The Hut

“Welllllll, I quit/got fired from the hut today. That guy was a crazy fucking nazi! Gunna miss those snowcones though…”

Good God.

The “hut” I’m referring to here is a SNOW CONE hut, and the Nazi I’m referring to was the snow cone hut owner. I never actually saw this man, but did speak to him on the phone a few times. The reason I referred to him in such harsh terms is because of the way he handled our final phone call. He was angry because I hadn’t opened up the shop that day (but the dumb shit hadn’t left the keys and I was 17 years old, you do the math). I just assumed it was one of those unimportant holidays like Presidents Day or Hanukah, and went home.

He called four hours later asking why I hadn’t opened up shop. When I told him there weren’t any keys, he started flipping out and screaming. He asked me why I hadn’t called him, did I have any sense of responsibility, and what would my parents think? I answered him plainly enough on all counts: “I didn’t call you because I didn’t have a phone; I’m responsible enough to leave the KEYS when I CLOSE at night and my Mom would be enraged at a grown man yelling at her teenage daughter.” He spit out a few lines of shocked and angry garble before I shouted, “I QUIT YOU FUCKING NAZI!” and slammed the phone down. The most embarrassing part is I was so impressed by the “cleverness” of my quitting line; I also put it into my journal as if for the first time. Apparently calling somebody a “Nazi” was a real DOOZY.

The hut wasn’t all bad, though. I worked there with my friend Kara, and we always had a great time flinging around syrup bottles like Tom Cruise in “Cocktail”. I was able to eat as many snow cones as I wanted AND I got to play with ice-picks! One of the Harry Potter books came out that summer too, so I drew a make-shift “CLOSED” sign and lay down on the floor until I was done reading it. Getting paid minimum wage to read Harry Potter in an air conditioned room filled with snow cones is BASICALLY my dream job. I’m pretty sure that was the best four days of my life.

I was also in a tap dancing phase (still AM) and could bring my tap shoes and practice for hours on the tiled linoleum. Sometimes I would get too caught up and a customer would be watching me through the window before I realized they were there. I would scream, and fling it open gasping asthmatically; sweat flying in every direction. The customer would stare at me, completely terrified, and just push the money across the counter. My words would always came out too loudly then, quickly, and got jumbled because of the embarrassment:
“YOU WANT A SNOW TAP?I GOT CHERRY AND CONES!IT’S HOT ISN’T IT??IT’S PRETTY HOT!”

There was one customer that I remember above all the rest. She’s one of the most memorable characters of my life and I only knew her for about 10 minutes a day, for 2 months. It’s because she literally was a character! She was like a drawing from a Roald Dahl book, or a part of your nightmare that came to life. I’ll try to describe her, but I don’t think words can do her justice…

This girl was a troll in human form. Give her a club and she would have fooled most. She was hefty and dense, with a splayed stance and perpetually scabby knees. She would tromp down the sidewalk in a Trunchbullian manner, flopping her arms while systematically letting out dissatisfied grunts. The most unsettling was that she only wore dresses, the type you typically see young children wear to church on Easter Sunday. They had a lot of ruffles and doilies and ribbons and silk flowers shooting off in every direction. It was like a pastel Quasimodo without the charming deformed parts.

She would snort her way up to the hut at the same time every day and slap the window open with the entirety of her mammoth palm. As I glared at the greasy bear print on my window, she would shove in the sweaty five dollar bill with which she intended to buy a snow cone. I’ll bet some of you are wondering what flavor of snow cone such a person would ask for. Well dear readers, I will tell you: EVERY FUCKING FLAVOR! The monster demanded every single flavor (we had 37) be put on one large snow cone, every single day. Oh, and it should only cost five dollars. For the normal consumer, adding more than 3 flavors would cost you an extra .25 per flavor. However, with (let’s just call her “Pork-chop” for the sake of time) that wouldn’t fly. Pork-chop would just continue shoving her five dollar bill in your face until she got her thirty-seven flavored snow cone. When somebody tried to tell her differently (while a line formed behind her), the conversation would go something like this:
“No, Pork-chop! You can only have 3 flavors!”
“……I want all.”
“Yes, I realize that you want all of the flavors, but you don’t have enough money and that’s impossible.”
“Can I have all the flavors now?”
“No.”
“Okay…. I’ll just have all the flavors then.”

The first time this happened, I just stood there in shock. I tried explaining it a couple more times until I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere. I gave in and said, “Okay I’ll put all of them on it”, thinking I would just do enough to make it a slushy brown and then hand it over. However, that did NOT pan out as planned. When I started pouring the syrups, pork-chop hoisted herself up through the window and onto the front of my counter. I was mortified. She watched me like a hawk, ensuring every single flavor was poured into her precious cone. She would also dart her eyes around the hut to make sure there wasn’t a stray bottle lying around. If I DID miss a bottle, she wouldn’t say “You missed that one”. Instead she would point to it and declare, “I want THAT ONE the most!”

One day I decided to deny her; just close the window and wait until she walked away. The problem is she didn’t walk away. She just stood right next to the window and asked every single customer what they were getting on THEIR snow cones and if she could taste them. Sometimes she would start patting their backs while they’re were ordering, as if to say “Yes, that’s good. That’s going to taste just fine”.

