ZAMBONI MAN (conclusion)
The big clock says six-fifty. Ten minutes to show time and where the hell is Jason? He was supposed to be here at five, help with the chores, then we resurface for the first half of the show, which I have just finished doing myself. I am part pissed and part worried. Here I am going out on a limb for the kid, I even bought him that outfit, and where is he?
At exactly seven, the house lights dim, the lighting guys flood the ice with colored spotlights and Artie our part-time big-event announcer comes on the P.A., Arnie with the great voice – his real job, he’s a tekkie for BZ.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Foley Rink’s Annual Fall Skating Classic.” A big cheer comes up. “We have a great show tonight, so let’s meet our skaters!”
He announces each in turn as he, she, they, or, in the case of Foal-ey, the six-legged horse, it, appear on the ice, take a jump and join the growing line. In practice they had the tall kid Palumbo in the middle which made Foal-ey more of a camel but tonight Palumbo is in front where he belongs. After a few minutes everyone has been introduced so they clear the ice and announce the first act, which tonight is the dance team of Rhonda and Randy Carlisle, brother and sister, regulars here since they were seven. They graduate college next year, if you can believe it.
The show is two parts, an hour-fifteen each. It’s long, but our rule is anybody who’s in the skating school and halfway decent can be in it. Plus we always invite a special guest who tonight is Emily Hughes, the Olympic skater from Harvard. She goes on before the grand finale, a skate-around where everybody makes a last appearance on the ice.
First half goes well, the crowd is really into it and Flo tells me our attendance broke the record. A few minutes before the first half ends I am leaving the office for the Zamboni when who saunters in but Jason. He is wearing his sweatshirt and cap and looking very sheepish. “Where you been, buddy?” I say, glaring at him.
“Sorry Paddy, I couldn’t find my hat.”
“You couldn’t find your hat!”
“I lost my hat. But then I found it.”
“Did it ever occur to you it was more important for you to be here?”
“But it was a present from you. I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”
I nod. “Well at least you’re here.”
“Are you mad at me? Can I still ride the Zamboni?”
“I’m mad, all right, but yeah, you can ride. Wait here,” I say, ducking into the office. “Cover up with this,” I say, tossing a windshirt at him. “And keep the hat out of sight.”
Time is short so we hustle to the far end of the grandstand. I get up on the Zamboni and check the controls. Very excited, Jason climbs onto his seat. I fire up the machine and maneuver through the gate and out onto the ice, lifting my hat as I always do entering and exiting.
“Now can I take the shirt off?” Jason yells over the engine.
“Wait till we get to center ice.”
We proceed down the ice one machine-width from the boards then circle to the left and begin a pass down the middle. Any number of patterns are possible with the Zamboni, even figure eights, but personally I like long ovals. The ice next to the boards is the trickiest part which I save for last. A couple of kids with a shovel and bucket pick up whatever I miss. Big rinks have two Zambonis but we don’t need a second one even if we could afford it.
Nearing center ice I yell, “take off the shirt and put on your cap!”
Jason starts to remove the windshirt. I look over a few seconds later and he’s still struggling with it. “The zipper’s stuck!”
I reach across and with difficulty pull the shirt over his head and arms then toss it on the floor. I have it worked out with Artie what to do as we approach center ice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to center ice where Paddy O’Neill and Jason Phillips are starting their tour of the rink, laying down a new sheet of ice for our skaters. You’ll notice Jason is appearing tonight as Zamboni Man. Let’s give ’em a big hand!”
Now Jason is on his feet, his arms above his head in a victory salute. As he takes off the cap and waves it around cheers and whistles ring out. I am thinking I hope Junior’s taking all this in. When I locate him top row center where he usually sits, even at this distance I see him shaking his head. I feel like giving him the finger but then I think, why bother? I already am.
“Cool it, Jason,” I say, turning back to the job. We’re nearing the far end of the rink and I need to concentrate. I turn inside the fresh strip of water we laid down that is now frozen. Every time we hit center ice Jason takes off his cap and stands, hamming it up like I’ve never seen before.
Being a small rink, the job takes under fifteen minutes, more if I miss a patch or see a rough spot. This time I decide to change the routine and I make one last pass down the center even though it doesn’t need it. “Last turn,” I tell Jason, and again he stands, this time bowing to all four directions like the skaters do. Artie calls for another round of applause and tells people to take their seats. First up are the Lexington Ice Pixies, junior-high girls with a synchronized routine that always gets the second half off to a good start.
Heading for the gate I apply the brake but the pedal won’t go down! I look down – the windshirt’s stuck under it! I bend over and try to free it but when I look up we are headed for the open gate! I must have pulled the wheel too far left! I take my foot off the gas but we’re still going fast. I can’t barrel through the opening, not with people standing around, so I make an S-turn to line up parallel with the boards and only graze them. By now it’s not if we will hit them but when.
