As excited as I was by my prospects at The Store, I decided that I would continue to sell at the Dodger games as long as I could. This would not be long, since it was already September, and the team would be on the road for part of the remaining season. But in the meantime, I could make some money, assuming that the Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company paid me.
My second game allayed all my fears on this subject. Not because the Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company mysteriously appeared, but because the stadium concessions company randomly asked me to fill out an application for them. They were ready to photocopy my driver’s license and social security card, which I took to mean that they were prepared to pay me, so I was quite relieved.
So, for the next few weeks, I worked as an official employee of the Stadium Concessions Company. Before the end of the postseason, I worked five games and one postseason rally. And I learned a lesson for each one of them, after learning during game one how to handle dry ice and never to sell ice cream in the pavilions.
Game #2 - I scream to sell Ice Cream.
You’ve got to make noise to sell. This is no fun for me and my girlie little voice. I feel like the lost fourth chipmunk, squeaking my way up and down the field level stands. (Ice Cream! Ice Cream! Me, I want a HUUUULA HOOOOOP!) But there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ve got to shout. This is a matter that the Old Guy who claimed to have come to Los Angeles with the Dodgers took very seriously. He constantly reminded me to yell about my product, and if we crossed paths in the stands, he would take up my call and start to holler about Ice Cream. I reciprocated, and would shout about peanuts. This amused us more than it did the folks in the stands, but you can’t care about what the crowd thinks if you’re going to make yourself heard.
One guy who was selling to make some extra money for his kids’ college fund regularly sold water and occasionally used a special call to get attention. “Water! Water! Same water as Manny drinks!” I’m pretty sure that this helped him sell gallon after gallon of water, since Dodger fans are insane for Manny.
Game #3 – Monkey see, Monkey buy
You’ve got to show them the goods. This means holding up the product that you’re selling. If you’re selling peanuts, you’re in good shape. They’re light. They’re not frozen, they don’t need to be kept warm. It’s simple.
This is less simple with ice cream or frozen lemonade. One, a pint of one of these is heavier than peanuts, and you’ve got to hold it above your head for hours. Two, it’s cold, which means it makes your hand cold. And three, no one wants to buy the ice cream that you’ve been holding in your hand. If you try to sell the ice cream that you’ve been holding aloft, the person buying will complain about not getting a frozen one. These people are as dumb as poop. Who wants rock hard ice cream? Dollars to donuts, these same jackasses put their ice cream out on the counter to soften for ten minutes before they try to scoop it out at home. Anyway, you can fool them by periodically changing out your display ice cream for a fresh one, then selling it out of the bag to some schmo in the next section who will never be able to tell the difference.
Also, people will buy when they see other people buying, so the first sale in any section is always the toughest. This might be because people notice that you’re selling, and what you’re selling, when you actually stop and sell. It might also be that selling is a mind game.
To further strengthen the mind game theory, you also want your cash to be visible. I am a relatively cautious person, and am always worried about losing money when I am selling. The first three games I worked, I tried very hard to keep shoving the cash deep down in my apron pocket. But one of the other sellers told me to keep it all in my hand at all times. This helps to keep it organized, plus shows to the potential buyers that I have been selling lots already and that they should buy, too. I really can’t tell if this is true, but it definitely helped to keep the bills organized. The only bills I didn’t keep in my fist were the 100’s and 50’s. Because yes, some people buy a single hotdog with a $100 bill.
Game #4 – Rally Sunday
When the team returned to Los Angeles before the postseason, the stadium held a rally to pump up the fans. Most of the old guys didn’t want to sell at the rally, because they were only going to sell the small bags of peanuts and small bottles of water for $2. This meant that the commission would be very low. But, being desperate, I agreed to help out. I learned the following things.
Peanuts kick ass. That rally was probably the only time I will ever get to sell peanuts, and it was glorious. The peanuts were light as a feather and sold like hotcakes. (Except rather more like peanuts, since I don’t imagine hotcakes in fact sell well these days.)
Also, there were far more people than the stadium had planned for, and I and the other fellows who were helping out were worked so hard we were falling down exhausted afterwards. By the end of the rally, I had not made it one time around all the stands, it was that crowded and that many people were buying peanuts. I sold and sold and sold…
I only made about $50. I learned from selling ice cream in the pavilions that selling just a little of an expensive product does not make more money. However, I learned from selling cheap peanuts that the same is true of selling a lot of a very cheap product. In either case, you will work very hard and make little money. Therefore, sell a reasonable amount of a reasonably priced product, and you will do all right.
