Zamboni Thoughts #3
An installment series about driving an impossible vehicle
We were sailing down the center of the ice rink, the Zamboni heavy underneath us, going fast but surprisingly smoothly. It felt like what I imagine riding a boulder shot from a catapult would feel like. Cold wind tore at my face; icy tears instantly began streaming from the corners of my eyes.
John rode behind me at my shoulder. An approaching red line divided the ice rink in half.
“OK, when we get to that center line?” John called in my ear. “I’m going to drop the conditioner.”
“What?” I shouted back.
“Just keep going forward!”
It happened instantly. A huge, mechanical “eeeeeeeee” sound happened behind me, and I whipped around to see John slowly sinking down the back of the Zamboni, as if he were on an elevator. There was a metal clang-noise that sounded final. John snaked his hand back up to the bank of levers next to me.
“Now the auger,” he said, and pulled a lever. A very big, turny-type noise started churning. It was deafening.
John raised his voice. “SEE THE GOAL LINE? WHEN THE FRONT TIRES TOUCH IT, TURN THE WHEEL HARD TO THE RIGHT. HARD AS YOU CAN. ”
I nodded, but I didn’t see. There were many lines on the ice rink. Which one was the goal line?
“TURN!"
“NOW?”
“NOW! REALLY HARD! CRANK IT!”
I turned the wheel, and the Zamboni – the whole huge monster – turned. Miraculous, feather-light, responsive, it did just what I asked, an obedient jumbo pony. My god, this thing was cool! We were lined up close to the side of the wall now; I’d eased the gas down to crawling-speed. I could have reached out with my leg and kicked the sponsor signs.
“OK!” John called. “NOW THE WASH WATER–” he turned a black lever, “–AND NOW THE HOT WATER.” He cranked another black lever. I heard pouring-water sounds, and steam suddenly rose from the ass of the Zamboni.
“NOW THE BRUSH–” John leaned over me and flicked a black switch on my left that seemed to have an icon of a bullhorn on it. An unmistakeable swishing sound whirred into action; a round, blue-bristled brush had sprung from the front left side of the Zamboni and was spinning against the wall of the rink.
“AND NOW THE PUMP.” John hit another switch with an icon of a box fan on it. A bizarre sucking noise started. “NOW HIT THE GAS, WE’RE GOING IN A STRAIGHT LINE. KEEP THE BRUSH JUST LIGHTLY TOUCHING THE SIDE OF THE WALL… THAT’S TOO HARD, THAT’S TOO HARD, THAT’S TOO HARD!!”
I had taken John at his word and punched the gas, not realizing I had to pay attention to how the brush lined up with the wall. The brush was smushed against the wall, the wall was shaking, the ZAMBONI WAS SLOWING DOWN THE ARM WAS BENDING OH MY GOD I WAS GONNA BREAK THE ZAM–
I straightened out. The brush sprang back into position and began whirring against the wall again.
John was suddenly in my ear. “Thaaaaat’s right,” he said soothingly. “Just keep your eye on the brush. Don’t let it get toooooo close to the wall or tooooooo far away.”
He sounded relieved; he must have leaped from the other side of the lowered conditioner to get to me in time. A crisis had been narrowly averted.
“We’re just gonna do onnnnne big circle around the rink,” he continued. He was clearly trying not to let me know how close we’d come to disaster. “Thaaat’s right. Just going around once with the brush, get those ice shavings that’ve piled up. Niiice and easy, we’re gonna turn here – good, watch the wall, watchthewallWATCHTHEWALL OK good, annnnd just go straight again.”
Slowly, with much brush-swishing and many wet sucking sounds, we limped around the perimeter of the ice rink. When we’d gotten to the spot (sponsored by a toothily smiling agent at Edina Realty) where we’d first turned on the pump and brush, John flipped a switch and the blue brush vanished inside the Zamboni, as if it had suddenly pulled its arm in.
“We’re gonna do a second lap – we always do two laps around the outside of the rink, but you only use the brush on the first lap,” he said. “We’re gonna overlap that first lap. Just keep your foot on the gas.” John reached over and nudged the steering wheel into position, and that’s when I saw it for the first time: the ice we’d just resurfaced a minute ago. The Zamboni tires were lined up at the edge of the first lap we’d done.
