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VICE & VOICE

(previously published as Extra Duty Plays)

Chapter 2

A stressed voice crackled with my name. “Kassi, are you on?” The voice of Dani, the guard at the Shock Chute, screeched out of my two-way radio.

The ride, a zigzagging, fiberglass pipe tunnel that twisted and turned 150 feet and ended with a drop into a sun-drenched pool, sat atop the favorites at Wet Zone Water Park.

“Go ahead, Dani. What’s up?”

“We have a situation here at the Chute. Can you come over?”

Always a breaker crashing in, I thought. I had learned to cherish the brief moments of calm at both my jobs because I knew they would be brief. Still, after my almost-meeting with Parks, being back at my summer work playground made diving below the wave easier. Or maybe warm, sunny days beside pools of water made everything easier. Either way, I felt in control. “Yes. What is it?”

“It’s a bit crotchety here, so to speak.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone lost a pair of dentures coming through the tube.”

“Did anybody see them? Can you look for them?”

“Somebody found them.”

“Can you get them back to the owner?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“A kid found them. Or maybe they found him.”

“If they’re damaged, we can’t do much about it.”

“They’re not really damaged. They’re stuck.”

“Stuck? To what?”

“The kid’s, uh-uh-uh…”

“The kid’s what, Dani?”

“The kid’s…”

“Say it. Hair?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Lip?”

“Lower.”

“Nipple?”

“Nope.”

“Belly-button?”

“You’re getting hotter.”

“Bathing suit?”

“Penis.”

“Huh?”

“The kid’s penis. More like they’re hooked on it. The kid can’t get them off. And no way am I going there.”

I stammered before I gave up on the back-and-forth with Dani. “Okay. I’m on my way.”

For a few hilarious seconds I visualized a set of choppers, top and bottom teeth, chomped around a penis. Could it be a set of full dentures? No way, I thought. They couldn’t fly out of someone’s mouth. My memories of my father’s dentures and the metal wire that hooked them to his remaining permanent teeth kicked in. Hope it’s partials, I thought.

 “Kassi. Where are you?” Before I could turn off the radio, another voice clicked in. It was Stan Parzyk, the park’s manager.

“I’m on my way to the Chute, Stan.”

“Well, why aren’t you there already?” Stan’s usual scratchy voice pierced the airwaves more sharply than normal, my signal that he was excited, irritated, or both.

“Stan, I’m on my way. I just got the call.”

“Get there, dammit. You know Shore Piers is here today. Something like this could be trouble.”

“Stan. It’ll be okay.”

A team from Shore Piers, a resort developer, had arrived that morning to check out the water park as a possible new investment for them. Stan was a type A personality on an uneventful day. This incident today kicked it up to double or maybe triple A.

I tried to calm him. “Relax, Stan. I’m on it.”

“Don’t tell me to relax!”

I failed.

“If they get word of this, if we don’t handle it quick and right, it could be a deal breaker.” His voice approached a screech.

“I know, Stan.”

“This is on you, Kassi. You’re supposed to have things under control.”

How, I thought, do I control somebody’s dentures?

“Kids! I hired you because you’re supposed to know how to handle them.”

“I’m on it, Stan.”

“Handle it. As fa-crackle as pos-crackle. F-crackle-er!”

Oh, let him keep breaking up, I prayed.

“Let me crackle hap-crackle.”

“You’re breaking up, Stan. I have to turn off the radio.”

“What? Don’t do that. I have to hear—”

I reached the Chute and switched Stan off.

The Pool Patrol, the park’s first aid unit, was already on the scene. I slid through the crowd gathered around Danny Fuentes, lead guard, as he gently tweezed the dentures from the front of the young boy’s suit. My hope was fulfilled. They were partials. When they were removed, the group broke into a round of applause for Danny. He returned the slightly damaged dentures to the owner, a sixty-ish, gray-haired gentleman, who smiled and said, “Thank you. You know, I can’t smile without you.”

Not one to be upstaged, Danny said, “You won’t be down in the mouth anymore,” then grinned, quickly grabbed his backpack, and left the scene leaving no opportunity for another bad pun.