Game #5 – Maltreatment
Malts are one of those reasonable products. They are also a little strange. Basically, a malt is an airy type of chocolate ice cream that comes with an old-fashioned wooden spoon. And it is a traditional Dodger Stadium favorite and only available at Dodger Stadium. Seriously, you can’t find it anywhere else. I’ve seen message boards online devoted to the subject, and all malt-seekers agree—Dodger Stadium is it for malts.
As if the above isn’t incentive enough, they also cost $4.75. Most people will pass a $5 bill down the row and tell you to keep the change. I made $20 in tips at this game, one quarter at a time.
Malts kick ass almost as much as peanuts. They’re lighter than some, cheaper than most, the tip is built right in, and you’ve got the market cornered. You can’t lose!
Game #6 – Let Manny be both Manny and your break
It’s impossible to sell when Manny is at bat. Especially during the postseason, and especially when something is at stake. The crowd almost always stands up, cheers, and watches his every move. You can’t sell when this is going on. No one can see you, no one can hear you, and no one wants what you’re selling as much as they want what Manny can deliver.
Instead of struggling through, just find a little spot for yourself. Maybe it’s in the back of the stands, and maybe you have to stand on tiptoe to see the swing. But there might be the back of an empty chair or a railing where you can prop up your heavy bag for a minute. And sometimes you just need to stop hustling and merge quietly into that energy that surges through the ballpark. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to see the swing that creates that crack of the bat.
The last lesson is to let yourself take part in something you love for just one at bat of every game.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be Paid
At this point I was forced to take stock of my situation. I was out of money, having already depleted the tips that I had earned as a valet the Emmys. I had no idea when or how the Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company planned to pay me for my first game. The Random College Student was supposed to pay me my wage from the Emmys, in cash, before a week had passed, but it had been more than a week and I hadn’t heard a thing.
It’s one thing to go into an odd job knowing that you might get screwed. It’s another thing entirely to suspect, after doing the odd job, that you have in fact been screwed. As the probability of non-payment increases, my faith in the good will of my fellow people and my ability to throw caution to the wind and hope for the best decreases. That is to say, my faith and positive outlook completely evaporates. I become a raving bitch.
I emailed the Random College Student, since this is how we had communicated in the past, and asked her when I might be able to meet her and collect my earnings. I received no response. I tried again, and got no response. At this point, my emails had a “tone.”
The friend who had hooked me up with this gig was called in for support, and she recommended that I try to call the Random College Student. I hate calling people. I don’t know why. It’s something deep-seated and isn’t likely to change soon. Evidence suggests that I like to write words down, and one can assume that this has something to do with my choices when it comes to message transmission. But in pursuit of my wages, I broke down and called. I left a message. Happily, I soon received a reply in the form of a text message.
I was not a fan of texting until the fall of 2007. Before this, I had eschewed this mode of communication as much as possible. I don’t do business on craigslist.org with people who exhibit excessive punctuation errors and a general lack of style, and I don’t communicate with my loved ones without spelling out the words “you,” “are,” and “laugh out loud.” However, my phone bill for October of 2007 skyrocketed after I had thumbed a virtual library of things like, “YOUK!,” “Pedroia!,” and “Fucking Lugo,” to everyone in my phone book. I bought a text package from my phone service provider, just so I could be prepared for the next season. Nevertheless, I consider texting to be a cheap imitation of the written word. I personally don’t think the act deserves a name with such a rich and noble etymology, to be frank.
But, as I am constantly called upon to consider, not all people are just like me. Some people like phone calls. And some people like texts. You have to be willing to experiment and see who prefers what. And if you really want to get hold of someone, (if they owe you money, for example) you’re going to have to adopt their mode of communication. As substandard as it may be.
So we texted a few times, and determined a meeting place. The Random College Student was going to meet a friend of hers for drinks at a Los Angeles area Mexican restaurant with a vulgar, anatomically-themed name. Naturally, I was further impressed. But agreed to meet her there that afternoon.
I did a little research and found that this restaurant was at a mall that was quite outside of my beaten path. It would take some driving, followed by parking, to get there. I decided that I would see if any stores at this mall had posted any help-wanted adds in the retail section of craigslist.org. If they had, I could apply and make the trip at least that much more justifiable.
