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.
Friday, June 26, 2009
You Scream and I Scream and Wish I Didn't Have to Sell Ice Cream
The Right and Left Field Pavilions are the names of the outfield bleachers at Dodger Stadium. I was familiar with them before I started selling concessions. This is because the Pavilions were the only seats that I could afford when I went to see a game. I don’t know why I’m speaking in past tense here. Shit has not changed.
The Pavilion seats generally provide a lot of bang for the buck, however, because the fans in that section really know how to have a good time. In addition to endlessly enjoying the wave, fans in the pavilion like to play the beach ball game. The object of the beach ball game is to keep a beach ball aloft in the stands for as long as possible without allowing it to fall onto the field or get confiscated by security. Most people in the Pavilion believe that the beach ball game is the game they paid $11 to see.
If I seem to be a little snarky here, let me explain. I learned to watch baseball at Fenway Park. And anyone loony enough to bring a beach ball to Fenway will find himself hanging from a gibbet over Lansdowne Street. Maybe this is because the fans at Fenway paid a great deal more than $11 for their outfield seats. In any case, they aren’t in any sense confused about which game they came to see.
However, if all of the ballparks in America were just like Fenway, the game of baseball would suffer; the unique character of each park is part of the beauty of the game. I personally think anyone going to a Dodgers game for the first time should sit in the Pavilion and experience the park from there. I did, and I wouldn’t trade that particular experience for anything. Not even seats at Fenway. (Except Monster seats, maybe. No, not even that. Not that it's worth debating anyway, since trading experience for baseball tickets is about as possible as trading thumbs for a writing career. )
The first time I went to Dodger Stadium and sat in the Pavilion, I was surprised to hear that the people sitting in the Pavilion would be invited out onto the field to watch the fireworks after the game. That’s right…the field. You don’t even have to stay on the warning track. They let you out onto the grass. Just about everyone who walked out onto that grass that night either bent over and touched it with their fingers or took off a shoe to feel it with their toes. I was no exception. I felt it with both my fingers and my toes.
After admiring the springy turf, I scampered over to the baseline between second and third and took a seat, considering that I might bend a blade of grass upon which Nomar himself had trod not five minutes before. Then there were fireworks. I watched the fireworks, sitting on the field, while the stadium speakers played Ray Charles’s, “America the Beautiful.” Just like in “Sandlot.” I’m pretty young, and there are a lot of pitches that I haven’t seen yet. But for my money, it doesn’t get much better than that.
As much as I recommend the Pavilion for spectators, I don’t recommend it for anyone peddling ice cream.
Tickets in the Pavilion, as I have mentioned already, cost only $11. The ice cream that the vendors sell at Dodger Stadium costs $6.50 per pint. The value-seekers among us will already know that most people don’t want to pay 60% of the price of the entire ticket for a single, non-alcoholic, not-so traditional baseball snack that’s only available in one flavor. I could have guessed that too, but I was told that I could sell less but make more, and that made mathematical sense.
But after seven innings of not selling very much, I learned one of the basic axioms of hawking: not selling is a lot more work than selling. Put another way, selling concessions at a ballgame is one of the rare jobs in which earning more money is a result of less effort. Consider the following scenarios:
A. If you don’t sell anything, you have to keep carrying your product around with you, which is heavy, and you have to keep walking up and down stairs from section to section, which is tiring, and you have to keep shouting, which is embarrassing for people with little voice boxes.
B. If you’re selling, you get to stand still, put your bag down, hand out product, and rake in money. You’re taking on cash, which is paper, and unloading ice cream, which is ice cream. One of these is much nicer to carry in a bag around your neck than the other.
Selling is Easy. Not selling is Hard. That’s why “sell less but make more” is bullshit. To that end, it’s probably a bad idea to sell something as expensive as ice cream anywhere, but it’s especially stupid to sell it in the Pavilions.
At the end of the night, I returned my unsold product, insulated bag, carrying strap, uniform, and cash (including the borrowed bank) to the commissary. Instead of having my commission parceled out to me in cash and deposited directly into my sad little empty pocket, I was given a receipt for my earnings. $48.04 was not quite the $100-$150 range that the ad on craigslist had boasted, but I was happy to have earned even that. Plus there was the parking and the free meal to remember. But I asked the Permanently Displeased Troll Woman if I should keep the receipt. All she replied was, “around here?” and shrugged. I decided to file it away in a safe place, especially since I had no idea when or how I would be paid.
I did have enough faith to return for the next game of the homestand, but vowed to avoid ice cream unto eternity.
The Pavilion seats generally provide a lot of bang for the buck, however, because the fans in that section really know how to have a good time. In addition to endlessly enjoying the wave, fans in the pavilion like to play the beach ball game. The object of the beach ball game is to keep a beach ball aloft in the stands for as long as possible without allowing it to fall onto the field or get confiscated by security. Most people in the Pavilion believe that the beach ball game is the game they paid $11 to see.