Normalcy returned after a few minutes, thanks to Danny. I spoke with the owner of the dentures, made sure he was satisfied and calm, and took his contact information for future reference, if needed.

“Thanks, Kassi.” Dani appreciated my stepping in to help. “Toothfully, thanks.” She grinned. “Guess we need to change the sign on the tube. You must be this tall. No food. No drink. No false teeth.”

My cheeks puffed out and a poof of air shot through my lips, an involuntary response I seem to use more often as I get older. “Maybe something catchier like To thine own mouth be true. Secure your dentures.”

“I like it.”

“Later, Dani. You’re too easy to please.”

The parents of the boy were not. They barraged me with a commotion of complaints that entertained the crowd that gathered around us. Seems they, like Stan, thought I should be able to control a set of dentures and keep them from attacking their son. “This is unacceptable,” said the mother. “What you put my son through. I’m going to report you to the authorities.”

“I apologize for the incident, ma’am.” I put on my PR hat. “What can we do to make your experience here at Wet Zone better?”

“First, put something in place so it doesn’t happen to anyone else. That’s what I’m concerned with.”

“I will share that with management. I’m sure they will investigate and post some warnings. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Of course, my main concern is that no one else has to suffer what my son did. But…” She breathed in, looked around, then delivered what I expected to hear earlier. “Our admission fee was pretty expensive. And the experience probably will sour us to coming here again. Maybe a refund would help.”

“Absolutely. I’ll take care of that.”

I turned to head to the office to approve the refund, but she had more to add.

“I think coming back when we’ve put today’s fiasco in the back of our minds might do my son good. Then he can enjoy the full day. Another day. Free passes would help—all of us.”

“Okay. I’ll see if management will approve.” The thought this was a scam entered my mind. But I had to find a quick way to disperse her audience and rescue Wet Zone’s image. Stan would argue and probably deny the additional day’s free passes, but with or without his approval, I decided I was giving them to the family. I’d pay myself if I had to and ask Stan to reimburse me. I laughed at the thought. As penny-pinching as Stan was, I’d have to fight tooth and nail.

“Thank you. I think that will help us.”

“Great. And try to enjoy the rest of your day.”

Once I took care of the reimbursements and rewards, I filled Stan in, and though he didn’t wholeheartedly agree the passes were on management, he calmed down.

So I took a break.

I grabbed my lunch from my locker, bought a soda, and headed to the picnic table area. LJ and Dawson, two teen staff members who worked on the Surf Kingdom ride, sat having lunch, and I joined them.

“Mind if I sit here?”

“Kassi. Def. Have a seat.”

“How’s it going, guys?”

“Great. This ride makes coming to work fun.” The novelty still hadn’t rubbed off for LJ.

Before me was the Surf Kingdom ride, an artificial wave maker that let riders try their skill at surfing and boogie boarding in the confines of a pool.

LJ noticed my lunch. “Still eating turkey, lettuce, and mayo on that wheat thing, huh?”

“You know it.” I’m a creature of habit when it comes to lunch. Or maybe I’m just lazy. Every day, whether I worked at school or at the water park, I packed the same lunch. A turkey sandwich with lettuce and mayo on a whole wheat sandwich thin and a bag of fifteen grapes was healthy, low calorie, and required no thought after doing it for twenty plus years. Though I did treat myself to a store-bought-and-prepared meal when I needed an emotional lift, on most days I packed. But my lunch mates found it humorous.

“So, Turkassi. Have anything for dessert?”

“No.”

LJ slapped the tabletop. “Of course not. Why change?”

“Especially after all these years. Hey, maybe you’ve discovered the sandwich of youth,” Dawson added. “How many years has it been?”

“More than you’ve been alive.”

“And you still love that sandwich.”

“Yes, I do.  And you still love that flow rider. Just like day one.”

“You know it,” Dawson said.

When the ride was first introduced last season, the awe teen staff showed for the ride captivated me. I swore LJ and Dawson genuflected and bowed their head in a prayer of thanks when Stan told them they would be working the ride.

“I may have to try it myself.” I said it to get a reaction, and I did.

“Whoa! No offense, Kassi, but don’t you think this is probably too dangerous for you?” LJ had a protective streak, especially for older women.

“Just kidding, guys.” But was I?

