The Worst Summer of My Life

Wienervana

I stood in the empty restroom, basking in the unique smell of bleach, urinal cakes, and wet toilet paper. Garnished with a lingering flourish of ass, I wondered how anyone that came through here kept an appetite for the overpriced, deep fried goodies waiting outside. I leaned on the sink, staring at the mess that was myself with a sigh. I rubbed my eyes. I was safe from the judging gazes of park management in here, but I couldn't remain inside forever. I wrangled my dusky hair into a ponytail. I remember thinking about my predicament. How long would I have to do this job to make amends? With rapidly dying hope, I figured that the answer was probably 'forever'. Sometimes, it was possible to irrevocably screw up your life. I swallowed, straightened my shirt, and put my stupid hot dog hat back on. I practiced a few fake smiles in the mirror.  As I left the restroom, the muted chaos outside rose to full force. The sweltering heat sucker punched me the moment I left the air conditioned shelter. Back to hell I went.

Screams filled the air. Children ran with abandon. I made sure to dodge them because hell if they were going to watch where they were going. I sidestepped a spilled milkshake, Wienervana in my sights. A giant novelty hot dog spun lazily atop the roof. A hot dog lover's heaven, but my eternal punishment for being a fuckup. Nobody could even say the name of the damn place without laughing, myself included, at least for a while. Two weeks into summer vacation, the novelty wore way off. I was ready to strangle the next sunburnt asshole that wanted to debate what constitutes as extra relish. Harvey's Fun Land sold half-off tickets to parents of students with good report cards this year, so the park was packed to the brim with excited straight-A kids. And, hell, they deserved it. I was still going to complain, but they deserved it. 

If only they knew what awaited them in adulthood, how meaningless it was. But maybe I was just being a sad, regretful bitch. I stalked past the Tilt-A-Whirl, where some poor kid painted the inside of a wildly spinning car with vomit while their helpless companions screamed and flailed. Ride operators made more money than my lot in life, but there was no pay high enough to deal with that shit. He'd have to shut down the ride and clean up the biohazard while impatient thrillseekers yelled at him to hurry. If someone ate too much at Wienervana and threw up, that wasn't my problem at least. Lesser pay for a lesser evil. I skirted through the "Employees Only" gate and approached the back door. Cal leaned against the wall beside it, smoking a cigarette he wasn't supposed to have. That kid had the most intense hazel eyes I'd ever seen, and he'd trained them on me with exasperation, raising his brows as he puffed air out of his cheeks. His hairnet was on crooked, dark locks making a break for it out the side.

"Rough already?" I asked. I fixed his hairnet for him.

He laughed bitterly, stubbing his cig out on the wall. "There's still time for you to run, Kasey." He stank of grease and grilled meats, and soon, I would too.

Kasey was not my name. They gave me the wrong name tag when I started. I imagine it belonged to someone from long ago, because the letters were worn with age. Despite constantly correcting them, everyone involved in my training continued to call me Kasey. A long back-and-forth with HR about getting a new, correct tag went nowhere, and before I knew it I'd been introduced to the team as Kasey Sanders. It was at that point I gave up. I was Kasey now. Whatever.

"It's sad that you already talk like a tired old man at eighteen," I ribbed him playfully.

"It's sad that you're this old and have this job," He shot back, less playfully. I tried to laugh it off, but then he said, "At least you don't have to live with your parents, though."

Cal saw me look at my feet. I let my hand hang on the door handle, completely unable to toss a good comeback. Boy, that hit home. Literally. "Oh - god, Kasey, do you? I'm sorry." He put a hand on my shoulder.