After scarfing down my free concessions, I went to the commissary to get my product.
I didn’t know what the commissary was, or where. But I found a bunch of guys in red shirts standing around outside a closet door and asked them what was up. They were in line, they said, to get their product.
This line was not ordered by seniority, but regular old first-come, first-served. So I took my place in line and waited to enter the secret closet. It was not a fast line, and it took ten or fifteen minutes to find out what was behind the closed door.
Inside this unmarked door is a Cranky Troll-Woman and her Flunky. The Cranky Troll-Woman was consistently and completely unhappy, for reasons I could not identify. She wore a button with a picture of what must have been her grandson, which indicated to me that she had family. So her deep and unquenchable dissatisfaction with life, I figured, could not be due to a fear of dying alone. She was not disfigured or crippled and certainly wasn’t overworked, and honestly had no excuse for acting so much like a troll.
However, on my first day I tried to put myself in her Troll-Woman shoes. She had to deal with a bunch of untrained newbies who were, no doubt, taxing her patience and wasting her time. She probably wasn’t paid enough to take on the responsibility of shepherding all these fools into their new role at Dodger Stadium, and resented her superiors for putting her in this position. I thought I understood her situation completely, and decided to work extra hard to ask all the right questions and learn all the concession-selling techniques with outstanding alacrity. I congratulated myself on my depth of empathy and knew that before the end of the regular season I would kill the Troll-Woman with sunshiny kindness.
Or not.
I learned quickly. I never again came to a game without my own bank. I usually even brought my own quarters for change. I always decided ahead of time how much product I wanted to buy, and how much I would move at one time. At the end of the night, I counted my money with all the bills facing the same way. I broke down empty boxes, even those that weren’t mine. I always dumped out my dry ice before returning my cold bag. I never put my water bottle on her desk. I smiled at her Flunky. I was the most obsequious little twerp that the Dodger Stadium field level commissary had ever seen. All to no avail.
My empathy soon ran out. This is not a surprise. I am not the most patient of people. In fact, I have a tendency to get rather cranky myself. But this is almost always solved with the timely application of a cheeseburger (or beer). Why the Cranky Troll-Woman didn’t just eat a cheeseburger, which was available to us for free at the Carl’s Junior stand, was a mystery that utterly baffles me to this day. The fact that I had very recently been fed for free or expected to be very soon was the only thing that kept my own crankiness at bay and allowed me to persist with my sunniness.
Until one particular playoff game when several circumstances converged: there was a ridiculous line outside the commissary, I had a ticket for a free meal, and a postseason Red Sox game was on the television in the break room. I got my meal and watched the end of my game instead of getting in line for my daily dose of coworker abuse. If you can criticize me for this, you are a fascist.
When I got to the commissary after the end of the Red Sox game (they lost, I was not happy), there was no more line. I went into the Troll cave to buy my product, which forced the poor overworked Cranky Troll-Woman to put down her crossword and vociferate that I was the last seller to check in.
She demanded to know why. I told her that I had chosen to eat before getting my product. I knew better than to mention that I had also watched at least an inning of a game on TV. She bellowed that I should eat after checking in, and marked down on her sheet when I had arrived. I knew for a fact that I was well within the appropriate time frame to get my product and start selling, and rolled my eyes at her inanity. I spoke nothing but monosyllables for the rest of our transaction.
I finally had to admit that the Cranky Troll-Woman had killed my kindness, and not the other way around. Sometimes, friends, a Troll is just a Troll, and you definitely don’t bother putting on her Troll shoes a second time.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Port of Entry
I walked out of the employee shuttle with a group of obvious Newbies who were just like me: wide-eyed, confused, and sans uniform. Which isn’t to say that we weren’t completely unprepared. The Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company that had sent us to the Stadium told us to wear black pants and black shoes. There was no mention of socks. Mine were black, just in case.
