Vertigo Mountain

Shoes polished like rare gemstones, brand new shirt neatly pressed, hair washed and pulled back, I'm ready for my shift at Vertigo Mountain, otherwise known as the shit-show.

I’ve heard rumours that most people working there don’t last long, but I won’t let that deter me. When I leave home the sky is a gorgeous eggshell blue and I am baking in the sun's warmth.

By the time I get to work, ominous grey clouds gather and the wind laughs in my face. I am greeted by an enormous sign suspended above the gate: WELCOME TO VERTIGO MOUNTAIN with a logo of a car toppling over the edge.

Security lead me through a back entrance to the office where I sign-in. After that I am permitted to walk around the venue before opening time. Sixteen rides in total, all offering a different heart-stopping experience. The Drop of Death, the Death Roll, the Razor's Edge, the Flying Coffin. I peruse the menu of eight food trucks, with their usual servings of burgers, kebabs and hot chips. The wafting smell of oil and grease tempts me. The kebab roll costs more than my shirt, so it must be good. One bite, and it tastes like instant regret. Half the sandwich falls apart before I can finish it. I discard the rest and go to the toilet block to wash my hands and freshen up. But there is nothing fresh about the stench, or the hygiene horrors that are scarier than the rides.

I return to my post at the front gate. Seven hours I will be working here. No rain jacket, no friends.

It is deathly quiet. For now.

The first ticket holder arrives 30 minutes early. I explain we're not open yet. She frowns, and questions why there is no information about this. She is starving, and expected us to be open. Maccas is just across the road but No! They do not want to go there! Why can't we make an exception?!

The handbook says I have to be friendly, helpful and considerate at all times. So I tell her, sincerely, that the food is overpriced and the coffee tastes like shit.

She stares at me, unsure whether to keep pushing or back down, but turns around and retreats. I wonder if I should have told her about the cinnamon bun specials they have at Aldi, in case that’s what she wanted, but she'll figure it out.

A family of four with a screaming toddler arrive, scrambling to get their devices out to show their tickets. I can't let them through before we open, as per our regulations. In induction we went through all the case studies. In Queensland, a company got sued when a child was injured by moving equipment before opening. They also told us it’s never a good look when arrivals get in early to queue up at the rides, unless they are VIPs.

The mother, however, doesn’t care about the case studies. She insists that her child needs to use the toilet NOW and IT’S AN EMERGENCY.

A big fat raindrop lands at my feet. The wind hisses

Ha! You thought this would be so easy!

"Enough!" I snap.

The mother looks at me, startled.

"Sorry - eh - I meant....this infernal wind," circling my finger. She shrinks back; so I add, the toilets here are really disgusting, and there's no soap left, and there's cockroaches everywhere, trust me you'd be better off taking your child to Maccas. Just across the road.

After murmuring and conferring with her family they reluctantly make a pilgrimage towards better sanitisation.

The weather is getting wetter. More ticket holders arrive, building up the queue, bulging at the sides like a giant anaconda. Surely, according to the crowd, you can let us in early to get some shelter?

I assure them we are opening in a few minutes and to please have their tickets ready. I do a test scan on my phone, to make sure it's working properly. All good.

An elderly man with beady eyes behind his spectacles asks in a superior voice why don't I start scanning people now while they're waiting in line. Followed by

Idiot.

That word hovers in the air like a thin sheet of ice. I cannot touch it, I cannot question it. If it drops, if it slips, then everything here is shattered. My reputation, my job.

I carry that burden carefully. I won't let it slip.

The wind blows through the crowd, pulling at shirts and dresses. Umbrellas twist and twirl like tiny tantrums.

The man's snide remark swirls away in the wind.

Right on time the chain loosens and unlatches. The gates swing open. The crowd surge forward. I put on a brave smile.

But, for whatever reason, the technology gods decide right now is good time to get up to mischief. Maybe the sudden collective signals of phones and scanners is too overpowering. My scanner plays up. Ticket holders cannot find their tickets. A family of eleven only have one barcode.

Some people in the queue don't even have tickets.

