They assigned me to the popcorn machine (of doom). I get to my booth and the two people who were manning it leave, and then it’s just me. I listen carefully as the woman gives me instructions. I also note that her instructions don’t match with the instructions written on the glass door of the popcorn machine. No matter. I’ve noted it. I’m mature and capable.
I dole out – very carefully and cordially – little baggies of popped corn. I did feel strange when they didn’t have food service gloves for me to wear. I asked the girl about it and she would tell me, “oh, if your hands get dirty, you can just use these baby wipes”. I don’t think she’s very outwardly focused.
Anyway – I’m doling. And being cordial. And then the popcorn runs out so I am left to make more. No problem. I am 35 years old. I have given birth to six children. I can manage concession rentals.
I dutifully add the popcorn/buttery flavored oil/seasoning packet. I sit back and wait 60 seconds (how long I was told it would take). Instead of getting 28 cups of popcorn, I get maybe two. Maybe. And it takes about three minutes to get that. Also, at this time, popcorn seeds are shooting out of the machine. Like, painfully shooting out. Even though the door is closed. I am splattered with hot, yellow oil. I have burns. I am laughing so hard.
On both sides of me are booths. Not really booths, just tables. Caramel apples to the right; cotton candy to the left. They are pretending not to notice me, while still casually trying to shield themselves from the buttery onslaught. I am dying.
Finally, after the second wave of terror passes and I’m considering putting in another packet, I turn to Cotton Candy (who is now HEAD TO TOE pink cotton) and ask, did you see the people that were here before me? Did this (gesturing to the corn shrapnel) happen to them too? I laugh – inwardly this time – because when I first spoke to him, he acted like he had just that second noticed I was there. “oh! when did you arrive! i didn’t notice you getting pelted with unpopped corn just a few seconds ago!”
He says he has no idea how it worked before.
I put in another packet of corn/oil/powder because the line is forming. People with their orange tickets. And people trying to pass off their green tickets for food and who are you trying to fool. But then again, what do I care and just keep your damn ticket so you don’t get me in trouble. No, really, get the ticket out of the bowl, jackass.
This next round of corn proved to be particularly nasty. It started to smoke. Popcorn = burnt. Burnt popcorn is one of the most hated smells. Even outdoors, you will not escape it’s fury. At this point, I am watching in horror (still laughing, though) at the smoke eminating from the rental. I am wondering if I should just give it away for free or shut down entirely. I decide it’s time for some intervention. Because while I am all about volunteering, and want dearly to be of assistance, my right hand is one big blister from the spurting and from the dripping and from the container that is clearly made of molten lava that hovers right in the center of the case (and who needs skin anyway) and my clothes are oily. Then there’s the state of the machine – the glass is completely covered (from the inside) with oil. And honestly, I’m not just thinking of myself here – popcorn seeds shooting out with such force as to be able to embed themselves into your severely styled hair are no laughing matter (practically doubled over at this point) and should be taken very seriously.
I ask Caramel Apples to watch my shit and I walk over to the volunteer booth and tell them that while I am a functioning adult, raising a family and running a business, I have realized that I cannot master the popcorn machine. I’m simply no match.
They assure me that it’s fine. I offer my services elsewhere, they foolishly take me up on it. Thank me, even! I am ushered over to the giant slide and jump house. Just stamp the tops of their hands for slide (five tickets), backs of their wrists for jump (three tickets).
And had they also said, be sure to lose the cap for the stamp and don’t forget to stamp their foreheads, I would have done really, really well there.
Later, as I was walking to my van hours and hours after I was scheduled to leave since nobody ever came to relieve me (and save me from Walt, who made me wish I’d never told him my name. Jeney! Oh Jeney! Could you stamp this one? Jeney! Could you put these tickets in the box? Oh Jeney! Please tell me why I am such a tool!”), I saw the girl in charge of the volunteers. She tells me, “Oh guess what? The popcorn machine is working again!” I ask what was wrong with it and she says, “It was just the lid! That’s all! Just the lid!”
And I think to myself: There was a lid?
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