The Regular Guys were already lined up in front of the stadium, right in front of the gates. They were all wearing red shirts, and carrying a heavy duty strap, like a disembodied seatbelt, over their shoulders. (Many Dodgers fans like to harass the hawkers for their red shirts, particularly when the Diamondbacks are in town. Well, you know what? Can it, jerks. We wear red because the poor suckers who work at the concession stands wear blue. We need to be differentiated because we’re badasses. Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. You’re not badass enough.)
We Newbies were scolded for not arriving at the stadium two hours before game time, even though the Head Honchos knew that the Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company had failed to tell us that we needed to. Then we each received a red shirt and a seat-belt strap and were told to line up behind the Regular Guys. This was the extent of my training.
The Newbies and the Regular Guys then commenced to talking, and I found out a little bit more about my job, and the company that had hired me. The Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company, which, you may have inferred, was mysteriously absent from the stadium, was apparently famous for being indifferent to its employees. Most commonly, the company hired too many candy sellers for events, and each seller’s sales were therefore limited. Many of the people who had worked for them before had made as little as ten or twenty dollars in commission at some events. Since the job didn’t pay anything besides commission, the company’s bottom line was not affected by hiring too many people, unless it actually increased their total sales.
Dodger Stadium, bless their Manny-loving souls, does things differently. They assign the products and the sections so that no one ever has to compete against another seller with the same product. “How clever!” we Newbies exclaimed. “How thoughtful, how neat!” We were immediately told that the union probably wouldn’t allow them to do otherwise.
Union? Yep. They even pay dues.
I made a mental note of this, and decided that I would only work for the Mysteriously Absent company when they had contracts at Dodger Stadium. I also secretly decided that if the night didn’t go well, I could ditch my uniform and watch a free ball game. The idea of a free ball game warmed my heart. The recollection of free parking sent me nearly into a state of euphoria.
But first, I had to get to the front of the line. Which was moving very slowly. And mysteriously. What was going on in this line, anyway? The Head Honchos were up at the front at a podium, and they were speaking to each hawker two at a time and letting them walk into the stadium.
After a few minutes, though, the constantly revolving conversations answered my questions. At the front of the line, you would choose your product and section from what was still available. The line was ordered by seniority; the guys who had worked the most games got the first pick of product and section.
The guys who have worked the most games at Dodger Stadium have worked almost every game at Dodger Stadium since it was built in 1962. Seriously. One of the Old Guys says he came to Los Angeles with the Dodgers, as though part of Walter O’Malleys infamous move. I kind of believe he did.
The Old Guys always sell peanuts. Coincidentally, peanuts are both the lightest product and the biggest sellers, so the seniority system works out pretty well for the Old Guys. I was also told, while waiting in line, that the worst sellers were Cracker Jacks. This surprised me, since Cracker Jacks have peanuts in them, and are sort of old-timey like peanuts, and I said as much. This set off a great deal of grumbling about the poor state of modern Cracker Jacks; too much popcorn, not enough peanuts, and jerk-off prizes that no one wants, it’s no wonder that they don’t sell.
“Cotton Candy does all right, but the board that they have them on is awkward and you need to be kind of tall to keep from smacking people upside the head.” “
“Water or soda is always a good seller, but I don’t know about any girls selling it. How much do you weigh? You know a good chiropractor?”
“Ice cream is all right, but best for a day game.”
“Do Ice Cream, it’s six dollars, so you can sell less of them and make more.”
“Malts are better than Ice Cream.”
“Malts are cheap.”
“Malts are gross.”
“Malts have the tradition factor. Guy takes his kid to a game, he gets two dodger dogs, a beer for him, a malt for the kid. Do malts.”
“Then there’s Lemonade.”
“Better for a day game.”
“Sure, but still. There’s always Lemonade.”
“What’s malts?” was on the tip of my tongue, but the two guys in front of me had just reached the top of the line and walked up to the Head Honchos before I could ask. And then it was my turn.
The Head Honchos had a diagram of the stadium spread out before them, with products listed in each section. This whole operation felt a lot like a test, but mostly like one that I knew I’d already failed. All I wanted to do was walk through that open door and into the stadium. But first I had to get past this Head Honcho who was guarding the entrance like a red-shirted St. Peter.