“Jason!” I yell, “get on the floor!”
“Why?”
“Got down! Just do it!”
As he hunkers down I cut the engine, waving people in the front rows out of the way. Unfortunately I don’t allow quite enough room to finish the turn and we make contact a few feet short of the gate. I watch the wood cave and hear the ugly sound of splintering. People scatter but now we are stopped. Are we ever. I look down at Jason. His forehead has a red patch and is beginning to swell. He must have cracked his head on the metal frame.
“You all right?” I ask.
“I think so,” he says, feeling his head which is now showing some blood.
“Don’t rub it.” By now the ice crew has reached us and they’re attending to Jason, pressing a towel to his forehead. Smiling broadly, Jason is soaking up the attention, not at all fazed. Several of our parents are doctors and for events we always have one on hand. Tonight Ray Laporte rushes up with the first aid kit. Ray sits Jason on a bench, swabs the wound with an antiseptic, applies a bandage, shines a flashlight in his eyes. Jason’s parents have arrived and are buzzing around. As soon as Ray clears Jason they scoop him up and disappear. A couple of our kids are already nailing plywood over the gash in the boards. As I am tucking the Zamboni in behind the grandstand, I see Junior approaching, breathing hard, his face purple.
“What the hell are you doing!” he screams. “I told you never put that kid in the Zamboni!”
“Don’t blame him,” I say, climbing down from the machine. “Besides, the crowd loved it. They thought it was part of the show. Which it was.”
A dark look comes over his face. “That’s it, Paddy! You’re outta here! And don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
I sort of expected this but still, it comes as a shock. I look down my nose at the creep. “Fine by me, Junior. Mind telling me who’s going to run this place?”
Junior puffs himself up to full height. “I’ll run it myself.”
I start laughing.
“Clear out your things! And don’t let me see you around here again!”
I walk onto the ice, then turn back. “It can wait til tomorrow, asshole.” I observe our kids finishing the repair, thinking, damn, I trained them well. I did well by a lot of kids. Then I get on the phone and tell Flo five minutes, signaling Artie for the announcement.
* * * * * * *
That night I don’t sleep well. It’s not so much about me, I’ll be okay, but Jason. Ray said the head knock was no big deal but it worries me, did I embarrass the kid? Try to do something nice for him and, let’s face it, stick it to Junior, and look what happens.
The next morning I arrive around nine and start packing my stuff – papers, pictures, souvenirs. People drop by, some I haven’t seen in a long time. They start out gloomy but when I say this is the best thing ever happened to me, the mood lifts. Ellen Baird from our Parents Advisory Board comes by and says Junior was out of line and they’ll fix it with his mother. I say, don’t on my account. Time I try something different, like growing up.
Flo tells me everybody says this was the best show ever and they’ll be putting together a roast for me, to which I don’t object. Everybody is furious with Junior, saying he’ll have to hire somebody knows what he’s doing, which I also don’t disagree with. Flo says she wants to clone me before I leave. Great people, I will miss them. Junior is nowhere to be seen, just as well. At least he had the decency to leave an envelope with my last paycheck and a couple extra weeks which I wasn’t expecting. Mrs. Foley didn’t show, which is disappointing.
It troubles me I haven’t seen Jason, but about noon as I am wrapping up he appears, wearing his Z shirt and cap. He takes the cap off and shows me the bandage on his forehead.
“How’s your head?” I ask.
“Hurts some but it’s better.”
“I’m glad to see you,” I say, really meaning it.
“My mom said you got fired.”
“Word gets around, doesn’t it.”
“Junior is an asshole.”
“I never heard you use that word.”
“I think it a lot.”
“About Junior?”
“Other people too. Not that many.”
“Don’t grow a chip, Jason. Life’s too short.”
He nods. “Last night was great. Junior shouldn’t have fired you.”
“Not only that, he revoked my Zamboni license, yours too. Zamboni Man’s career is over. Too bad.”
“Not really,” he says smiling. “I had my night. Everybody liked it.”
“That makes me feel better,” I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.
“When you start your new job will you get me one too?”
“Of course.”
Jason frowns, a serious look on his face. “What will you do?”
I look at the boxes, a lifetime in three cartons. “I don’t know, Jason. I got a lot of irons in the fire.”
“Irons in the fire.” He is quiet a moment, then this sly grin creeps across his face. “Paddy. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Lay it on me.”
“What I need to know, how are yours hanging?”
I throw my arms around the little guy and give him a hug, then I push him away and look at him a long time.
“They hang well, Jason,” I say, “very well indeed. Thank you for asking.”