Orange Wristbands
Rising Tempers at the Local Trampoline Park
After my freshman year of college, I spent the summer working as a court monitor for a trampoline park.
When describing my job, I always said it was similar to being a lifeguard — and in principle it was. I was always positioned off to the side of the trampolines, watching screaming children all day and warning them over and over again to stop running. Unlike a lifeguard, I have no idea how to save anyone’s life and possess no real sense of authority. If a kid wanted to call my bluff after I gave them a warning, they’d win every single time. I wouldn’t do anything to enforce the rules beyond calmly explaining to someone that they were indeed breaking the rules and that maybe they’d like to please stop it.
Part of that appears to be rooted in who I am as a person — and perhaps that deserves its own post entirely (or rather some professional psychoanalysis) — but for the most part it was just the nature of the job. As a sophomore in college, being a stellar court monitor at the local trampoline park wasn’t ever my priority. I didn’t aspire for greatness when it came to telling someone not to do a backflip. I knew that once the end of July rolled around, I’d put in my notice and then head back up to Athens with more money in my bank account than when I left it a few months ago. And for me, that was enough. If a kid continued to run after I told him to walk, I didn’t really care.
The park itself — a giant warehouse where children were screaming and literally bouncing off the walls — still ran like clockwork despite its reliance on largely indifferent college students such as myself. Every fifteen minutes, a color would project on the screen in the middle of the park that coincided with the color on some of the kids’ wristbands that they had been given when they paid for entry. A booming voice would then say “Attention customers! If you’re wearing a [insert whatever color] wristband, your time is up. Please exit the court, and thank you for jumping with us today!” When that happened, it was our job to get all of those kids off the trampolines and back to their parents. While I couldn’t care less about most of the disrespect that kids showed me any time I attempted to exercise my morsel of authority, I knew I had to care about the wristband thing. We all did, because our boss would often come up and check to ensure we had gotten everyone off the trampolines when the time they paid for was up.
It’s difficult to lie about not seeing the vibrant wristband of someone jumping right in front of you, and even if you did lie and say that you didn’t notice it, that just calls into question your ability to do your job — a job which is solely concerned with noticing such things. So, for that entire summer, I prided myself on getting people to leave the park when their time was up.
One day, this kid named Josh and I were stationed in one of the dodgeball courts. I didn’t know Josh well, but after working at the place for almost a month it was evident that he was a bit more intense than most of us. Despite barely being older than most of the people jumping around him, he wasn’t afraid to yell at them at the first sign of their divergence from the rules. It wasn’t a bad thing by any means, just a bit scary to witness.
I always liked when I had to work dodgeball, though, because in addition to watching the wristbands and trying to keep people from hurting themselves, you also had to be the referee for every game. It always made the shift seem much shorter, and it gave me an excuse to use the whistle that was otherwise just a silly necklace I was forced to wear.
On this day, everything was going fine. Kids were having fun, people were getting hit and falling down (which is always funny to watch) and Josh and I were having no trouble getting the kids to take turns and respect our whistles. And really, that’s about all you can ask for as a court monitor at that trampoline park.
After we finished up one of the games, Josh and I were bringing all of the balls back to the platform in the middle in order to get ready for the next one. While we were up there, he walked over to me.
“Hey,” he said. “We need to get all of these orange bracelets off the court.”
I looked up and, sure enough, the color on the giant screen had just turned orange a few seconds ago. It wasn’t going to be a problem though, because there were only three kids on our dodgeball court with orange bracelets on. Two of them were on my side and one of them was on his, so we each finished setting up for the next game and then we explained to the three kids that this next game had to be their last. No big deal.
The next game started and people got hit in all sorts of comical ways, and then eventually it ended. Josh and I gathered the dodgeballs and then met in the middle again to set things up.
“Tommy, we’ve got to get these orange wristbands out of here,” he said.
I looked around. Two of them had already left and the other one was making his way off the dodgeball court. I looked back at Josh.
“Yeah,” I said, confused. “I know.”
He gave me a nod, and then we each let the next 10 people in line onto the court before retreating to our respective stations on opposite sides of the halfcourt line. We counted down from three and then blew our whistles, starting the next game.
While the game was happening, with dodgeballs whizzing and zipping dangerously close to our faces as kids threw with all their might, Josh got my attention.
“Tommy!” he shouted above all the commotion. “Come on, we have to get these orange wristbands out of here now.”
Oh no, I thought. How did more orange wristbands sneak back onto the court?
But as I looked around with my whistle in my mouth, ready to blow at the first sign of orange (hell, even a light red), I grew more and more confused. I couldn’t find one kid wearing an orange wristband.
“Get them outta here!” Josh shouted again. Again, I looked all around to make sure I wasn’t missing anyone. I was worried that somehow I didn’t notice the one or two people I was supposed to remove sneaking back into the game, and at this point it was a full five or six minutes after they were supposed to have left. Frantically, I looked all around to make sure I wasn’t overlooking anyone. Then I looked again. Still nothing.
Now I was confused on two levels, because not only were there no orange wristbands in sight, but also Josh and I were each being paid to do the exact same thing. If he saw an orange wristband — even if it was imaginary — why couldn’t he just escort them out himself?
“TOMMY!” he shouted again as dodgeballs continued to fly like bullets through the air. “WE NEED THOSE ORANGE WRISTBANDS GONE!”
“THEY’RE GONE, JOSH!” I shouted back. I wasn’t angry, but I was hopelessly confused and the dodgeballs flying dangerously close to my face were stressing me out. I also felt the need to match his intensity to really get through to him.
“THERE ARE NO ORANGE WRISTBANDS, OK? THEY’RE ALL GONE! THEY ALL LEFT! JUST RELAX ABOUT THE ORANGE WRISTBANDS!”
Josh didn’t say anything, and we each went back to refereeing the game. Finally, when the last kid got hit and the game drew to a close, Josh and I gathered the dodgeballs and met in the middle of the court.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m colorblind.”
