My partner in crime, @SaintEhlers talked me into doing this Scintilla thing. Basically, as I understand it, you get a writing prompt every day. Then you write. Then you share it on their site and elsewhere. Sounds like a good way to keep the chops from rusting right? Right. Also a good way to get to know me a bit better and fuel my narcissism. Sorry for that. Here it goes.
I got my first prompt today. It was this: Tell a story about a time you got drunk before you were legally able to do so.
WTF? Not my thing, at all. First of all, I take underage drinking very seriously. Ya, ya, ya, I’m the party pooper. But I’m also a MOM who happens to have kids who will someday be swimming in these kinds of issues and I’m trying to ram it into their brains that there is a legal drinking age for a REASON. Also, I have known way too many people who’s lives were destroyed by alcohol. Either a drunk driver hit and killed their loved ones or they lost years of their youth to an empty bottle. So, no. I’m not going to let you have a laugh at my underage drinking stories, assuming there are any, which you will never know.
Thank heaven there was a second prompt. Otherwise I would have been in a very cranky mood all day. Here it is: Tell a story about your first job.
This I can do.
When I was a kid, my dad and mom worked my butt off. We lived on a small five acre farm in Idaho, but you would have thought it was a 1,000 acres of beef and crop production. There was always SO MUCH WORK! Sure we got plenty of time to run wild and pee in the fields, but for the most part, childhood memories for me consist of hauling wood, feeding animals, cleaning stalls, hauling wood, sorting tools, hauling hay, hauling bricks, burning trash, etc. So technically, my first job was as a toddler puling weeds in the garden or gathering eggs from the hens. And that’s all fine and dandy but what I’d really love to talk to you about today was my first real high school job.
My family moved to Logandale, NV when I was a freshman in high school. It’s a small desert town, or was back then, about 45 minutes outside of Las Vegas. There are various things Logandale is famous for. Things like Wayne Newton’s second ranch that he lost when his accountant ran away with all his money in 1992ish. Also, some lovely red rock climbing areas, Overton Beach on the north shore of Lake Mead – an excellent place to skip school and work on your skin cancer, and lest we forget, Logandale is home to the Clark County Fair. That’s right folks, if you want to go to the County Fair for Las Vegas you have to drive 45 minutes to the middle of nowhere past a smoke shop, a power plant and a camel then turn right and follow the steady stream of dust from other cars.
Actual footage from Clark County
My first real paying job was at the Clark County Fair. A friend of mine talked me into signing up and I believe we got that week off of school to work and play and generally goof around at the fair. I went to my training meetings and dutifully filled out the questionnaire regarding my skills. Since the high school had a measly population of 500 at that time, I knew everyone that was waiting to hear what assignment they would have for the week. Some got to work in the home made ice cream booth where you scooped gooey soft ice cream for screaming kids from dawn till dusk and then went home and spent five hours trying to scrub the sugar and dairy out of your arm hairs. Others were assigned to work in the information booth and carry walkie talkies. The boys had to do heavy lifting or security and so forth. (I’m sure someone from Logandale is reading this post and tsking at my incorrect memories. Please feel free to correct me, but also know that I don’t really care.)
My job assignment finally came up. I was to be Rudy for two days and direct traffic the other days. My friend looked at me with sympathetic eyes.
“What?” I said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Yes, it is.”
I had never been to the fair before. I had no idea what any of this meant. I thought ice cream sounded fun but the ice cream girls were totally bummed about their jobs. Other kids were happy about stuff that sounded stupid and I had no feelings whatsoever about being Rudy, whoever that was, or directing traffic. I was hoping I’d get a light up stick and a whistle, maybe even a toy sheriff’s costume. Oh yes, large and in charge!
But no, I would not get that lucky. Turns out directing traffic meant standing in the 110 degree desert sun for most of the day while you choked on dust and got flipped off by every single cowboy you corrected who thought they should be able to park their huge trailer full of horses anywhere they wanted. That first day of work I nearly died ten times. But by the end of the shift I feared neither Ford nor Chevy and those Dodge pick ups parked where I signaled or they got security called on them (after about five hours because that’s how long it took for anyone to check and see if I had died of dehydration or not.)
Being Rudy had to be better than directing traffic. I reported to the VIP tent as directed and said, “Hi! I’m supposed to be Rudy from 10 – 2?”
“Follow me,” was the middle aged man’s reply.
We stepped out back to a small tent where a few kids were milling around eating dry bagels and drinking water. One in particular looked like he had been dragged through a knot hole backwards. He was covered in sweat and panting.
“Are you ok?”
“Yah, are you next?”
“Next?”
He pointed to a pile of pink fabric on the ground surrounding what looked like a black box with straps.
“Come here,” said the middle aged man. “Put your feet in these and strap this to your back.”
As I got closer I could see two back boots next to the box in the middle of the pink pile. I slid my feet in with my shoes still on (it looked mighty sweaty in there) and then he lifted the black box thing up, fastening it like a backpack over my shoulders.
“Ok, hold still now I’m going to zip you up.”
“Wait, what the heck is this?”
“This is Rudy.”
“What is RUDY?”
“Where are you from? You must be new here. Everyone knows who Rudy is.”
“She’s new blood,” said one of the boys.
