c.l hoang

A Summer Place

In the summer of 1975, six months after I’d arrived at Ohio University as a foreign student from Vietnam, I got a job at Cedar Point Amusement Park in Sandusky, Ohio on the Lake Erie shore.

I was hired as a cook at the Silver Dollar Restaurant inside the park, in the shadow of the Blue Streak Roller Coaster. “Cook” was a big title for standing in the food line to serve up the orders as they rolled in and once in a while flipping hamburgers or dropping fish and french fries into the fryer to replenish the trays. The challenge arose during the lunch and dinner rushes when we had to hustle to keep the food line moving and famished patrons promptly fed. With pressure mounting, on top of the heat in the summer kitchen, tempers often flared on all sides (managers, waitresses, cooks, and food preparers). Those were stressful times for me, for they exposed my biggest vulnerability. With barely six months of practice since my arrival in Ohio, my spoken English remained a work in progress. I sometimes had difficulty grasping what my coworkers hollered at me on the run, or I couldn’t get the answers out fast enough for them. These hiccups, coupled with the wide mix of personalities, easily gave rise to frustration and, on rare occasions, misunderstandings. Once or twice during those intense first weeks, I caught myself wondering if I might not last the entire summer.

But as we all settled into our work routines and got to know one another better, we became more efficient at our jobs, individually and together. The atmosphere grew more relaxed—more friendly and fun. We started to hang out as a group after work, which wrapped up at 10 p.m., for such outings as birthday celebrations at restaurants off the Point or bonfire parties on the beach. Tired though I was after being on my feet the whole shift, I’d join in on many of those activities. This was the normal life—work and play—of young people my age in America, and I wanted to participate in it rather than stand back and observe from afar. It required some effort initially, but in return it gave me a sense of belonging, not to mention a chance to improve my communication skills in a social setting. As my shyness faded and my confidence grew, coworkers became more like friends, which made the job much easier and more enjoyable.

The majority of Cedar Point summer hires were college students from all over the Midwest. This, I believe, lent a certain special character to the park, something akin to the fun atmosphere on a college campus, albeit tempered with a strong dose of work ethic and orderliness.

Also helping to make my months-long stay at Cedar Point an experience to remember were my two roommates in the employees’ dorm: Raymond and Rich. Ray, who had checked in first, had laid claim to the only single bed in the room. I chose the bottom bunk bed when I moved in, leaving the top bunk to Rich, who came a week later. Both of the guys seemed friendly and easy to talk to, though we all kept different schedules. I probably saw more of Rich, mainly in the evening after work when he wasn’t going out with his girlfriend. Ray, who was the supervisor in charge of the employees’ recreation center, spent most of his time there. But whenever I stopped by the center either alone or with my coworkers at Silver Dollar, he’d make a point to come over and say hi, maybe chat for a minute.

“You should come to the employees’ dance on Thursday nights,” Ray suggested to me one day. “Live bands, great music, all the three-two beer you can drink. What’s not to like?”

My curiosity was piqued. “Do you get big crowds there?”

“Huge. Seems like everyone always shows up. I can’t even get enough help selling beer.”

An idea struck me then and there. “I can help,” I said. “It’s right after work; I can easily swing by and give you a hand for two, three hours, or however long the dance lasts.”

“But you’re there to have fun, not to work some more after a long day already.”

“Just being there is fun enough for me,” I said. “Besides, I can use the extra dollars.”

Thus began my moonlighting side job at the Rec Center, under Ray’s supervision. I loved every minute of it, even as the thumping energy and good-times vibe just made the hours fly by. Along the way, I extended my circle of friends well beyond the restaurant’s staff.

Working together at the weekly dance certainly brought Ray and me closer. We got to talking and sharing much more than we used to. One evening, as we were closing up after the dance, he casually asked, “Hey, how well d’you know that waitress at your restaurant, on the same afternoon shift as you—petite, real pretty, with beautiful dark hair and eyes?”

Most of the waitresses at Silver Dollar had lighter hair, so I knew exactly who he meant.

“Sue? Yeah, we talk sometimes when there’s a lull. She’s super nice. Why?”

He just winked at me with a smile. I straightened up like a shot. “You like her!”

“Think you can arrange an introduction for your roomie?”

What’s the best possible way to do this? My mind raced to come up with a plan. “When’s your next movie night?” I asked. This was another employees’ activity Ray was responsible for. As he told me, I nodded slowly before saying, “Here’s what I propose we do then.”

