I Was an Escalator Lifeguard

And the escalator didn’t even have stairs

“Walk!” I shouted from atop my perch to a child who was running. I’m not a yeller, but my job was to enforce safety. Actually, issuing that reminder was the most excitement I’d had in the last two hours.

I wasn’t watching swimmers frolicking in tumultuous waves on a sprawling, sun-kissed shoreline. I wasn’t poolside as part of an elite group of teenage life savers. I was sitting alone, monitoring a massive conveyor belt that slowly pulled groups of people up the long hill from the zoo parking lot to the entrance.

All day.

All summer.

I ruefully think back on my exuberant innocence about this first official job, right after high school graduation. I had been geared up for the most fun summer job I could imagine — working at the zoo.

I wanted to be a veterinarian, so I had participated in a research project at the zoo for high school students interested in animal-related careers. It was actually a contest of sorts — the zoo was to offer the winners jobs working with the animals.

I spent months observing Kodiak bears at the zoo, then dutifully submitted my research paper. As it turned out, the zoo had promised more than it could deliver, and working with the animals was off the table. However, the zoo did offer me a summer job.

So, there I sat, queen of the hillside, enforcing the rules as I saw fit.

To be honest, there were days I did have a break from watching the conveyor belt. Sometimes I’d run the merry-go-round at the far end of the amusement area. This usually meant sitting alone reading in the center of the turntable. Occasionally, a solitary adult would wander over and pay to have their child sit on a painted horse. On merry-go-round days, I’d come home with the recorded calliope tunes I’d heard on repeat all day stuck in my head.

Sporadically, I sold tickets for the zoo train ride from a tiny booth shaped like a house. I enjoyed this task since it was cozy and shaded, and I could listen to the radio.

But I spent the majority of those steamy summer days climbing up the metal rungs of that high chair and baking for eight hours. A few lucky days, I got an umbrella to provide some shade.

Oh, and I began my days washing peacock droppings from the conveyor belt’s handrails. In those days, peacocks freely roamed — and defecated — around the zoo.

The irony was that the peacock poop was the closest I got to any animals during my work hours since the train, escalator, and merry-go-round were located across the street from all the animals. Because I took an early bus to work, I arrived at least 20 minutes ahead of my starting time, so I’d visit the llama and alpaca in the children’s zoo before officially starting my day.

While I didn’t gain experience working with animals, I did learn what a range of people there are in the world. I also developed the ability to put on a pleasant face when dealing with them.

The comment I got more than any other was from people riding the conveyor belt. They’d smile up at me and call, “Are you the lifeguard?” followed by a chuckle. I would grin and nod, as if I hadn’t heard that comment multiple times each day.

I wanted to make each jokester feel clever. It’s shocking to hear how many people come up with the same comment, thinking they’re original. It makes me never want to crack a joke again, for fear of delivering the humor equivalent of curdled milk.

Was there any excitement in this job? Any valor?

Every once in a while.

Shoelaces and strollers provided the best opportunity for me to spring into action. A shoelace might have been swallowed in the belt’s teeth at the top. Or a parent might have forgotten to unlock their stroller’s wheels, rendering it unpushable.

Everyone behind the stopped person would arrive at the top unable to exit the belt, creating a dam.

On these rare occasions, I would leap from the chair. Internally flexing my muscles, my superhero cape blowing behind me, I’d extend my powerful index finger and heroically push the red button that stopped the belt’s movement. I’d invent the accolades, gratitude, and thunderous applause while I clambered back up into my roost in silent anonymity.

Other than those few moments of courageous action, I sat watching children, parents, and grandparents inching their way up the hillside like groceries at the checkout.

Years ago, I was with a group of friends, and someone asked who had held the worst job. I tried to look sympathetic as the others recounted bland but common experiences.

“I was an escalator lifeguard,” I said. “I washed peacock poop off the zoo escalator and then sat watching it all day in the scalding sun without an umbrella.”

I won.

Who might have the tenacity — nay, the sheer bravery — for this job now, decades later? As it turns out, the zoo removed the conveyor belt during one of its many renovations. They replaced it with an enclosed escalator, much steeper and with high steps. The incline of this escalator is close to being completely vertical. I’m unnerved when I ride it, afraid of falling backward and getting jabbed on the stairs’ jagged edges on my way down.

Despite this danger, there is no lifeguard. We riders must fend for ourselves and grip the handrails for dear life. Fortunately, the handrails are devoid of peacock droppings since the escalator is enclosed, and free-roaming peacocks are now a rare sight at the zoo.

People with strollers now must take the elevators, which were added after my lifeguard stint. That change eliminated the danger of locked stroller wheels.

I frequently visit the zoo, and when I get to the top of the escalator, I’ll often pause by the spot where the lifeguard chair used to be. I’m amazed that the hulking conveyor belt is gone, with no trace in the woodsy hillside of its previous existence. I peer downwards, trying to remember the panorama that was once my daily view.

I actually get a twinge of nostalgia. It wasn’t a great job, but it was my first. There’s something special about that. This bizarre position was my first real taste of adult responsibility — showing up on time and day after day, despite the drudgery. I worked with — and befriended — other young people from different areas outside of my small community. I gained experience dealing with the public, in all its kindness and crankiness.

And for a few fleeting moments, I felt like a hero.

Thanks to KiKi Walter for the memory-triggering prompt!