F.?” Mort asked as we approached the public rink.
“A little. He seems like a nice enough fellow. He has aspirations to become a top skater and works here to help that dream along. You’ve met him. What did you think?”
“Didn’t spend much time with him. Seemed nice enough. Is that him out on the ice driving the Zamboni?”
I stood on my tiptoes and peered across the rink. “I believe it is,” I said.
Mort and I walked toward the boards that separated the ice from the rest of the rink area. A father with a child on his shoulders, and a few small boys who hung on the boards, watched the giant vehicle make its rounds as we moved closer to the gate.
When the Zamboni reached our side of the ice, Mort pulled out his badge and beckoned to Jeremy.
Jeremy put up his index finger, stopped the Zamboni, and fished around under the dashboard. He jumped off the machine, carrying what looked like a joystick for a video game, and slid his way over to where we stood.
“Hang on a second,” he said as he stepped off the ice. “Hey boys, get your arms out of the rink,” he called to the youngsters. The children reluctantly moved back from the railing. “Mr. Gervich, if you stay in here, you have to keep the kids off the boards,” he told the father.
“Sorry, Jeremy. We were on our way out anyway. C’mon guys. Who wants a hot dog before we leave?”
A chorus of “me” followed him from the rink.
Jeremy turned to us. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“What’s that?” Mort said, waving at Jeremy’s hand.
Jeremy looked down at the white tape on his palm. “It’s just a cut. It’s healing up pretty good.”
“No, I mean what’s that thing you’re holding?” Mort asked
Jeremy lifted up the device. “This? It’s a modified throttle quadrant.”
“What in the heck is that?”
“It’s a kind of controller. Originally they were used to run flight simulators. I use mine for Bessie over there.”
“You name your Zamboni machines?” I asked.
“Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”
“Show me how that works,” Mort said.
“It’s really not as complicated as it looks,” Jeremy said, balancing the device on the railing and pushing several toggle switches. As he manipulated the controller, the Zamboni engine revved up and the machine lurched forward. “See, I use this joystick to put Bessie into her circuit, then flick this switch to hold her to the pattern. The Zamboni will follow the pattern of increasingly smaller circuits until it turns in a circle in the middle of the rink. At that point you have to stop it or it will keep circling itself until it runs out of gas or digs a hole in the ice.”
“That’s fascinating,” Mort said. “Can I try it?”
“Sure. Just move this yoke to the left. Not too far; that’s it. Now hold her steady. This one controls the speed.”
I cleared my throat. “Mort?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you have a question for Jeremy?”
“Huh? Oh, right.” He handed back the controller. “That’s pretty cool,” he said, “but we need to talk to you about a call to the station that came in tonight.”
Jeremy adjusted his levers, and the Zamboni continued on its route. “Sure,” he said, his eyes following the machine. “What do you want to know?”
“Someone called my office to complain about a fight at the rink.”
Jeremy swiveled to face us. “Sorry! That was me, Sheriff. I totally forgot about that.”
“You forgot ! You got me all the way out here for nothing?”
“I just forgot to call again when it was over. I’m really sorry. It’s been such a crazy night.”
“What happened?”
“I walk into the garage and find this guy sitting on Audrey. That’s the other Zamboni. I told him he was in a restricted area and that he had to leave. He gives me some lip about lax security. Got really nasty. Wouldn’t get down. I’m yelling at him to get off the machine. I’m responsible for those things; they cost a fortune to repair. And we’ve had so
“A little. He seems like a nice enough fellow. He has aspirations to become a top skater and works here to help that dream along. You’ve met him. What did you think?”
“Didn’t spend much time with him. Seemed nice enough. Is that him out on the ice driving the Zamboni?”
I stood on my tiptoes and peered across the rink. “I believe it is,” I said.
Mort and I walked toward the boards that separated the ice from the rest of the rink area. A father with a child on his shoulders, and a few small boys who hung on the boards, watched the giant vehicle make its rounds as we moved closer to the gate.
When the Zamboni reached our side of the ice, Mort pulled out his badge and beckoned to Jeremy.
Jeremy put up his index finger, stopped the Zamboni, and fished around under the dashboard. He jumped off the machine, carrying what looked like a joystick for a video game, and slid his way over to where we stood.
“Hang on a second,” he said as he stepped off the ice. “Hey boys, get your arms out of the rink,” he called to the youngsters. The children reluctantly moved back from the railing. “Mr. Gervich, if you stay in here, you have to keep the kids off the boards,” he told the father.
“Sorry, Jeremy. We were on our way out anyway. C’mon guys. Who wants a hot dog before we leave?”
A chorus of “me” followed him from the rink.
Jeremy turned to us. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“What’s that?” Mort said, waving at Jeremy’s hand.
Jeremy looked down at the white tape on his palm. “It’s just a cut. It’s healing up pretty good.”
“No, I mean what’s that thing you’re holding?” Mort asked
Jeremy lifted up the device. “This? It’s a modified throttle quadrant.”
“What in the heck is that?”
“It’s a kind of controller. Originally they were used to run flight simulators. I use mine for Bessie over there.”
“You name your Zamboni machines?” I asked.
“Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”
“Show me how that works,” Mort said.
“It’s really not as complicated as it looks,” Jeremy said, balancing the device on the railing and pushing several toggle switches. As he manipulated the controller, the Zamboni engine revved up and the machine lurched forward. “See, I use this joystick to put Bessie into her circuit, then flick this switch to hold her to the pattern. The Zamboni will follow the pattern of increasingly smaller circuits until it turns in a circle in the middle of the rink. At that point you have to stop it or it will keep circling itself until it runs out of gas or digs a hole in the ice.”
“That’s fascinating,” Mort said. “Can I try it?”
“Sure. Just move this yoke to the left. Not too far; that’s it. Now hold her steady. This one controls the speed.”
I cleared my throat. “Mort?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you have a question for Jeremy?”
“Huh? Oh, right.” He handed back the controller. “That’s pretty cool,” he said, “but we need to talk to you about a call to the station that came in tonight.”
Jeremy adjusted his levers, and the Zamboni continued on its route. “Sure,” he said, his eyes following the machine. “What do you want to know?”
“Someone called my office to complain about a fight at the rink.”
Jeremy swiveled to face us. “Sorry! That was me, Sheriff. I totally forgot about that.”
“You forgot ! You got me all the way out here for nothing?”
“I just forgot to call again when it was over. I’m really sorry. It’s been such a crazy night.”
“What happened?”
“I walk into the garage and find this guy sitting on Audrey. That’s the other Zamboni. I told him he was in a restricted area and that he had to leave. He gives me some lip about lax security. Got really nasty. Wouldn’t get down. I’m yelling at him to get off the machine. I’m responsible for those things; they cost a fortune to repair. And we’ve had so
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