“What do I do?” I said.
“How do you want your stairs?”
“Stairs?”
“Not too steep, yeah?”
“Yeah, medium stairs.”
“Ice cream, maybe, that be good?”
“I don’t know, isn’t it expensive?”
“Yeah, so you sell less and make more. Do ice cream.”
“Okay.”
“Ice Cream. You’re in the pavilion, right and left. You go down to the field level to get your product, okay?”
“Uh…”
“You got your bank, right?”
There was a lot of groaning when the Head Honchos realized that the Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company had not told us to bring our own bank, which is really more like a cash register than a bank, because you’re meant to make change from it. Since I had no cash on me, and not enough money to withdraw from my own bank account (I know, isn’t that sad. Woeful, even.), they would have to front me the money for my bank.
Finally, I was dismissed, and sent to the door of the stadium. I was so excited to finally go in that I almost didn’t hear one of the Head Honchos hollering after me. He was chasing me down with a little ticket that looked like a raffle ticket. He handed it to me.
“Your meal.”
I looked at it. It was a voucher for two Dodger Dogs and large drink, $15 worth of Dodgers concessions.
“Do NOT ask for peanuts. They’ll kill us.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t ask. Okay kid?”
I wasn’t going to ask. I could go without peanuts, for whatever strange reason they were off limits.
I didn’t pay to park, I didn’t pay to get in, and I was handed a free meal. And there was a chance, if all went well, that I’d get a paycheck, too. Never, ever, has any door felt more like a set of Pearly Gates than the entrance to Dodger Stadium that day.
The Regular Guys were already lined up in front of the stadium, right in front of the gates. They were all wearing red shirts, and carrying a heavy duty strap, like a disembodied seatbelt, over their shoulders. (Many Dodgers fans like to harass the hawkers for their red shirts, particularly when the Diamondbacks are in town. Well, you know what? Can it, jerks. We wear red because the poor suckers who work at the concession stands wear blue. We need to be differentiated because we’re badasses. Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. You’re not badass enough.)
We Newbies were scolded for not arriving at the stadium two hours before game time, even though the Head Honchos knew that the Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company had failed to tell us that we needed to. Then we each received a red shirt and a seat-belt strap and were told to line up behind the Regular Guys. This was the extent of my training.
The Newbies and the Regular Guys then commenced to talking, and I found out a little bit more about my job, and the company that had hired me. The Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company, which, you may have inferred, was mysteriously absent from the stadium, was apparently famous for being indifferent to its employees. Most commonly, the company hired too many candy sellers for events, and each seller’s sales were therefore limited. Many of the people who had worked for them before had made as little as ten or twenty dollars in commission at some events. Since the job didn’t pay anything besides commission, the company’s bottom line was not affected by hiring too many people, unless it actually increased their total sales.
Dodger Stadium, bless their Manny-loving souls, does things differently. They assign the products and the sections so that no one ever has to compete against another seller with the same product. “How clever!” we Newbies exclaimed. “How thoughtful, how neat!” We were immediately told that the union probably wouldn’t allow them to do otherwise.
Union? Yep. They even pay dues.
I made a mental note of this, and decided that I would only work for the Mysteriously Absent company when they had contracts at Dodger Stadium. I also secretly decided that if the night didn’t go well, I could ditch my uniform and watch a free ball game. The idea of a free ball game warmed my heart. The recollection of free parking sent me nearly into a state of euphoria.
But first, I had to get to the front of the line. Which was moving very slowly. And mysteriously. What was going on in this line, anyway? The Head Honchos were up at the front at a podium, and they were speaking to each hawker two at a time and letting them walk into the stadium.
After a few minutes, though, the constantly revolving conversations answered my questions. At the front of the line, you would choose your product and section from what was still available. The line was ordered by seniority; the guys who had worked the most games got the first pick of product and section.