If I seem to be a little snarky here, let me explain. I learned to watch baseball at Fenway Park. And anyone loony enough to bring a beach ball to Fenway will find himself hanging from a gibbet over Lansdowne Street. Maybe this is because the fans at Fenway paid a great deal more than $11 for their outfield seats. In any case, they aren’t in any sense confused about which game they came to see.
However, if all of the ballparks in America were just like Fenway, the game of baseball would suffer; the unique character of each park is part of the beauty of the game. I personally think anyone going to a Dodgers game for the first time should sit in the Pavilion and experience the park from there. I did, and I wouldn’t trade that particular experience for anything. Not even seats at Fenway. (Except Monster seats, maybe. No, not even that. Not that it's worth debating anyway, since trading experience for baseball tickets is about as possible as trading thumbs for a writing career. )
The first time I went to Dodger Stadium and sat in the Pavilion, I was surprised to hear that the people sitting in the Pavilion would be invited out onto the field to watch the fireworks after the game. That’s right…the field. You don’t even have to stay on the warning track. They let you out onto the grass. Just about everyone who walked out onto that grass that night either bent over and touched it with their fingers or took off a shoe to feel it with their toes. I was no exception. I felt it with both my fingers and my toes.
After admiring the springy turf, I scampered over to the baseline between second and third and took a seat, considering that I might bend a blade of grass upon which Nomar himself had trod not five minutes before. Then there were fireworks. I watched the fireworks, sitting on the field, while the stadium speakers played Ray Charles’s, “America the Beautiful.” Just like in “Sandlot.” I’m pretty young, and there are a lot of pitches that I haven’t seen yet. But for my money, it doesn’t get much better than that.
As much as I recommend the Pavilion for spectators, I don’t recommend it for anyone peddling ice cream.
Tickets in the Pavilion, as I have mentioned already, cost only $11. The ice cream that the vendors sell at Dodger Stadium costs $6.50 per pint. The value-seekers among us will already know that most people don’t want to pay 60% of the price of the entire ticket for a single, non-alcoholic, not-so traditional baseball snack that’s only available in one flavor. I could have guessed that too, but I was told that I could sell less but make more, and that made mathematical sense.
But after seven innings of not selling very much, I learned one of the basic axioms of hawking: not selling is a lot more work than selling. Put another way, selling concessions at a ballgame is one of the rare jobs in which earning more money is a result of less effort. Consider the following scenarios:
A. If you don’t sell anything, you have to keep carrying your product around with you, which is heavy, and you have to keep walking up and down stairs from section to section, which is tiring, and you have to keep shouting, which is embarrassing for people with little voice boxes.
B. If you’re selling, you get to stand still, put your bag down, hand out product, and rake in money. You’re taking on cash, which is paper, and unloading ice cream, which is ice cream. One of these is much nicer to carry in a bag around your neck than the other.
Selling is Easy. Not selling is Hard. That’s why “sell less but make more” is bullshit. To that end, it’s probably a bad idea to sell something as expensive as ice cream anywhere, but it’s especially stupid to sell it in the Pavilions.
At the end of the night, I returned my unsold product, insulated bag, carrying strap, uniform, and cash (including the borrowed bank) to the commissary. Instead of having my commission parceled out to me in cash and deposited directly into my sad little empty pocket, I was given a receipt for my earnings. $48.04 was not quite the $100-$150 range that the ad on craigslist had boasted, but I was happy to have earned even that. Plus there was the parking and the free meal to remember. But I asked the Permanently Displeased Troll Woman if I should keep the receipt. All she replied was, “around here?” and shrugged. I decided to file it away in a safe place, especially since I had no idea when or how I would be paid.
I did have enough faith to return for the next game of the homestand, but vowed to avoid ice cream unto eternity.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Bought and Sold
When I entered the cave of the Troll-Woman, I had two decisions to make: how much product to buy, and how much to take with me at one time. These seemed like tricky things to gauge. But in the end it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.
The Troll Woman “sold” me the product on credit, which was lucky for me since I didn’t even have enough money of my own to withdraw a whole twenty-dollar bill to use for bank. She also gave me a receipt for what I “bought.” This receipt was broken up into units, like coupons or vouchers, one for each package of the product that I had bought. I could cash these coupons in at the commissary throughout the night and get more product any time I wanted to. I could just hand my coupon to the Igor who attended to the Troll Woman, and he would fetch the ice cream or malts or cotton candy or whatever from the freezer or appropriate box. And if I ever ran out of vouchers and still wanted to sell, I could “buy” more from the Troll lady any time.
