My first job ever was at a water park.
They came and recruited at my high school, and I immediately signed on the dotted line to become a shallow water guard. I was promised free sunscreen and an hourly wage of $6 per hour ($9 per hour overtime, baby).
My employer delivered. I bought myself a Sega Dreamcast and my parents’ first legit DVD player. I had the tannest ass crack in the 813, I’m sure.
What I didn’t see coming was how many times I would have to “save” somebody from drowning in less than three feet of water.
It must be fucking scary to get water shot up your ass before being dumped out of a slide at a high speed only to arrive face down in 36 inches of the wet, chlorinated stuff. It must be scary, because I’ll never forget the fear I saw in the eyes of people who can’t swim after they swal- low a liter of the communal bath. I wonder what my eyes looked like on the rare occasion that said drownee didn’t realize he/she had pooped in the pool.
Code Browns kill the fun for everyone at a water park, but they’re better than drowning in what amounts to a kiddie pool any day.
This article appears in May 11-18, 2017.