On said movie night, which featured “The Way We Were,” I approached Sue to go see it with me. She kindly obliged, as I’d hoped she would. These movie nights were informal affairs, with people sprawled out on pillows and blankets all over the floor among the chairs. We had a fully participating audience that night who knew many of the memorable lines by heart and the exact moments to shout them out in gleeful unison, which actually helped to lighten up the more dramatic scenes.

When the lights came back on, Sue and I rose from our seats, ready to head out. Ray, as if by magic, appeared out of nowhere.

“Hi, roomie,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “What brought you out tonight?”

I made the appropriate introductions, after which Ray asked, “So, did you all like the movie tonight? Any suggestions for the rest of the season?” We stood and chatted, with Ray responding warmly to Sue’s comments. At a pause in the conversation, he looked from Sue to me, then back to her and said, “How about we go grab a bite somewhere and talk more about it?”

“I would love to,” I said, addressing Sue mostly while suppressing a well-timed yawn. “But I’m totally bushed. Why don’t you guys go ahead without me? I will catch you both later.”

And on that note, mission accomplished. I breathed a sigh of relief. A resounding success, too, it turned out to be, judging by the excited grin on Ray’s face the next morning and, more importantly, by the fact that he and Sue continued to see each other for the rest of that summer.

Between working at the restaurant and the Rec Center and hanging out with my coworkers and roommates, I had little free time on my hands. My only respite came on my days off, when I liked to catch the ferryboat into downtown Sandusky for an escape from the hectic pace.

I found it relaxing to stroll through the streets of this small city that boasted a church on just about every other block. Though only a short stretch of water away from the Point, it felt like a different world altogether—so quiet and sedate I could almost hear the sound of my footsteps on the sidewalks. I envied the place for its idyllic peace, which ironically brought to mind, in stark contrast, the dreadful situation in my home country after the war had ended abruptly two months earlier. Alone with my thoughts, I wandered among tall buildings and churches and remembered the weekends at home from years past—in another lifetime. Longing for my parents and younger brothers still remaining in Vietnam, I wondered how tough things had been for them under the new communist regime—what, if anything, I could possibly do to help them. Correspondence had been scarce and far between since the shocking fall of Saigon, with every note carefully worded to avoid censoring and retribution. It was the concealed truth, what was left unspoken, that got me worried sick. On the ferryboat back to the Point, the boundless water of Lake Erie reminded me of the oceans that separated me from my family, and my stomach churned at the thought I might never see them again.

With my packed routine, the days just sailed by until August brought the first signs that the season was starting to wind up. The nights felt cooler, and some of my coworkers were already leaving to return to school. Sue stopped in at the dance one Thursday night and dropped by the beer stall to find me.

“When d’you go on break?” she asked. “You’ve got to save me a dance tonight.”

I laughed. “I don’t know about that, Sue. You wouldn’t want me to step all over your toes.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “We’re dancing. Come on, it’s my last time in here. I’m leaving this weekend.”

Ray overheard our conversation and intervened in Sue’s favor, “Go on, roomie. Take as long as you need. I’ve got you covered.” He nudged me with his elbow, practically pushing me out of the stall. “Go. Don’t make the lady wait.”

Sue and I danced for the first and last time that evening, with me treading carefully so as not to stomp on her feet. Two days later, in the restaurant after closing, she came into the kitchen to say goodbye. We hugged and exchanged best wishes and she surprised me with a peck on the cheek. And then, like a summer wind off Lake Erie, she was gone.

Shortly after that, it was Ray’s turn to leave, then Rich’s. On his way out, Rich teased me about how lonely I’d be in the room by myself, as he’d experienced it the year before. He was dead on about that. The silence alone was oppressive. Meanwhile, the dorm continued to empty out, with more people disappearing every day. I whittled away the idle evening hours with a book a coworker had gifted me before she took off, the bestselling novel that had served as basis for that summer’s blockbuster, Jaws. When it was finally time for me to go, after Labor Day, I left Cedar Point with no regrets—only wonderful memories and a fresh outlook.

Summer 1975 registered many personal firsts for me: first summer in America; first glimpse of the beautiful Great Lakes region; first full-time job with meaningful earnings to help pay my way through school; first extensive social interaction (outside an academic setting) with American peers my age. These were all exciting experiences, but no less daunting and fraught with unpredictable blunders as I struggled to improve my oral communication skills and to cope with homesickness and my new reality of a refugee with no country. I probably didn’t possess the best aptitude or the fiercest determination for meeting those challenges, but I certainly gave it my all. In return, the aggregate effort helped make me stronger and more confident and, not least, more fluent in the language.

I returned to school at the end of that summer with a lighter heart and the best memento of all—the freshly gained belief that I actually had a decent shot at making it here in America, my new adopted homeland.