I Once Saw a Frenchman's Testicles

True story. It was in the ice cream shop--more loss of innocence.

In the early 90s, the preferred style of shorts was, well, not very short. Therefore, to be contrary, the Park decreed that we must wear what could be described as hot pants, and I swear, they we partially made out of paper. My friend, Kerry, used to describe said uniform as "soul-crushing." She wasn't wrong. These things were short and uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to wear and uncomfortable to watch someone else wear, as we shall soon see.

Anyhoo.

I mentioned the Brit, right? The poor exchange student who was bamboozled into near slavery at an American water park? So the Brit had friends--other foreigners who'd visit Fitzgerald's on their breaks for free ice cream. Together the Brit and the other foreigners would lament being stuck in podunk America, and plot how they could illegally get some beer, which was perfectly within their rights at home. Seriously, these poor guys.

My favorite was the French guy. Let's call him "Antoine." Antoine would come by for ice cream and I'd practice my 9th grade French on him. "Je m'appelle Melissa. J'ai quatorze ans." He thought I was adorable. He'd visit often.

During one visit, Antoine was tired and decided to set a spell. He hopped up on the counter, which didn't matter because we never had customers, anyway. As he was plotting, "Ah got a ride to zee leeker store; zees weel be zee beegest party," he pulled up his legs and hugged his knees.

And there they were. Balls. French balls.

And where does one look when one is 14 and has never seen a set of grown-up, hairy balls--not to mention grown-up, hairy, foreign balls? Oh, it was terrible! I couldn't look and I couldn't NOT look. I was so uncomfortable and self-conscious and terribly afraid of ever sitting in the shorts again for fear of displaying my unmentionables! What to do?

I scooped him some ice cream.

The Importance of Protective Covering

Like Melissa, my first job at the Park was in the Food & Beverage Department. It was one of the only departments that would hire a 14-year-old.* And believe me when I tell you, you don't want your lunch made by a bunch of bored 14-year-olds. And you REALLY don't want to eat anything that came out of the deep fryer. When it got slow, we would amuse ourselves by throwing things into the oil to see what would happen. It was like science class but, you know, stupid. Plastic cups? They became frisbees! Whee! Loose change? Boy, it sure is fun to throw hot quarters onto the floor for unsuspecting Park patrons to pick up!

On rainy days, most of us would be sent home. But sometimes, management would keep some of us around for projects that couldn't really be completed during normal operating hours. One such day, my friend Emily, a senior(!) named Chris and I were dispatched to Papa's Pizza with some rubber gloves, a bottle of mysterious pink stuff and instructions to clean the ovens. Simple enough. But that pink stuff was probably supposed to be diluted, or something. Despite the rubber gloves, we all ended up with chemical burns on our forearms. Management's response? Wash it off. Then take the rest of the afternoon off. (No hospital, no incident report, I don't remember even going to First Aid.) So Chris drove us to the Dairy Queen and then we spent the rest of the afternoon hiding in the Festival Tent, drinking wine coolers we stole from the stock room. Woo!

*The others being Parking and General Services. Neither of which was an appealing option for me. Stand in the parking lot all day? Bor-ing. Pick up garbage and clean public bathrooms? Grody.

Ice Cream, Light Bulbs, and the Loss of Innocence

My first job at the Park was in Fitzgerald's Ice Cream Shop in Cobblestone Village. It boasted a broken waterwheel and a sign that advertised homemade ice cream with Belgian waffles. We had neither. There was a constant influx of optimistic guests who really thought they might get a fresh, hot Belgian waffle with vanilla ice cream melted on top. Sounds good, doesn't it? I had to tell them that we were "fresh out." It was June and it was my first job. At 14, I did what the 18 year-old supervisor told me to do. For a while, at least.

One time, a customer claimed that she was "seriously pissed" not be getting a waffle. This disturbed my co-worker, a disappointed British exchange student who had come to "see America," or New York City, at least. It turned out that just getting a ride to the A&P was a big deal for him. Anyway, my Brit friend, being a Brit, took "pissed" to mean "drunk," and thought we'd have this reeling, beer-soaked wench screeching about waffles. Alas, no. But we chuckled over the language barrier.

The summer went on without incident. Other than the waffle controversy, and the fact that I was feeling increasingly guilty about the "fresh out" lies, things weren't bad and I was an obedient little food&bev girl. And then.

The skies opened one evening in August and we had a rush of campers in the shop. They were shivering and soaked, but they wanted ice cream. I was madly scooping when a flourescent bulb in the ice cream case burst, sending shards of glass and some powdery substance into the open containers of butter pecan, vanilla, and chocolate. I called over my 18 year-old supervisor.

"We need more ice cream. A bulb burst into the case," I told him.
"Scrape off the top and serve it. We don't have time."
"No, you don't understand. There's glass in the ice cream."
"And I'm telling you to scrape off the top and serve it." He gave me a threatening stare. It was the threatening stare that did it. Because while he attempted to intimidate me, I realized that I wasn't intimidated. My "boss" was just a kid, and a stupid kid at that.

"If you want these children to eat glass," I announced, "then you serve it to them." And I thrust the scoop into his hand.
One of the counselors overheard us. "There's glass in the ice cream?" she asked.
"Yes, Ma'am. You may just want to go get pizza next door," I told her.
"How about you just give me a waffle with no ice cream?" she asked. Silence.
"Ma'am," I replied, glaring at my supervisor, "I have never even seen a waffle in this place."