New blood? what is this? Interview with a vampire? I thought.
“Oh, that explains it.” The middle aged man chuckled and continued, “Rudy is the Clark County Fair mascot.”
“Ok, but what is he?” I asked, very afraid.
“He’s a thirty foot inflatable pig. Now hold still.”
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawesome.
I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there while he zipped me into this giant pink bag then flipped a switch on the back pack and it whirred to life blowing blessed cool air up my back and combating the claustrophobia that was filling my gut.
“Do you see the handles?”
“Uh, handles?”
“Yah, black handles, should be right in front of you.”
The pink bag was rising quickly over my head and I could now make out the inside of a pig face and ears well above me. In front, sure enough, there were two black handles and a mesh hole to see through. I grabbed the handles and hollered back over the blower. “Got them!”
“Ok. Let’s practice walking. Take small steps and shuffle a bit. Don’t lift your legs too high or your foot will come out of the boot and you’ll fall on your face like Lindsay Johnson did last year. Knocked two of her teeth out.”
“Right, shuffle boots, keep teeth. Got it.”
“And don’t talk to anyone. You’re job is just to wander around the main lawn and scare the crap out of little kids.”
“If you move the handles back and forth it will look like Rudy is dancing!” cried one of the boys.
And with that they shuffled me out the tent door and into the sunlight. “At least no one will know I’m in here,” I thought. For all they know it could be their granny shuffling along and wiggling her giant pig butt on the main lawn. That’s what grannies do, right?
Shuffling went ok, the not talking part was a bit hard to master. I saw my good friend and shuffled over to her. I had to let her know I’d been eaten by a huge inflatable. She laughed and I got in trouble for talking when a fair manager passed us, so I went back to shuffling alone and wiggling at kids.
The jet pack made the heat tolerable, but I could definitely feel myself sweating all over the place. Everything went relatively smoothly and eventually someone came to tap me on the giant pig balloon belly and tell me it was time to trade off. I made my way back to the ten and pealed off the deflating pink costume. I felt triumphant. I was hot and tired, but I’d kept all my teeth, didn’t scare one kid and actually made a few happy. I handed my gear off to the next sucker and went to pick up a burger at the midway.
My second shift was later that evening. I think it was a Saturday night because the place was PACKED. It felt like the entire population of Circus Circus had to have come up for the big night. I was pretty excited to get in my suit and head out on my anonymous merrymaking assignment. It actually felt good to be that big and loved by kids and not have to talk to anyone. Beat the heck out of eating Rodeo jerk dust. I strapped on my gear and headed out into the party.
I wiggled, shuffled and grunted at a few kids – grunting is not talking. I even figured out a way to make the massive pig arm over my head wave at the crowds by pulling on the side just under his armpit. This is what I was doing when I felt the side impact.
Something very large and giggling slammed into me with full force, knocking me down. I hit the ground like a ton of bricks, half on my side, half on the pack. It shut off and the Rudy skin came crumbling down on top of me.
This should give you an idea of what I’m talking about. No hat or apron, and power lines not quite as close. Stick a teenage girl in there, add ten gallons of sweat and you’ve got it!
Panic!
Don’t panic!
Claustrophobia was setting in rapidly. Visions of my death story on the news flased before my eyes – girl suffocates in giant pig costume at the Clark County Fair. More at 11!
I was not going to die inside a giant pig.
I reached around and flipped the switch back on and tried to stand up.
Only I couldn’t. I couldn’t roll onto my back because of the blower. I got on my stomach but then couldn’t push up to my feet either. Somehow the whole mess was tangled around my feet and knees and I couldn’t get the right kind of leverage to get myself, or the 30 foot balloon, upright again.
To complicate matters a bit more, I could hear a crowd of growing laughter outside my pig sack. I was horrified. My only consolation was that I was very close to the main gates so someone would eventually see that Rudy had fallen and couldn’t get back up, and that no one knew I was in the suit. I just had to be very, very quiet and keep the mesh panel on the ground and get up quickly.
“Jen?” My friend’s voice cried out over the laughter and the blowing pack. “Are you ok? are you in there?”
Heaven help me, ugh.
“Yes,” I cried sheepishly
“How can I help you get up?”
“Just go get a manager.”
That was it, she’d done it. The crowd was not only laughing at me, they were making up all kinds of impromptu nick names like “Pig Pen Jen!”
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawesome. Eh?
I eventually got up. I cursed at my supervisor, and drowned my humiliation in fair food. Turns out the blow from the side had been one of my classmates making good on a triple dog dare while getting in some extra football practice. I imagine that conversation went something like this:
“Dude, I triple dog dare you to tackle that giant pig.”
“Dude, ok. Hold my corn dog.”
I was scheduled for another shift as Rudy the next morning. Any decent, self respecting girl would have declined. In fact, there was talk of not assigning Rudy jobs to girls anymore. But this girl doesn’t let a cowboy with a huge truck and a giant trailer full of broncs park wherever they want, nor does she let the dangers of wearing a giant pig balloon stop her from earning much needed spending cash. So I showed up, strapped in, blew up and took two body guards with me.
Never thought I’d be so happy to hear the muffled voices of large high school boys saying, “Don’t touch the pig.”