You mean I have to buy tickets? Where? I point to the box office. No, I won't queue up again. I'll just do it on my phone. Hang on...it's asking for my email address. And a password too?! You've got to be kidding. You need to help me because it's your job.

I smile, exactly the way the handbook told me to, while customers murderously stab at their phones with impatient fingers, cursing the WiFi, cursing me.

Idiot the man repeats as he enters the gate.

I stare at the back of his head.

A peer arrives with a scanner. She’s blonde, pretty, much younger than me, her smile not yet ruptured by the cruelty of time. Her scanner works perfectly, gliding through tickets like butter with agile speed. She gets smiles and compliments.

My scanner, on the other hand, is sticky as molasses, insolent and stubborn, taking forever to beep!, no matter which way I flip the ticket.

.....beep.............beep..........................beep.

And yes, I ask everyone to turn their brightness all the way up, but it doesn't seem to make much difference.

People arrive with soggy tickets, holding jumpers over their heads. They are annoyed and want a refund because of the weather.

There’s a rush of people going out to grab umbrellas from their car. I direct them to leave via the exit, but they ignore me.

Beep.......Beep......................Beep..............

People complain about the food, the long wait times for the rides and the exorbitant prices. Can't you do anything about it? This is ridiculous!

Seven hours of this.

Tickets please! Where is your ticket?

My wife has it and has already gone in.

I bought it yesterday but never got a confirmation from you!

It gets worse when I have to apologise for the entire infrastructure.

It took me forever to get here. Why is the car park so full?

Only sixteen rides? In America we have so much more.

Behind me, the arm of a giant mechanical spider spins around, with the sound of a joyous song blaring endlessly on repeat.

You are my sunshine

My only sunshine

You make me ha-PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Screams of thrill-seekers chills the air as the Flying Coffin roller-coaster plunges on 'skies of grey'. At least they’re having fun. Children leave with their parents screaming and crying they don't want to go home. Someone starts yelling at me that their child doesn't like their toy anymore and wants to exchange it for a new one, but merch told them no. Another is disappointed that coffee is served in plastic cups.

Do better!

Two hours left.

Someone rushes towards me and asks me to call an ambulance, immediately. Someone has had a bad fall in the slippery mud.

You really should have cancelled the event, they say.

I summon 000 and keep scanning, pushing through to the end of my shift.

People turn up to the wrong day, or without tickets for their children. Are children under five not free?

No, they are expensive everyday.

The joke lands awkwardly, nearly cracking the ice.

No one told me this!!

Your website doesn't say -

Ridiculous!

"Hello? Helllllo?"

It's the security guard. "We close soon, yes?"

I look at my watch. 15 minutes before closing. Strictly no entries now. We need to get everybody out so we can all finish on time.

Security bolt the gates shut and usher people through the exit. Latecomers approach the gate and demand to be let in, they've came all the way from Blue Mountains or somewhere too far way like that and this is the only day they can see this monstrosity. 15 minutes is plenty of time! We won't even go on the rides! We just want to look!

The icy sheet of glass remains intact. I will not let it drop. Even when they shriek and curse and carry on like primates at the zoo.

Seven hours of my life sucked into oblivion.

I finish my shift, put the scanner back and sign out. Feet are soaking wet, shoes are thick with mud, shirt crumpled, clamping, disheveled, feeling drained, dumb and disgusting, but icy sheet still holding up.

I arrive home in the dark hours of night. The bathroom is untidy, as always, but at least it's clean. I wash off the day, the rain, the mud, the snide remarks, rinsing it all away down the sink. The face in the mirror thinly smiles back. I head to the kitchen and pop the kettle on. I nibble on whatever is leftover in the fridge, letting the crumbs do their thing. I pour myself herbal tea, into a pink ceramic mug, not an environmentally lethal plastic cup. The warmth of the tea and peppermint favour reassures me. I sip it slowly, savouring the one thing I've been craving all day: silence.

A few hours more, and I have to be up and ready for another shit-show at Vertigo Mountain.

Please, God, don't let me crack.