(Part two)
The Games Department
Last time I attempted to write a detailed account of my time at Cedar Point, my old typewriter died. I like to think its gears are happily spinning in robot heaven. Now, here I am, starting over.
At Cedar Point, you have several job options. You could be a French fry cook, a ride operator, or, as in my case, a game host. Game hosts are often seen as nuisances by overworked dads and people who dislike being approached by strangers. To put it simply, game hosts are those who shout and cajole you into parting with your money, offering little value and possibly detracting from your experience. I chose this role mainly because I enjoy the spotlight, and the other jobs seemed soul-draining.
However, being a game host came with its own set of challenges.
The Caste System
As a game host, you're essentially a salesperson. Instead of selling something desirable, you persuade people to spend money on the slim chance of winning something they probably don't even want. Game hosts are often more desperate and overworked than your average used car salesman. There's an arbitrary hierarchy designed to keep you constantly selling, with your very livelihood dependent on your sales metrics, or "per caps." These per caps are calculated by comparing the day's performance to the same day in the previous year, adjusted for visitor numbers. Strangely, only the management knew these critical numbers, which could doom some to failure while elevating others to almost mythical status.
We could only guess our fate from the ominous schedule board—a glass and wooden oracle that dictated our shifts without sympathy. Watching it, we felt like zoo animals, anxiously awaiting our feeding time, wondering whether we'd be rewarded or condemned to the dreaded morning shift.
The Morning Shift
The morning shift was the proverbial corner for misfits. It was slow, less lucrative, and required waking up very early, offering fewer hours than the afternoon shifts. It was a miserable experience: lower pay, no nightlife, and empty afternoons. Nobody pitied those on the morning shift—they had been deemed unworthy by the almighty schedule board, and those on top kept their distance.
Thankfully, I only endured this shift for a week before I managed to escape.
Factions (Explained Using Game of Thrones)
The amusement park is our Westeros, with different game zones akin to the competing houses.
Zone 1 - King's Landing: This zone, at the park's entrance, bombards guests with game offers as they enter and leave, resembling towers in a tower defense game.
Zone 2 - Flea Bottom: Known among employees as "the boxes," this zone features the least desirable games and is staffed by less favored employees.
Zone 3 - The North: Remote and far from the central office, it's like the distant, cold North of Westeros.
Millennium Games - Casterly Rock: Here, we were part of Zone 2 but distinct enough to consider ourselves "Zone 2.5." Unlike the restrictive boxes of Zone 2, this area was free from direct supervision, allowing for a more relaxed atmosphere.
Arcade - The Wall: Staffed by the youngest and least skilled, this area felt like a dark, forbidding outpost.
Lockers - The Wildlings: An outlier in the department, similar to the unpredictable Wildlings.
In this park hierarchy, game hosts strive to climb the ranks, often facing the same trials and tribulations as characters in a medieval saga. Despite the challenges, my tenure as a game host was a memorable chapter in my life, filled with peculiar characters and surreal experiences.
This post turned out longer than expected, so I’ll stop here.