Official Home Of BIG Ben Kennedy

The spring after high school I took that high school diploma and got a high dollar job as a kid coach for a children’s party place called Discovery Zone. Sure, Spencer Gifts tried offering bigger bucks to keep me, but I told them, “I didn’t work for four years to earn a diploma in high school studies to not be making the really big bucks.”

So it was off to DZ I went to become a kid coach. Now as a kid coach, my 3 main responsibilities were simple: Host birthday parties in the “party rooms” in the back, make sure the kids don’t hurt themselves while running around in the MegaZone, and clean up the inevitable vomit.

If you think back, you probably remember that every birthday party you’ve ever had, some kid threw up. Heck, some of you reading this may not have to think back that far because in your later years your more alcohol based parties still feature that wonderful joy to every celebration: The Party Puker.

Just be glad you didn’t host children’s birthday parties. On a good Saturday, there were at least 3 parties, which meant 3 Party Pukers!

Having worked these parties enough, I started getting good at picking the Party Pukers out. Usually there were physical traits, but I always looked deeper.

For starters, there was the little nerdy boy. He wants to run around, and keep up with the other kids, but his cardiovascular lifestyle of computers and PBS hasn’t got him quite up to par. But man is he trying! Because at a birthday party, with parents around, everyone are equals. The same kid who is going to be spitting spitballs into the back of your head come Monday, is playing with you today and you’re not going to waste it! If you can keep up, he might find you cool, and you could turn your life around!

Also, there was no telling what he may have eaten at the party that he may have a mild allergic reaction to.

Next up, we have the fat kid. Once again, this is a matter of his prime cardiovascular fitness level, coupled with the fact that he ate everything that was put in front of him including half of a Styrofoam cup. He’s huffing, he’s puffing, and he’s red in the face and sweaty.

For me, it was like looking in a magic mirror that makes you appear younger.

And lastly, there was the Asthmatic boy. He would be running around, laughing, having the best time, and then he would stop in his tracks. Is he just going to vomit right here? Not even make an attempt for the restrooms? And that’s when the boy reaches in his pocket, and pulls out an Asthma Inhaler.

Now this puts me at an impasse. I understand Asthma to a certain extent because my little brother was diagnosed with it when he was 2 years old. So, I can’t really be mad if this kid does vomit because he honestly can’t help it. But I wish I could ask the parents why they were feeding the Asthmatic kid cookies, punch, cake, candy, and sugar, sugar, and more sugar, and then telling him to run around? It’s called science! And you know he’s just going to throw up in my ball crawl! And if that unfortunate event ever happened, you’d have to take all the balls out, and wash them in a machine, and then wash the bottom of the pit out by hand.

Oh, believe me, it was as much fun as it sounds.

Now you may wonder why the examples I’ve listed were all boys. Well, it’s quite simple. If you were a girl at a birthday party and you didn’t feel well, you sat by a parent, or your parent, and took it easy. Then if you were going to throw up, someone would have an empty cup, or they could get you to the restroom on time. So I never really had to clean up after the girls.

Not the boys! They will just ignore all signs, all stomach pains, all vertigo, and keep playing! Don’t you worry guys, I’m sure someone will gladly clean up your stomach contents. And I was sure that someone was going to be me.

Now, in hindsight, maybe it was a little creepy of me to be stalking these boys while dragging a mop and bucket behind me. But in my defense, I was trying to stay prepared. Sometimes the best defense is a brilliant offense.

Also, I was sure that one day I was going to hear the pre-vomit cough, and be able to kick the wheeling bucket under the kid before the splash hit the tiles.

I hear a female’s voice ring out over the loud speaker, “Code 10 in the MegaZone, Code 10 in the MegaZone.”

The MegaZone was the main play area of Discovery Zone, which resembled a giant hamster cage, complete with multi-colored plastic habitrails. All we were missing was a giant upside down water bottle with a marble in the end of its metal spout. And what was the “Code 10” about? Well if you have a child or remember being a child, then you know that if you say puke, vomit or throw up in a room full of 8 year olds, you’ll start a riot you can’t contain without your local S.W.A.T. team.

I stand there looking over the whole MegaZone, and that’s when I see him. It’s the fat kid. My chubby little doppelganger is in the plastic intersection bubble, crying and fogging it up. I feel bad for him for a second, but then I start to smile when I think about who has to crawl in there to clean it up.

The voice rings out over the loud speaker, “BIG Ben to the MegaZone, BIG Ben to the MegaZone.”

Wait, that’s not who I had in mind. Mostly because I mentioned at the past two staff meetings, that I am 6’2” and 300 pounds, and I don’t fit in those tubes.

The loud speaker squawks again, “BIG Ben to the MegaZone, BIG Ben to the MegaZone.”

“I thought we discussed this! Get Christy to do it, she’s a crackhead, you know she can fit!” I squawk back.

“BIG Ben to the MegaZone.” She taunts again.

“Okay! I hear you…” I yell, before mumbling a ‘ya bitch.’ under my breath as I head to the supply closet to trade up my mop and wheeling bucket for “the gag bag”.

“The gag bag” was a duffel bag with a pair of gloves, a spray bottle of all purpose cleaner, another spray bottle of disinfectant, a small handled bucket, and a dozen rags in it. It was the perfect kit for this situation. I grab “the gag bag”, give a hug to girl behind the prize counter and ask her to “Send my love to Mother, if I shan’t return.” And I embark for the twisting tubes of the MegaZone.

Once inside, I’m met with a confusing mix of emotions. I’m happy because I actually fit through the entrance way. Maybe running around with these kids has taken a couple of pounds off. Then I’m grateful that I’m not claustrophobic, because I exactly take up every available inch of space in this tube. Then I’m offended by the oppressive smell of urine and feet. Then I’m afraid because with every move forward in the tube, my shirt covered love handles drag the walls of plastic, and in turn begins to build a static charge around me. The static has every hair on my body standing up and I swear I could feel my eyebrows tingling. That’s when I look down and see the metal zipper on “the gag bag” and begin to imagine the charge hitting the metal and the spark being so big it shoots me out of the sliding board like a musket. At 19, I was far too young to die. And definitely not like this. I always imagined I would die underneath of Elizabeth Shue’s gyrating naked body, not lodged in a claw machine after a freak static accident. So I quickly toss the bag ahead of me, and am met with yet another emotion: sadness. Sadness over the fact that “the gag bag” bounced off of the side of the tube and slid down the spiral sliding board and plopped on the mat covered floor below.

After crying inconsolably for a good two minutes, I think, “Fuck “the gag bag”, let me just find the fat kid.”

After ten minutes of army crawling, I finally reach the intersection where the fat kid was.

Yes, I said “was”. And not only is he not here, but neither is any vomit. As I sit here, stuck in the plastic intersection bubble, crying and fogging it up, I reach my final emotion of this experience: anger. Angry because I went through all of this for nothing, angry because I just had to laugh at Augustus Gloop when I was a kid, and even more angry because as I look through the fogged up plastic bubble to the floor below, I see the little fat kid, the nerdy kid, and the Asthmatic kid.

And they’re pointing up at me and laughing.

“Look Mommy, the fat man is stuck in the tube!” the fat kid cries.

That was when my high school diploma got my lower paying job at Spencer Gifts back. Let’s just say Discovery Zone frowned upon flipping off and cussing out 8 year olds, and I think I was much more at home amongst edible underwear and electronic fart machines anyway.