Go-Karts,
Bumper Boats, Munchkins, and Such:
Working
the Close…
Shift
begins,
In the
midst of the sun,
Dragonflies
hovering
Over the
opaque gasoline lagoon…
A
breeding ground
(Despite
the .01% water content
of that cess)
For
mosquitoes, which are pests
And a
magnet
(Despite
the heat)
For
small children, which are pests.
And
the running…
Up the
track,
Over
the track,
To the
boats,
To
kiss the toes
Of the
anal-retentive manager
All
while bathed
In
your own sweat
And
immersed
In the
sun,
Which
once provided a tan
But is
now only a pest.
Then,
aah, comes the night.
Yes,
night, with its
Incandescent
glare
And its
only-slightly-lesser boil.
It is
bed-time for the munchkins.
The
small children dwindle in the twilight
And
the Lollipop Guild is replaced
By
teenage thrill-seekers, which are pests.
So
they drive in circles
And
float off to nowhere,
Attempting
vehicular manslaughter along the way.
They
bump
And
whine to be allowed to stay
So
they can tempt death again
And
they run over toes
And
purposefully crash into each other
Then
cry foul and call
The
managers, which are pests.
Finally,
they leave.
They
leave…
Their
trash and purses and cell phones and trash…
And it
is time to close.
Time
to refill the gas tanks
(Meanwhile
saturate clothes and skin with
flammable liquid)
And
walk the course
(Shoo
out the amorous couple
in the cave)
And
empty the trash…
Carry the bags of offal
And soda and half-eaten
Burned plastic pizza
Past
the bright flood lights,
Several
bags at a time to cast a shadow
Like
some deranged Santa Claus
Bringing
gifts that ooze slime
And
drip foul pus
Not to
a chimney, but a putrid dumpster
For
the rats and the roaches, which are pests.
Then
inside: “am I done?”
To be
handed a spray bottle and towel
With
which to clean the windows
To the
sycophantic drawl of facetious appreciation
From
the shift leaders, which are pests.
Finally,
drive home,
Madly
clutching tomorrow’s schedule:
Five
to Close.
Copyright
©2000 Adam Rutledge