Bad Jobs and the Women who Love Them

Bad Jobs and the Women who Love Them
My first paying job was working at my father’s stamp and coin shop in the Minolta Tower in Niagara Falls, Ontario. This was a summer gig that involved selling stamp and coin sets to busloads of tourists. It’s never a good idea to work for a family member, as the lines get pretty fuzzy.

I, for one, couldn’t understand why I couldn’t have a day off on ten minutes notice to go to the beach with friends. My father had a passion for stamps and coins--you’ve heard of these people but rarely do you see it in action. This man could spot a worthless stamp from across the room and his talents were largely wasted on the tourists that wandered by the display case looking for something with a beaver, the falls or rock candy. I was absolutely useless. I just didn’t have that gene that gets fired up over a mint condition stamp from Bulgaria. When the manager of the aquarium approached me to take over the job of Master of Ceremonies of the water ballet show, I leapt at the chance. As a recent graduate of the National Ballet School, this seemed like a natural career choice. I was an artist after all.
My dad swallowed his pride and reluctantly wished me well as I walked across the hall to the aquarium.

I was thrown right into a rigorous schedule reminiscent of the old MGM soundstages. For eight shows a day the swimming ballet girls would perform as I stood at a podium in a leotard and flowing skirt, microphone in hand drawing attention to awe-inspiring, imaginatively-named feats such as the dolphin chain. We followed a tight script. The girls swam and mimed (try that sometime) as I waxed on about the tragic fate of a soldier during the Mexican Revolution, set to the music of ABBA’s “Fernando”. The crowd sat mesmerized, or perhaps baffled. It was usually made up of Japanese tourists who didn’t speak a lick of English. It was a magical summer. I had my first real relationship, lasting a little over three weeks.
I learned the art of drinking vodka and orange juice while walking over the slippery rocks by the Maid of the Mist in the pitch dark. I swam at Dufferin Islands at 3:00am. All to the soundtrack of Springsteen’s “Darkness on the Edge of Town”(talk about dramatic foreshadowing!). But it was still the heady days of early tourist season; I was eighteen, had a good perm, great tan, friends by the truckload and felt like a million bucks.

In between shows I’d sneak off for a tropical cocktail with my new boyfriend. He was a budding alcoholic whose family worked in upper management.
I was aiming high but something about his acne scarred face and surly personality was irresistible to me. At the age of twenty-two, Tom was an older recently divorced man/child. He had a fine tuned, "I don’t give a shit" outlook on life that can only come from experiencing life’s hard knocks. After years surrounded by men in tights, this was exactly what the doctor ordered. He drove one of those monster trucks that you had to literally take a flying run to jump into. We drove too fast, stayed out too late and basically did everything I’d never done at the National Ballet School. We were mad for each other and the fact that he stuck around even after I puked my guts out during my first foray into cross border late night drinking, told me that this was the real deal.

My father could barely speak he was so mortified. My mother would off-handedly say, “Should I leave the door unlocked tonight or do you have other plans?” This was accompanied by a meaningful smirk that quite frankly made me reconsider my estimation of Mary Fagan. Perhaps she had simply thrown in the towel on me but I sensed a touch of envy in her delivery. Niagara was intoxicating, the mist from the falls was intoxicating, the Waltzing Waters were at their prime and they hadn’t yet bull-dozed the Burning Springs Wax Museum.But as I soon learned… all good things eventually turn to shit. As the summer wore on the girls got cranky and waterlogged. Their hair having been dunked in heavily chlorinated water eight times a day had the texture of a bleached brillo pad.

Sensing the tension, I tried to lighten the atmosphere one day by actually presenting a surprise guest artist to the show. After several tequila sunrises, I convinced a pathologically shy maintenance guy named Marty to make an appearance as the long lost Fernando complete with ketchup soaked improvised uniform.
Marty didn’t know how to swim so I plunked him in an inner-tube told him to play dead and pushed him out to the middle of the pool while the girls were half-heartedly dolphin chaining underwater. There was slight pandemonium as they surfaced, crashing into the tube floating Fernando while frantically trying to stay in character.

Though it was a huge crowd pleaser with the tourists I was told by the management to cut out the re-choreographing of the show immediately. The swimmers started developing rashes and pink eye. They would dip their toes in the water and refuse to perform if they felt the temperature wasn’t spot on. As summer drew to an end, the water ballerina’s that began the season so luminous were now more like bitter, exhausted drowning rats. Tempers flared between artists and management as they so often do and by the end of the summer the management decided real dolphins were far less trouble.

As the late August nights turned crisp, Tom dumped me for a neighbour of his that he felt behaved more maturely. Apparently, I was still operating on the “I know you are but what am I?” level of relationships.As I stood watching my 80th Waltzing Waters show, I noticed the paint was chipping on the back wall. Things were definitely starting to go south. It was time to cut my losses and head back to the city to swim in the Big Pool where dance didn’t follow a literal script and definitely didn’t rely on Abba to supply the narration.

After a particularly contentious day with the swimmers, the show was abruptly cancelled and we all went back to our lives bruised, waterlogged but a little wiser. The lessons of a first job, we carry throughout our lives and I generously share the credo that this particular post offered.

1. Animals will always be more reasonable than humans and tend to stick to a
contract

2. Alcohol, chlorine and hot sun are a dangerous combination

3. The stamp and coin business may not seem sexy but offers a job security that show business can’t and won’t

4. Never underestimate the power of a good hair conditioner.