand outside the mosh pits (which seems absurd considering most of the bands listed) and give bigger guys the thumbs up, like "pick me up and pass me around the place," which they gladly did. I ran into some people from work there, including a couple of cute waitresses who were high or drunk or something, because they kept asking me if I was 18, and I stupidly said I wasn't. They asked me to headbang and I sheepishly obliged, and they were like "WOOOO!" I later found out that the singer of Candlebox (who was headlining and my friends and I made a point to miss) was trying to hook up with one of the waitresses and invited her to do coke with them backstage (she declined), and when I heard that I was so scandalized, like I knew a sinister dark secret about this famous band.

During Machines Of Loving Grace the sky opened up and a huge downpour began, and my friends and I took shelter in various tents at the fairground (One of my favorite stories/memories from one of tents is documented here). After a significant delay, they started up the music again, and we all ended up soaked head to toe in mud. We were exhausted and decided we'd had enough, and left during Violent Femmes. I knew I needed to somehow explain to my parents how I ended up covered with mud, and I figured I would tell them we someone had a mud fight at the amusement park. When I got home, my parents already knew everything, and were quite upset with me. For what it's worth, I did hear later that my mom called the mom of my "alibi" friend (who was perfectly ok with him going to the concert), and started an angry rant when she found out what was happening, to which my friend's mom told her "Well, maybe if you loosened up your rules a little, he wouldn't rebel as much," which amazingly got through to her. The next day at work, one of my supervisors approached me and asked "Are you feeling better?," and in the middle of my reply laughed and said "YEAH, RIGHT, how was the concert?" 

Again I say, the debauchery didn't end at work. One of the restaurant managers threw a party at their house, with the caveat that "the 16-year olds couldn't drink" because she had thrown a party the previous Summer where the 16-year old employees had gotten busted by their parents. We badgered and pleaded with her until she eventually gave in, declaring "Ok FINE, the 16 year olds can drink, just DON'T GET CAUGHT!" I played pool at the party while smoking and wearing a Nirvana t-shirt; I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I looked so cool. I think I had three beers plus some sips of Zima, and I was pretty sauced. Someone put on heavy music and this girl started a "mosh pit," and sent me drunkenly over a couch. I got a ride home along with Bill from another girl, who was absurdly lecturing me about my getting drunk, saying "What are you going to do, have Bill carry you home the rest of your life?" I got home, and somehow did not get caught.

As the Summer wound down, I determined that despite this time of reckless fun I would not be returning next year. The job didn't pay a whole lot, and was pretty backbreaking work. I started to abuse the luxury of my not returning along with some other employees who did not plan to return, like taking excess or multiple breaks to the commissary (where I have a specific memory of hearing on the TV that investigators had found a "bloody glove" at OJ Simpson's house). On one occasion, one of the managers asked me where I had been after taking a second break, then immediately followed before I could answer "You don't care, do you," then turned away. That one stuck with me. I didn't want to be a jerk and make people sad, I just found it funny to suddenly be able run amuck at the park. I quit one week before the end of Summer because I wanted some time for myself. During that week, I went back to Sea World as a visitor, and walked in to the employee area in street clothes just to be obnoxious. I was told amidst some laughter that I couldn't be back there, and that was that.

There's so much more I could say, but probably not enough room on the internet to say it. I left some things out from this time because they're a little too painful, like getting in way more trouble than I mention here, involving the police and such. But since I put that stuff aside, all this really made me happy to revisit. I feel very lucky to be able to retell these tales. Sea World is now long gone, and no I didn't see Blackfish, I don't need to be reminded that keeping a killer whale captive was weird and wrong. Besides, we were just washing dishes. I hope one of my old co-workers stumbles across this one day. Long live the Mama Rosa's dishwashing crew of '94.