No Sweat

After weeks of an unusually chilly spring, summer has finally set up shop over Northern California. With it has come the familiar 90-plus degree days and seasonal whining from the usual suspects, those that complain about the weather no matter what time of year.  Hot enough for ya?

I like the warm weather, though, even liked working in it, although that was a long time ago. Not sure if I'd feel the same today. But there was a job I didn't mind having no matter how hot it got outside. That was the summer I worked at The Ice House.

 

It was the summer of 1975, the summer between my freshman and sophomore years at Whitworth, and the Ice House was a skating arena that’d sprouted up where Bradshaw Road and Highway 50 near Rancho Cordova  The rink is long gone now, but in the summer of 1975, it was quite the hang-out place. Teenage and college age kids were the predominant demographic, in and out, from the time the doors opened until midnight. Being in that same age group myself, had I not been getting interested in someone back in Spokane- and yet still such a social dink- there’d have been ample opportunities to reach out and maybe make new friends.

 

Though my actual job description was kind of vague- my W-2 that year listed me as "Ice Rink Worker"- whatever the title, rink management kept me busy. My hours were 10 in the morning until 4:30 in the afternoon and the first order of business each day was the snack bar. Until 2:00 the rink was closed to the public but active just the same; set aside for private figure skating lessons and practice time. The skaters were mostly all rich kids, and I was tasked with keeping the little darlings full of hot dogs, fries, hamburgers and soda when they came off ice. 

 

I wasn't sure how to make that happen, until being familiarized with the heat lamp. The trick was to cook up a bunch of stuff prior to the arrival of the first wave and let them bask under the magic glow of the heat lamp. Then tend to the replacements being cooked on the grill or sizzling in the deep fryer. This juggling act all was supposed to done by one person- me- and quickly introduced me to the term, multi-tasking. Once the youthful clientele began funneling through, let’s just say I was never bored.  

Each day there was anywhere from 50-75 kids to tend to. The littlest ones came in at 11, the next surge followed at 11:30 and the older kids, the teenagers, came in at noon. The little kids were too young to be anything but messy and cute (and they knew it). The middle group was sort of obnoxious (though mostly just among themselves; they seemed to like me). But they also cleaned up after themselves and weren’t a lot of trouble. However the teens were the worst. They were loud, full of themselves and snotty. (Although some of the girls managed to pull off being both snotty and flirtatious).

 

But whether it was overstimulated tweens, demanding teens, or hyper tykes, they all came in eager to eat. And working alone as cook, cashier and clean up 'crew', by the time the last mouth had been fed, I felt like I'd made lunch for half the state. After a morning knee deep in the deep fryer and greasy grill, I felt like an oily over-worked octopus. It wasn’t until around 12:45 before the last of the skating prodigy had cleared out and I could breathe a sigh of relief.

 

They’d tried my patience again, but I’d won. They were all gone and I could hear quiet again. That’s when I took a break. I poured myself a Coke and slumped down into one of the little red hard-back plastic chairs and wondered if maybe there was an easier way to make $2.50 an hour. But once I had the snack bar cleaned and closed up, I got a second wind as the more palatable part of my work day began.

It started with cleaning, binding and sharpening the skates used during the public skate sessions. Binding is just a two dollar word for a fifty cent chore: tying the skates together by size and lining them up in their correct slots for rental. The sharpening was a little more interactive. I got to wear goggles, run the skate blades over the grinding wheel and watch the sparks of friction fly. I don’t know why, but I just thought that was cool. But after that the fun really started. I got to lace up my own blades and take the ice; not to skate but clean the Plexiglas surrounding it. 

 

Before starting, I'd make a run upstairs to the d.j.'s booth. The Doobie Brothers, Elton John or some other 70's bubble gum pop played over the loudspeakers during the public skates and I’d find something I liked and put it on. The place was nearly deserted in the hour after the private lessons ended and public sessions began, so I didn’t get a lot of complaints. It was kind of a lark though- it’d be about a hundred degrees outside, but I was inside a chilled and tune-filled arena with an entire ice rink to myself. There was nothing wrong with that picture. Of course, I was also working, performing a very tedious assignment. But it was pure joy being the only skater out on that big sheet of ice.

 

Polishing the glass was a long process and I only had time to do half the job before the first public session at 2:00. I’d start with the Plexiglas panels near center ice and work my way to the center stipe on the opposite side. I’d start there and cover the other half of the rink the next day. Then start over again the next day, etc, etc. It was neither skilled labor nor very stimulating. But some of the monotony was offset by taking a couple free laps around the rink pretending to be Bobby Orr.  I polished glass until the 2:00 session began, and then helped hand out skates. Somebody else had to man the snack bar, thank God.

 

When the first afternoon session ended at 4, the Zamboni made another appearance to resurface the ice before the 5:00 session began. That’s when things got fun for me because Frank, the driver, had begun letting me ride along with him. But the ultimate workplace high came towards the end of the summer when, after pestering him enough times- can I drive it just once, please?-  Frank finally let me take the controls. After showing me how everything worked, and what I could and couldn’t touch (and cautioning me over and over that it was nothing like driving a car), he let me sit in the driver’s seat and take the Zamboni for a spin.

 

Frank was right, though, about it not handling like my car. A Zamboni maneuvers about as well as a linebacker doing ballet. It's big and clunky, doesn't move quickly or gracefully and doesn't stop very easily either. It’s like driving a flat bed truck with a two ton refrigerator strapped to it. It’s got studded tires and held the ice pretty well, as long as you weren’t going over about 5 miles an hour. Fortunately, the speedometer only goes up to ten, so speeding isn't really an option.

Almost every driver follows the same predictable routine. As the machine does its thing, you’re taught to drive the same specific pattern: two laps around the edges, then straight down the middle, turn tight and repeat till the top layer of ice surface is shaved off, and replaced by a fresh sheet of water. Total time to resurface the ice and clean up: about 15 minutes.  Then, at the rink side opening where the Zamboni is driven on and off the ice, you’re supposed to stop and dump the shavings. From there, the machine gets parked in the service entry and you go back and shovel the excess snow and squeegee the left over puddles into a drain. But Frank never helped with this part of the job, whether I was just a passenger or doing the driving. All summer long, the manual part of the work always seemed to be my job.

I only got to drive the Zamboni a couple of times and never by myself. But I banged the walls only a hand full of times; didn’t crash through anything and didn’t run anybody over. Of all the things I did weekdays that summer between 9 and 4:30, driving the Zamboni was by far the coolest. Getting paid to hang out inside The Ice House all day that summer wasn’t a bad thing, either. 

It was about the coolest summer job I ever had.