You know how it's 99% disgusting to throw-up? It stinks, burns, splashes everywhere, makes your eyes water, and cramps up your stomach muscles. BUT, there is the 1%. That far corner of your mind that you don't want to admit is there in the middle of your five alarm fire of hot mess. It is the part that is enjoying the vomiting process. Hopefully, my blog is that 1% .
Friday, January 14, 2011
When I was 16, I wanted to buy some shit and since my parents were no longer willing to actively/passively participate in my freeloading adventures, I needed to gain some form of employment. With little alternatives in Awesometown, I dropped my hat into Six Flags Magic Mountain’s ring of opportunity.
I arrived 3 minutes early to my scheduled interview only to come upon 6 fellow hopefuls twitching on hard chairs with blank resumes on their laps. My competition. Good thing I smoked a bowl in the Fiat or I woulda shit a brick. We were all called into a large office where a crusty, bald man in a red jumpsuit and white Reeboks introduced himself as Jim, our “interviewing coordinator”. He called my name first and I felt my heart start to pound. Jim looked at his paper, squinted at me, looked back at his paper, muttered something about my appearance and began. Work Experience? The Signal Newspaper Delivery boy (do you have any idea how difficult it is to collect money for a free newspaper?). Education? So far, Wm S Hart High School sophomore, Newhall Calif., sub-par work ethic, poor sense of balance and indifference towards anything beyond Pre-Algebra comprehension (in general ignored by teachers and popular kids alike). Interests? Going to the Mann 6 Theater (with Lenny, wishing I could avoid all of the anxiety that came with trying to publicly pick up girls while wearing pegged Levis and a boner). Jesus, when I read it back, it is way more pathetic than I remember. Result: HIRED! Fuck you suckas! I knew they were wasting their time. I later learned that they were all hired too. Turns out, a pulse and willingness to work for $3.05 an hour was all one needed to get a uniform and free access to Valencia's finest amusement park.
DAY TO DAY:
Two things you can count on during SoCal Summers at Magic Mountain: Chicks and weather (both hot as fuck). I worked at “Head Gear”-foreshadowing? We sold hats and hat apparel. Our big draw was sailor hats that could be personalized with the assistance of an industrial sewing machine. I say industrial because there’s no other way to masculinize the fact that I used thread to cursively spell names. I didn’t mind. I chatted up so many goddamn hot chicks, my spank bank was full of deposits by noon daily. Since this is a coming of age tale, I guess I had better get to it.
COMING OF AGE:
One midweek morning as I watched the new employees touring the park I wondered if I would finally get a decent co-worker. Out of the mass of primary colored uniforms came a vision I’ll never forget. She was blonde, tan and thick. BAM POW! The sunlight prismed through her cascading locks as if she just stepped into daylight for the first time. I simultaneously panicked about my acne, potentially visible boogers, and parted/feathered hair. I took stock of my lack of muscle mass and abundant body fat and felt sick to my stomach. But it was too late (I wished I could freeze time and do another hour of aerobics). She headed my way, I sucked in my gut and stuck out my chest. She introduced herself as Alex and said she was excited about getting started at Head Gear (that's what she said) I was turned on. Male names for women have always turned me on. She was from Green Bay, Wisconsin. I was turned on. I taught her to sew names, give directions to Colossus, and get away with 200 bucks a day from the register. She taught me to feel insecure, needy and wanted. I spent every waking minute in her company for 18 days. On the 19th day, she was picked up for shoplifting stuffed monkeys and got deported back to the Midwest. It was for the best, she had a dick.