It was always fun when a nosy line member would say, “HEY! Just give the kid all the flavors, what’s the big deal?” Then I would shrug and smile, acting like I hadn’t thought of that until they had mentioned it. I would proceed to make a two foot tall snow cone, and slowly pour a drizzle of each flavor into it. By the time I was done creating such a spectacle, the interfering party was either gone or came to the window with an apologetic look of defeat. I would cock my head with a smirk that said “THAT is why it’s a BIG. FUCKING. DEAL. And sorry, we’re outta cherry.”

Jazz Hands

"Dear Journal, You missed a freaking CRAAAAAZY week in 7 & Senators!! You seriously shouldve BEEN THERE. OUT OF CONTROL! We had to sing for some old people and some retarded people and both shows were HYSTERICAL and TERRIFYING in that order!"~age 17

Before Glee, and before Zac Efron crooned sweet statutory; being in show choir was just plain "gay", and I LOVED IT. There was nothing better than catchpenny choreography to out of date showtunes and Disney Classics. Occassionally we would get lucky and afford the rights to some hip, pop number; like R. Kelly's "I believe I can fly".

"I used to think that I could not go on
And life was nothing but an awful song.
If I can see it, then I can do it
If I just believe it, there's nothing to it!"

Inspirational. It's especially moving knowing R. Kelly's future. He believed it, and there was really nothing to it. Just find an 8th grader and pee on her. No big.

To truly be a part of show choir, you had to be of a certain stamina. Extreme cheerfulness and a continual, cocain line of energy was expected. Most of us did community theater and had a flair for the dramatic. Tears flowed freely in the choir room; tears of sadness, of joy, of not getting the solo, of it being Wednesday. We were the students with a lot of emotions, and damnit, we just had to sing it out! Nothing can quelch the teenage despair like a broadway ballad. Break-ups, a parents divorce, running the mile- perfect reasons to start belting out a powerful melody. "Les Miserables" was the only thing that got me through mono.

This particular entry was written right before Christmas break, when all the nation's show choirs go flouncing about retirement homes, singing for the local infirms. These types of shows are always excruciating. The geriatrics are usually asleep and we just start clobbering them with JINGLE BELLS, so they wake into a state of screaming, frenzied panic. It's awful.

There are two of these shows I remember with alarming clarity, and I can only assume these are what I was writing about. The first show took place at a home for the severely mentally disabled. We set up our sound system in a room much too tiny to hold everyone in it. We had to short-change our dance moves and were about 1 and a half feet from the audience. In front of ME was a woman in a wheelchair. She was about 50 years old, fasted to the chair with restraints, and was wearing a large,chin-strapped helmet. When I got into position by sitting on the kneeling leg of my song partner Scott, the woman began bearing her teeth at me. Scott sensed my tension and whispered "It's all for the money" into my left ear. This was quite a good joke, considering the complete lack of money we would be receiving. The music was taking awhile to get started, so I moved to adjust my dress. The woman did NOT like that. She began rolicking back and forth, sticking her tongue out, barking and gnashing her teeth. Her helmet was flying everywhere and the wheels on the chair rocked up and down with her convulsive movement. As the music started, I opened my mouth to sing "silverbells" as she brayed the phrase "DIRTY WHORE!" 11 inches from my face. I croaked and Scott snorted/laughed. I was no more than a foot away from this woman the entire song, and she bellowed out a stream of expletives directed towards me the entire time. It went a little something like this:

Me: "City sidewalks/ Busy sidewalks..
"BITCH! CUNT! WHOOOOOORE!"
"Dressed in holiday style..
"DIRTY, DIRTY, DIRTY BITCH"
"In the air there's/ a feeling of Christmas..."
"POOP! SHIT ON YOU!"
"SILVERBELLS/ SILVERBELLS..
"WHORE FACE!"

I was completely traumatized, but Scott was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking and he couldn't finish the song.

The second number started out better, because we got to move positions and Miss Helmet was no longer in my line of sight. Unfortunately, we chose to sing "Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer", which everyone knew. Many of the inhabitants started singing and/or clapping along, which would have been a refreshing delight if one denizen hadn't been smacking all of them across their faces. This particular person felt she was the only one afforded the right to applaud. As soon as another audience member would begin clapping, she would scream "NO FRANK!" and slap them as hard as she could. There were about 18 aides in the room, but nobody acted as if this was something that needed addressed. So we just swayed back and forth singing rudolf, while one woman clapped wildly, and the rest of our audience let out pained shrieks as they were attacked. You will never know how long "Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer" is, until you have sang it under such circumstances.

The second show took place in a retirement home which was business as usual; old people screaming, covering their ears, or smiling blankly. Just as we began our crescendo in "Hark How the Bells", the loudest furnace/radiator/ice-maker on the planet began to growl. The sound was defeaning! This beast drowned out our singing entirely. We started to look around, realizing we couldn't even hear the person next to us. Our choir director started laughing and just shrugged "keep on going". But then the old people began snapping out of their trances, noticing our singing was replaced by the familiar machinery rumble they so loved. There was a hoot/ holler, and a maniacal laugh from a woman who was presumed a vegetable 3 minutes prior. They started crowing and pointing, clapping their hands and pumping their arthritic fists, as if to say "WE WIN!"