Wow. It was glossy. So smooth against the rough ice the tires were standing on.
So thickly, wetly shiny.
My mouth opened. That ice was hot.
John was unmoved. “Alright, just keep going forward. Keep your tires lined up with the line of the surfaced ice, and turn when I tell you to turn. We’re about to do The Pattern.”
The Pattern. The way he said it, you could hear the capital “T” and “P.” I didn’t like this.
“The Pattern?”
“Yep, it’s the– speed it up here, we’re going straight– the most important thing for you to learn. Annnnnd turn. Turn, turnturnturnturnTURN, annnnd straighten out. Line up those tires. Yeah, you don’t need to worry about anything else on the Zam for now. Just learn The Pattern.”
“Is it hard?” My eyes were glued to the spot in front of me where the tires touched the line of glossy ice. I would impress John with how lined-up my tires were, I would get an A+ in lining up my tires, he would tell me he’d never seen someone catch on so fast.
There was a pause behind me. Then:
"It’s not so bad. It’s just, like, learning it.”
“The hard part about The Pattern is learning The Pattern?” I said, straining to keep my tires correctly positioned.
“Yeah!”
I digested this, stoic. The tears from the Zamboni-wind were dripping down my neck into my collar.
“Alright, crank the wheel hard to the right, we’re gonna drive straight up the middle.”
I turned sharply, and we cruised up the center of the ice, a vast steamer gliding though a calm white sea. The worst was over, clearly. We were starting The Pattern – I had been deemed worthy. It felt regal, sitting up there. I imagined the ice arena stands filled, weeks from now, me in a sequined evening dress, waving royally to the crowd and driving the Zamboni with one hand. Little girls cheered wildly.
John was talking. “–that’s what’s so important to keep in mind. It’s just overlapping circles, but they have to be done just right. See? Turn right here.”
Shit.
I turned the Zamboni. “What happens if I don’t do the circles right?”
“Then you’ll miss spots on the ice.”
“What happens if I miss spots on the ice?”
“And don’t fix them? Someone could fall and get hurt. Kids. Someone could miss a pass; it could cost them the game.”
“Oh, cool.” Of course this wasn’t just a casual, fun job where I learned a new weird skill to make myself laugh. Of course I had chosen something where children could get hurt if I fucked it up.
“You’ll get it,” John said.
“For sure,” I said.
The Pattern made no sense. I turned every time John told me to turn, and I saw no pattern. I was just pressing the gas pedal and turning a wheel. Somehow, though, we were finishing up. The ice rink had been smoothed, had changed from rough and dusty-looking to slick and wetly new.
John guided me into driving the Zamboni back into its little garage. It turned out you had to do everything you’d done to get the Zam going on the ice, only in reverse, to put it away. This involved many shouted instructions, many “NOW! NOW! DO IT NOW!!!” orders from John, and many “WHICH lever?? OH NO, I’M SO SORRY, OK DOING IT NOW! Shit!! OH MY GOD” shrieks of terror from me before we had dumped the snow outside, backed up the Zamboni, driven it back into the garage, and re-parked it.
I turned the key to “Off” and sat on my Zamboni perch for a second, luxuriating in the sudden silence. Across the rink, people were arriving and heading for the locker rooms. In front of me, a gleaming, perfect sheet of ice winked. Just waiting for skates.
For what felt like the first time I could remember in decades of being a full-grown adult with a job, I’d just been paid to physically perform a tangibly useful service.
Something not everyone could do.
I’d made the ice smooth.
Sure, John had done most of it. But I’d sat up there and helped, using my hands, and using a section of my brain that was so underdeveloped it was probably smoother than the ice itself.
Holy shit.
I was hooked.
Okay, I am ENRAPTURED. The ass of the Zamboni. The horse comparison. The near-Zamboni-death experience. You are SUCH a fun storyteller, my GOD. I can hear Canada's national anthem (which is also Minnesota's state anthem) in the background.
This is cinema