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.