At the end of the night, I needed to be able to return to the Troll Woman the total amount that I owed to her, but this could be done through a combination of currencies: money, unsold product, or the coupons I hadn’t turned over to her Igor. Hopefully, I was able to do this mostly with money, because I got a cut of anything I sold. But if not, there was no penalty. As long as it all added up, I was fine. So it really didn’t matter how much I bought at the beginning.
What’s much more of a quandary is deciding how much to carry at one time. Ice cream comes in packages of six, so you might want to take three of them at a time. But that gets heavy. Especially with the dry ice added in. So be careful. Malts come eight in a pack, and so do frozen lemonades. Three of those might be too many. Other products, even the lighter ones, have similar considerations. For example, if you take too many Dodger Dogs at one time, the ones on the bottom will be smashed flat and people will not want to pay full price for them. However, you also don’t want to waste too much time going back and forth to the commissary to get more. Also, the commissary is just plain unpleasant, even when dealing only with the Igor, and should be avoided as much as possible.
What I learned pretty quick was that you don’t have to be too worried about frozen stuff melting, especially with the dry ice in the thermal bag. What you do have to worry about is burning the tips of your fingers off while you put the dry ice in your bag.
The dry ice is in an unmarked, unlocked cooler that just sits in the hallway on the field level concourse. There aren’t any tongs or gloves or anything. Like most lessons learned at Dodger Stadium, getting the dry ice into my thermal bag to keep the ice cream frozen was one that I had to teach myself. Each brick of dry ice is in its own plastic bag. If you’re lucky, there will be an open bag with a previously smashed up brick in it, and you can just dump the bag onto the ice cream. If not, you must smash up the brick inside the bag first, then open it, then dump a portion of the bag onto your ice cream. Never just start picking up bricks of dry ice and putting it in your thermal bag. This could result in a burning sensation and a patch of dead skin on your thumb. This I learned my first night.
In addition to learning the innings and outs of the stadium itself, I generally learned a new lesson about selling stuff every time I worked at Dodger Stadium.
My first lesson: Never, ever sell ice cream in the Pavilion.
The Troll Woman “sold” me the product on credit, which was lucky for me since I didn’t even have enough money of my own to withdraw a whole twenty-dollar bill to use for bank. She also gave me a receipt for what I “bought.” This receipt was broken up into units, like coupons or vouchers, one for each package of the product that I had bought. I could cash these coupons in at the commissary throughout the night and get more product any time I wanted to. I could just hand my coupon to the Igor who attended to the Troll Woman, and he would fetch the ice cream or malts or cotton candy or whatever from the freezer or appropriate box. And if I ever ran out of vouchers and still wanted to sell, I could “buy” more from the Troll lady any time.
At the end of the night, I needed to be able to return to the Troll Woman the total amount that I owed to her, but this could be done through a combination of currencies: money, unsold product, or the coupons I hadn’t turned over to her Igor. Hopefully, I was able to do this mostly with money, because I got a cut of anything I sold. But if not, there was no penalty. As long as it all added up, I was fine. So it really didn’t matter how much I bought at the beginning.
What’s much more of a quandary is deciding how much to carry at one time. Ice cream comes in packages of six, so you might want to take three of them at a time. But that gets heavy. Especially with the dry ice added in. So be careful. Malts come eight in a pack, and so do frozen lemonades. Three of those might be too many. Other products, even the lighter ones, have similar considerations. For example, if you take too many Dodger Dogs at one time, the ones on the bottom will be smashed flat and people will not want to pay full price for them. However, you also don’t want to waste too much time going back and forth to the commissary to get more. Also, the commissary is just plain unpleasant, even when dealing only with the Igor, and should be avoided as much as possible.
What I learned pretty quick was that you don’t have to be too worried about frozen stuff melting, especially with the dry ice in the thermal bag. What you do have to worry about is burning the tips of your fingers off while you put the dry ice in your bag.
The dry ice is in an unmarked, unlocked cooler that just sits in the hallway on the field level concourse. There aren’t any tongs or gloves or anything. Like most lessons learned at Dodger Stadium, getting the dry ice into my thermal bag to keep the ice cream frozen was one that I had to teach myself. Each brick of dry ice is in its own plastic bag. If you’re lucky, there will be an open bag with a previously smashed up brick in it, and you can just dump the bag onto the ice cream. If not, you must smash up the brick inside the bag first, then open it, then dump a portion of the bag onto your ice cream. Never just start picking up bricks of dry ice and putting it in your thermal bag. This could result in a burning sensation and a patch of dead skin on your thumb. This I learned my first night.
In addition to learning the innings and outs of the stadium itself, I generally learned a new lesson about selling stuff every time I worked at Dodger Stadium.
My first lesson: Never, ever sell ice cream in the Pavilion.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Troll in the Field Level Commissary
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.
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.
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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