The guys who have worked the most games at Dodger Stadium have worked almost every game at Dodger Stadium since it was built in 1962. Seriously. One of the Old Guys says he came to Los Angeles with the Dodgers, as though part of Walter O’Malleys infamous move. I kind of believe he did.
The Old Guys always sell peanuts. Coincidentally, peanuts are both the lightest product and the biggest sellers, so the seniority system works out pretty well for the Old Guys. I was also told, while waiting in line, that the worst sellers were Cracker Jacks. This surprised me, since Cracker Jacks have peanuts in them, and are sort of old-timey like peanuts, and I said as much. This set off a great deal of grumbling about the poor state of modern Cracker Jacks; too much popcorn, not enough peanuts, and jerk-off prizes that no one wants, it’s no wonder that they don’t sell.
“Cotton Candy does all right, but the board that they have them on is awkward and you need to be kind of tall to keep from smacking people upside the head.” “
“Water or soda is always a good seller, but I don’t know about any girls selling it. How much do you weigh? You know a good chiropractor?”
“Ice cream is all right, but best for a day game.”
“Do Ice Cream, it’s six dollars, so you can sell less of them and make more.”
“Malts are better than Ice Cream.”
“Malts are cheap.”
“Malts are gross.”
“Malts have the tradition factor. Guy takes his kid to a game, he gets two dodger dogs, a beer for him, a malt for the kid. Do malts.”
“Then there’s Lemonade.”
“Better for a day game.”
“Sure, but still. There’s always Lemonade.”
“What’s malts?” was on the tip of my tongue, but the two guys in front of me had just reached the top of the line and walked up to the Head Honchos before I could ask. And then it was my turn.
The Head Honchos had a diagram of the stadium spread out before them, with products listed in each section. This whole operation felt a lot like a test, but mostly like one that I knew I’d already failed. All I wanted to do was walk through that open door and into the stadium. But first I had to get past this Head Honcho who was guarding the entrance like a red-shirted St. Peter.
“What do I do?” I said.
“How do you want your stairs?”
“Stairs?”
“Not too steep, yeah?”
“Yeah, medium stairs.”
“Ice cream, maybe, that be good?”
“I don’t know, isn’t it expensive?”
“Yeah, so you sell less and make more. Do ice cream.”
“Okay.”
“Ice Cream. You’re in the pavilion, right and left. You go down to the field level to get your product, okay?”
“Uh…”
“You got your bank, right?”
There was a lot of groaning when the Head Honchos realized that the Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company had not told us to bring our own bank, which is really more like a cash register than a bank, because you’re meant to make change from it. Since I had no cash on me, and not enough money to withdraw from my own bank account (I know, isn’t that sad. Woeful, even.), they would have to front me the money for my bank.
Finally, I was dismissed, and sent to the door of the stadium. I was so excited to finally go in that I almost didn’t hear one of the Head Honchos hollering after me. He was chasing me down with a little ticket that looked like a raffle ticket. He handed it to me.
“Your meal.”
I looked at it. It was a voucher for two Dodger Dogs and large drink, $15 worth of Dodgers concessions.
“Do NOT ask for peanuts. They’ll kill us.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t ask. Okay kid?”
I wasn’t going to ask. I could go without peanuts, for whatever strange reason they were off limits.
I didn’t pay to park, I didn’t pay to get in, and I was handed a free meal. And there was a chance, if all went well, that I’d get a paycheck, too. Never, ever, has any door felt more like a set of Pearly Gates than the entrance to Dodger Stadium that day.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Free Parking Is The Luckiest Space On The Board
It’s always a little scary starting an odd job. Not only are they typically a little odd, but you’re also never entirely sure that you will be paid.
I have taken a few babysitting or catering jobs in the past without knowing exactly what or how I will get paid, causing me to wonder each time if I am a fool. But one must decide in these situations that the only way to be sure you won’t get paid is not to show up at all. This is what I told myself as I prepared for my first Dodgers game.
The Terse Woman who responded to my email sent me the appropriate tax forms and told me to bring them to the Stadium. She also told me to park in lot 13. So I went to the Dodger Stadium website and tried to figure out which lot was 13.