“Phew! You had me worried, Kassi.”

“I’m testing you, LJ.”

“Cool. I’m pretty sure I passed. Anyway, our break is over, so the table, or should I say the roost, and the view are all yours, Turkassi. See you.”

“See you, guys.”

Finally left alone, I enjoyed sitting quietly for a few moments.

The Wet Zone was miles from the ocean, but the view of the boarders against the mural of breaking waves on the background wall mentally transported me to the real thing.

The ebbs and flows of the ocean mirror the emotions of every day, sometimes of every hour, at my real job, teaching English and leading the English/Language Arts team at Bantamville South High School. Thoughts of it creeped in today because this was one of my last days at my summer job at Wet Zone before I returned to my ten-months-a-year career. In my meditative state, I thought of how waves push closer to the shore then move away as though they fear the closeness, the coming together. But later, they approach again. Like the kids. They moan about having to come to school, but teachers must patrol the halls and shoo many of them out hours after the dismissal bell. It seems they can’t bear to leave and can’t stand to stay away. The together is too anxious, the apart too painful.

As I stared at the mural, my ease-into-the-ocean routine played out in my memory. I see myself tiptoe in and stop short of three big smashing white caps. One, two, three, four, five, slow rollers hit the shore. I inch in deeper. Up to my knees, I gaze out to three people up to their shoulders in sea. Past them, a solitary swimmer glides in peace. The sun beats on my shoulders as the sweat pours down my body and mixes with the cool saltwater at my knees. A kid—couldn’t be older than ten—swims like a dolphin way out. Counting the waves again, I make my move and begin. But wait! Another breaker and I back off.

The cycle repeats three or four times. Once I overcome my fears, I dash in and dive headfirst under the whitecap. I fight the urge to come up from the cold surf for air and warmth. When I do surface, I feel my body forced back towards shore. I push to move out to sea, chill, and breathe again. The ten-year-old bodysurfs past me. Little show-off, I think. But I wish I could be that free. Too many fears hold me back from throwing caution to the sharks.

“Buzz-zz. Buzz-zz.” A text from Renee Dumont, my English/Language Arts colleague and sometime-partner in crime at Bantamville South High, snatched me from my contemplation.

Hey. What’re u doing?

Working.

Have u heard about the new vp?

No. You?

Don’t have all dets yet. Maybe sex harassment.

Yikes.

I’ll let you know. Have fun.

Thanks. See you next week.

As I disconnected, it hit me. Always another breaker. Sexual harassment. Bantamville was so au courant.

Before I could decide whether cutting edge really described Bantamville, a silvery sounding voice reached my ears.

“Hello, Mrs. Stanton.”

I squinted to focus. “Is that who I think it is?”

“It could be.”

“Now, yours is one face I never expected to see here.”

“Then my plan is working.”

“Really? Father Jim?”

The priest smiled and sat down next to me on the picnic table bench. “I didn’t know if you’d recognize me. Without the overalls, that is.”

“I almost didn’t. But I always remember a friendly voice, especially one from Bantamville.”

Father Jim Hobson, in a chartreuse Tiki Town tank top and Jungle Jazz board shorts, glanced at the Wet Zone Water Park logo on my tank top. He took three seconds to read it, then tilted his head and smiled. “I had no idea you worked here. Been here long?”

“Four summers. Keeps me busy. Helps me to avoid withdrawal, too.” I paused to get his reaction.

“Withdrawal?”

“From the excitement.” I used air-quotes as I said the last word and regretted it right away. “Here I get enough to feed my habit without overdosing—if you know what I mean.”

“Ah. Yes. I do remember some excitement last year.” He copied my air-quotes, and we shared a moment of camaraderie.

During two bomb threats last year at school, the student body had been evacuated and took shelter in Prince of Peace, the Catholic church across the street, Father Jim’s church. He had greeted us wearing custodian-style clothes that led to a brief case of mistaken identity on my part.

“And you, Father. What brings you to Wet Zone?”

“A little break. On hot summer days, it’s refreshing coming here. I get in a few hours in the morning on my free day, and I’m good for a while.”

“Really? I have to confess—pardon the pun—I’d never check off this place as one for a priest to come to on his day off.”

