The Blight of the Zamboni Man

It’s hard being the Zamboni man.

At first, it seems great. Feeling the chill in your bones, watching hockey games, guiding that magnificent she-beast across the ice until it glistens.

But when they tell you that you can never leave the rink because your soul has been offered as tribute to the ice gods of Jötunnheim, it becomes a lot less fun.

My world is now made up of two places—the ice and the Zamboni garage. In another life, I would have been delighted to have such a short commute between work and home, but now I would give anything just for a kiss of warm summer breeze.

For a few years, all I needed to get through it was to curl up every night next to my mechanical lover. But now, it’s not enough. I haven’t felt a human’s touch in years. Haven’t seen my wife’s face, haven’t watched my children grow up. Little Sadie could be married, for all I know! And Timmy… oh, I pray every day that he didn’t fall in with the wrong crowd, that he made good choices like Mommy and Daddy raised him to.

I can’t even cry anymore. My tear ducts are frozen shut—the only thing that can thaw them is the hot breath of the Zamboni while we toil at our endless duty. (Or the hot chocolate that’s free for employees. As much as I complain, suffering forever is a lot more bearable with a mug of Swiss Miss!)

I am the Sisyphus of ice, shouldering an eternal burden, suffering unbeknownst to all but my divine overlords themselves. They see me as a machine, just like the frost stallion that I ride. But I am no machine! Cogs do not whir under my skin; a human heart beats in my chest! I can think, I can feel! We mortals were not made for agony such as this.

Anyways, I’m really sorry, but I have to go now. The toddlers’ skate session is about to start, and they’re so cute and fun that I don’t want to miss a second!

– ZQ ’19