I Belonged There.
Thanks to my rotten attitude during summers, my parents insisted that I get a job, so Arby’s hired me as their “salad girl.”
Astute readers will note that this job did not appear in the lengthy list from my previous “jobs” blog post. That’s because I did not want to be a salad girl at Arby’s.
I wanted to work at Kennywood, the local amusement park, my dream job since childhood. I had applied to Kennywood … but hadn’t heard back from them.
“Call them,” my dad suggested.
“I’m not going to CALL Kennywood!” I said, terrified.
My dad asked, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“They could say no!” I said. I imagined them listing my flaws, demeaning me during their rejection.
“Then work at Arby’s,” said my dad.
I considered this. I wanted to work at Kennywood more than anything, and I really hated the idea of being a salad girl, but the phone was like a two-ton brick.
Mustering every non-drunken ounce of courage I had, I called Kennywood.
“Hi, I applied for a job and I haven’t heard anything back and …”
“What’s your name?” the faceless Kennywood staffer asked. I spelled out my name.
“Someone will call you back,” she said, and hung up.
I waited. By the phone. Pacing. Within an hour, someone called me back.
“We have you down as working in refreshments,” she said. “When can you start?”
I nearly exploded with relief, joy, excitement: “I can start anytime!” I said. Arby’s had to find another salad girl.
For two summers I worked – sober – all the time. I sold french fries one year, pizza and candy the next. I loved being part of the Kennywood machine. (I still complained; it was work after all.)
Walking into the park before it opened was so cool; I belonged there. I could hear my own footsteps as I passed through the silent park before thousands of guests descended. I watched the riderless rides revolve during test runs. I stood stealthily behind closed steel windows, knowing that customers waited on the other side.
Then, as the crowds hit, I worked hard. Thrilled with the mental break from my issues, I gave Kennywood everything I had. Notably, I felt worthwhile – like I made a difference in the world.
I met Ken – not named after the park, but I loved the irony. A beautiful boy who ran the ride outside my french fry window, Ken was a dream boyfriend: gorgeous, sweet, smart and funny. And unlike the guys at college, Ken treated me like a human – well, he treated me like a queen.
Planning lunch breaks with Ken made my stomach squirm with excitement. And outside work, we actually dated. While we occasionally drank, what I remember best was laughter. We laughed a lot together. Ken got me like no one else did. He didn’t mind that I was myself around him; he liked me anyway. I felt invigorated: good, safe, happy, free.
I felt like me.
On special occasions Kennywood held “grove parties” for its employees, where we’d dance after dark right there under the roller coasters, surrounded by co-workers, having the time of our lives. Those nights were unforgettable, a major bonus from a place I’d loved all my life.
But my addiction pummeled through during my second Kennywood summer – my first clue that my eating habits would also be a problem: I ate more candy than I sold.
I left Ken; I needed more.
By the third summer, I could no longer feel Kennywood’s allure.
And I was still searching for “more” a decade later.