I was particularly anxious about parking. This is normal. I live in LA.
When I worked in film marketing in Boston, I helped to maintain all the paid movie clocks in the country for Loews Theatres. When Loews Universal City Walk temporarily decided to reimburse for parking, my boss wanted to be absolutely sure that the Los Angeles Times movie clock advertised the offer. I was pretty indifferent about the news itself, and she felt it was necessary to tell me that, “parking is a big deal in LA.”
No shit.
As a little girl, I once asked my mother why people in movies that were set in New York always took cabs. She explained that no one owned a car in New York because there was nowhere to park one. (I believe I may have asked her where, if that was the case, they parked all their cabs. I was in impertinent child.) If that were true, no one would own a car in Los Angeles, either. Which is, of course, not the case. You absolutely must own a car here, and there’s never any parking.
It’s also necessary to own a car in Texas, and you must drive your car from one store to another within the same shopping center because there’s too damn much parking and you’ll get dehydrated trying to walk across the lot. Los Angeles, when it comes to driving, gets the short end of every damn stick.
After several digressions, I return to the topic at hand. Lot 13.
Lot 13 was not on the parking map, and the Terse Woman was not responding to my questions. So I decided to wing it, and just drove to Dodger Stadium and went right up to the Sunset Gates. I was told to U turn just inside the gate, go back out, and turn left on Stadium Way. There’s a parking lot on the left, and it’s the employee overflow lot—otherwise known as lot 13.
No one stopped me or insisted on seeing ID. I just parked, and followed the other people weaving their way to the employee shuttle. I climbed aboard, again without any credentials, and rode in comfort all the way up to the Reserve Level entrance.
I could not believe my luck. Free parking! Free Ballgame! I didn’t think it could get any better, whether I got paid or not.
I have taken a few babysitting or catering jobs in the past without knowing exactly what or how I will get paid, causing me to wonder each time if I am a fool. But one must decide in these situations that the only way to be sure you won’t get paid is not to show up at all. This is what I told myself as I prepared for my first Dodgers game.
The Terse Woman who responded to my email sent me the appropriate tax forms and told me to bring them to the Stadium. She also told me to park in lot 13. So I went to the Dodger Stadium website and tried to figure out which lot was 13.
I was particularly anxious about parking. This is normal. I live in LA.
When I worked in film marketing in Boston, I helped to maintain all the paid movie clocks in the country for Loews Theatres. When Loews Universal City Walk temporarily decided to reimburse for parking, my boss wanted to be absolutely sure that the Los Angeles Times movie clock advertised the offer. I was pretty indifferent about the news itself, and she felt it was necessary to tell me that, “parking is a big deal in LA.”
No shit.
As a little girl, I once asked my mother why people in movies that were set in New York always took cabs. She explained that no one owned a car in New York because there was nowhere to park one. (I believe I may have asked her where, if that was the case, they parked all their cabs. I was in impertinent child.) If that were true, no one would own a car in Los Angeles, either. Which is, of course, not the case. You absolutely must own a car here, and there’s never any parking.
It’s also necessary to own a car in Texas, and you must drive your car from one store to another within the same shopping center because there’s too damn much parking and you’ll get dehydrated trying to walk across the lot. Los Angeles, when it comes to driving, gets the short end of every damn stick.
After several digressions, I return to the topic at hand. Lot 13.
Lot 13 was not on the parking map, and the Terse Woman was not responding to my questions. So I decided to wing it, and just drove to Dodger Stadium and went right up to the Sunset Gates. I was told to U turn just inside the gate, go back out, and turn left on Stadium Way. There’s a parking lot on the left, and it’s the employee overflow lot—otherwise known as lot 13.
No one stopped me or insisted on seeing ID. I just parked, and followed the other people weaving their way to the employee shuttle. I climbed aboard, again without any credentials, and rode in comfort all the way up to the Reserve Level entrance.
I could not believe my luck. Free parking! Free Ballgame! I didn’t think it could get any better, whether I got paid or not.
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