I didn’t really want to work in retail. But this is what I told myself:
While I don’t have restaurant experience, I do have retail experience. It’s not as lucrative, but when all the banks are failing and your only other source of income depends largely on something as mercurial as Manny Ramirez, and even then, could only possibly last another month, a job in retail will have to be good enough. Suck it up.
As it happened, one store that was just about my speed needed some new sales associates. So I met the Random College Student, collected my cash, and went to The Store to apply. All the things that needed to happen at all the other places I where I had applied suddenly happened here: they needed help, the afternoon was quiet, the hiring manager was available to talk to me, I had my resume with me and all my references’ phone numbers. I filled out the application on the bench in the mall, turned it in to the hiring manager, and was asked to return later that week for an interview.
It was a strange mall, I thought, and way out in the middle of nowhere, but I had an interview. And some cash in my pocket. So I bought myself some Pinkberry and felt my faith in my fellow men and my ability to hope for the best rise back up to normal levels once again.
It’s one thing to go into an odd job knowing that you might get screwed. It’s another thing entirely to suspect, after doing the odd job, that you have in fact been screwed. As the probability of non-payment increases, my faith in the good will of my fellow people and my ability to throw caution to the wind and hope for the best decreases. That is to say, my faith and positive outlook completely evaporates. I become a raving bitch.
I emailed the Random College Student, since this is how we had communicated in the past, and asked her when I might be able to meet her and collect my earnings. I received no response. I tried again, and got no response. At this point, my emails had a “tone.”
The friend who had hooked me up with this gig was called in for support, and she recommended that I try to call the Random College Student. I hate calling people. I don’t know why. It’s something deep-seated and isn’t likely to change soon. Evidence suggests that I like to write words down, and one can assume that this has something to do with my choices when it comes to message transmission. But in pursuit of my wages, I broke down and called. I left a message. Happily, I soon received a reply in the form of a text message.
I was not a fan of texting until the fall of 2007. Before this, I had eschewed this mode of communication as much as possible. I don’t do business on craigslist.org with people who exhibit excessive punctuation errors and a general lack of style, and I don’t communicate with my loved ones without spelling out the words “you,” “are,” and “laugh out loud.” However, my phone bill for October of 2007 skyrocketed after I had thumbed a virtual library of things like, “YOUK!,” “Pedroia!,” and “Fucking Lugo,” to everyone in my phone book. I bought a text package from my phone service provider, just so I could be prepared for the next season. Nevertheless, I consider texting to be a cheap imitation of the written word. I personally don’t think the act deserves a name with such a rich and noble etymology, to be frank.
But, as I am constantly called upon to consider, not all people are just like me. Some people like phone calls. And some people like texts. You have to be willing to experiment and see who prefers what. And if you really want to get hold of someone, (if they owe you money, for example) you’re going to have to adopt their mode of communication. As substandard as it may be.
So we texted a few times, and determined a meeting place. The Random College Student was going to meet a friend of hers for drinks at a Los Angeles area Mexican restaurant with a vulgar, anatomically-themed name. Naturally, I was further impressed. But agreed to meet her there that afternoon.
I did a little research and found that this restaurant was at a mall that was quite outside of my beaten path. It would take some driving, followed by parking, to get there. I decided that I would see if any stores at this mall had posted any help-wanted adds in the retail section of craigslist.org. If they had, I could apply and make the trip at least that much more justifiable.
I didn’t really want to work in retail. But this is what I told myself:
While I don’t have restaurant experience, I do have retail experience. It’s not as lucrative, but when all the banks are failing and your only other source of income depends largely on something as mercurial as Manny Ramirez, and even then, could only possibly last another month, a job in retail will have to be good enough. Suck it up.
As it happened, one store that was just about my speed needed some new sales associates. So I met the Random College Student, collected my cash, and went to The Store to apply. All the things that needed to happen at all the other places I where I had applied suddenly happened here: they needed help, the afternoon was quiet, the hiring manager was available to talk to me, I had my resume with me and all my references’ phone numbers. I filled out the application on the bench in the mall, turned it in to the hiring manager, and was asked to return later that week for an interview.
It was a strange mall, I thought, and way out in the middle of nowhere, but I had an interview. And some cash in my pocket. So I bought myself some Pinkberry and felt my faith in my fellow men and my ability to hope for the best rise back up to normal levels once again.
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