This morning I happily sent Leslie some NOFX mp3’s for her review, and she smartly asked if there was any colorful language as she was at work and not wanting to offend those around her. Or get fired. Once, I almost did both on such a grand scale, I still sort of cringe thinking about it.
The time, Summer 1996. The place, Raging Waters at Morey’s Pier in Wildwood, NJ. The situation: my summer job. My fellow guest services staffers and I had many perks to our job. We had the enviable job of kicking people out when their bracelets expired or were violating their “dry spectator” status, we got to make really ominous weather announcements, we could open any locker we wanted, and most importantly, we controlled the music. Grown tired of endless Jimmy Buffett, Hall & Oats, and Boz Scaggs faire; we decided to take music matters into our own hands. We pooled our personal CD collections, and thoughtfully marked on the CD cases which songs were just the right mix of cool and family friendly. Among our favorites was the Violent Femmes, particularly the songs “Blister in the Sun”, “Waiting for the Bus”, and “American Music”. I know, cliché, but we were 16. Sue us.
One hot & sticky afternoon, I was marooned in the middle of the waterpark in the lockerbooth. Battened down with a bunch of keys, souvenir cups, and one-dollar bills, I was a pretty happy camper. The locker booth was a fantastic place. The people-watching opportunity alone made you forget you were trapped in a 3x3 box for hours on end. This particular afternoon, the wife of the owner of the waterpark (and attached amusement pier, among a zillion other things), not to mention one of my best friend’s grandmothers was giving some friends of hers a tour of the waterpark. She’s an adorable little lady, usually decked out in a fantastic linen summer suit, gold shoes, and some gargantuan sunglasses that would have made Aristotle Onassis blush. She was particularly interested in showing her guests the little nature preserve my boss had created between two waterslides for a family of ducks that came back to our waterpark year after year, as they’d recently had some babies.
Then it happened. The factors started stacking up in my head like a falling house of cards. Mrs. Morey is standing 7 feet from me, and conveniently directly underneath a gigantic speaker. 1,500 people currently in the park, and hundreds more milling around above on the boardwalk and out on the beach. I am trapped in the locker booth, and cannot leave. There is not a lifeguard in sight to save the day for me.
Our old friends, the Violent Femmes came over the sound system, but it wasn’t one of the pre-approved songs. Someone had made a mistake in programming the stereo system. What I heard come bellowing out of the speaker was this:
“WHEN I SAY DANCE, YOU BETTER DANCE MOTHERFUCKER!!!!”
I still can’t believe that I did not faint, and more incredibly, Mrs. Morey didn’t bat an eyelash. It was like getting a reprieve from the governor.
2 comments:
That is a great story. What a classy lady!
I adored Mrs. Morey. This one night I was working in the "advanced sales" booth up on the pier, selling tickets for the waterpark. She was trolling the pier, as she's wont to do, and stopped to chat. She noticed that I didn't have a certain sign out in the booth, so I called the office on my walkie-talkie and told them. The guy radio-ed back all snotty "THAT'S BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU!". Mrs. Morey was aghast, grabbed the walkie talkie out of my hand and said, "I think you need to get someone out here with that sign immediately. How could Carol Ann know she had to have that sign, she's never done this before. YOU should have sent it with her!". The sign, lugged by a very scared errand boy appeared in about 36 seconds. She was tiny, but she was tough.
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