“Then you need to let yourself think outside the confessional box, Kassi.” He winced after he said it. “Have you tried it?”

“Boarding? Only in my mind, Father. My only use of a surfboard or boogie board is to lie on it to straighten out my back. I have a twinge-y back and don’t want to press my luck.”

“It’s invigorating. Try it when you feel better.”

Before I could respond, he jumped up, trotted over to the wall, grabbed a flowrider board, and moved to the line of wannabes waiting to jump in. When his time came, he dropped his board, stepped onto it, and began a series of turns and tricks that mesmerized me. The energy of the sheet waves combined with Father Jim’s to create a scene that attracted the eyes of riders waiting in line and those passing by and kept them glued. He carved, he foot-planted, he kick-flipped, he did 180s with ease. Finally, his time about up, he verged on completing a 360 but lost his balance and hit the wetness. Applause greeted him when he surfaced, a first for Surf Kingdom.

After he made his way out of the water, he returned the board to LJ and high-fived him.

“Yeehah!” I howled as he walked back to me.

“How was it?” He breathed heavily. “I don’t usually end that way.”

“Awesome, Father.” I raised my soda in toast to his effort. “Where did you develop those licks!”

He continued to gasp for breaths. “A long time ago. I was young once, you know.”

“Wait. Are you a surfing priest? Tell me yes. That would make my summer.”

“Would it?”

“Absolutely. Tell me yes.”

His breathing slowed approaching normal. He wiped his face with his towel and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m a priest. I can’t lie. Yes.”

“Awesome.” I soaked in the moment. “When did you surf? As a kid?”

“I started when I was ten years old. I lived on the coast, and it was natural to skateboard and to surf. When I joined the seminary, I had to cut back, and once I was ordained, time didn’t allow for it too much. You know. Running a parish, taking care of the community’s spiritual needs, hosting high school students during bomb threats.”

“You’re full of surprises. You like the water, I guess?”

“Yes. I wish I could get out on the ocean more. It’s a powerful symbol of life. I don’t tell many people this, but when I was a teenager, I sometimes went surfing on Sunday morning instead of to Mass. But it was like praying—appreciating God’s gift of the ocean. And I’m not making that up. I really felt it.”

“All I can say is awesome. And I get it. One thing I believe is that God is all around us—not just in church. I think literature has reinforced that for me, too. Sort of a spiritual education.”

“So, soon you’ll return to the excitement. This must be a nice break from high school teaching. A bit calmer?”

“We-ell. Sometimes it is, sometimes it’s not.” I shared the Shock Chute dentures-on-the-penis story with him and laughed loudly. I stopped suddenly. “Oh, Father. I hope I didn’t offend you talking about, well, you know.”

“About the prickly situation?” He grinned.

I snickered. “More like a case of tooth or consequences.”

He winced and shook his head.

I stood up and touched his shoulder. “I have to go, Father. But it’s great seeing you. Enjoy the rest of your day, and I’ll look for you again next year. These are my last few days for this summer. School starts in a week.”

“You know where you can find me.” He laughed. “And Kassi, as I recall, you were going to stop by more often. Remember?”

I winced. Last June, I had asked Father Jim if he might offer me a counseling session to talk about my lapsed Catholicism. Maybe he could also moderate the existential debate I was having with myself. Had I done the wrong thing for the right reason last year when I devised a plan full of deception, duping, and false identity, though only one, to rid the school and myself of Dr. Rikki Parks and her standardized test mania? If losing my soul was a real possibility, I wanted to know.

“Yes. I remember, Father. Guess I got busy. And I didn’t want to waste your time.”

“Stop by. Once.”

I smiled again, just short of agreeing, tossed my soda can into the recycle bucket, smiled at him, and waved. “Bye.” I began to walk away but paused and turned to look back at him.

He held up his hand and made the sign-of-the-cross in my direction. With a slight grin, he extended his thumb and pinky finger while holding his three middle fingers curled, and he rotated his hand back and forth. “Hang loose,” he said.

I smiled and returned the gesture.

“I’m always there,” he said. “You know, a soul is a terrible thing to waste.”

“Or lose, Father.”

I tried to be open to possibilities.

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