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.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Called up to the Majors
The days ahead were filled with craigslist.
I have been reading a great deal lately about the dangerous of craigslist.org, and have even seen some tips on how to use the website safely. Let me say for the record that I am a fan of craigslist. I have found each of my apartments and roommates since college on craigslist. And I have had a string of uncommonly fantastic roommates. I have bought no less than three beds on craigslist, none of which had bugs. I have bought a room divider, a futon, and two bicycles. Craigslist even helped me find a local band to transport a new-to-me bed to my house with their van. They were nice guys. They gave me their demo cd and only smacked one of the door frames.
I have sold two of the three beds, and I’m still sleeping on the third. I have sold a microwave, television, and scores of desks and bookshelves. And the room divider, and the futon. The only issue I had with any of these experiences was getting the futon up two flights of stairs; it was difficult because I couldn’t figure out how to get it apart. When I sold it, the gentlemen who bought it had no problem prying apart and toting it back down without so much as a grunt. While I feel that I got the raw end of this deal, there’s no arguing that I haven't had a lot of luck on craigslist.
I’m sure you’re all dying to know my secrets to safely using craigslist. Well here they are: I don’t offer up any sexual favors on craigslist and meet the men who say they want to pay, and I refuse to meet anyone who responds to my emails with less than adequate skill in both composition and punctuation. So far, I have not regretted it.
And I even, once up on a time, found a job on craigslist that was nothing short of a dream come true.
One day in September of 2008, I found a post on craigslist that advertised an opportunity to hawk concessions at Dodger Stadium.
There were two reasons that I flipped completely out. One, the ad said that the job could pay as much as $150 in one night. Two, it was peripherally related to baseball. I love baseball. It’s a simple statement, but my reasons are complex, and probably a little odd.
A lot of people like to say that baseball is a game of inches: out by an inch, out by a mile. I don’t know that this statement is any less true for football, though, in which the entire objective is to move the ball a number of inches down the field. I like to say that baseball is a game of moments; the game breaks down into segments which are measured by achievement, and not by time. Games are divided by innings, which are divided by outs, also called plays or at-bats, which can often divide further into strikes.
All of these moments happen in threes. The home team gets three times three chances to beat the visiting team in the bottom of each inning. The batter gets three swings before he has wasted his chance to run the bases; the pitcher can send the batter three bad throws before he owes the batter something he can hit. The defending team must stop three men before they can return to offense, and each man scoring a run has already touched three bags, three gauntlets on the field.
To a storyteller’s mind, this means that each at-bat, each half-inning, and each game, has a beginning, middle, and end.
This is why extra innings make me very upset; they destroy the Aristotelian structure of the game. But at least there isn’t a clock ticking somewhere, and the game continues to play, moment by moment, achievement by achievement.
Even more storylike, each moment, however small in itself, can have a huge impact on the rest of the game.
Consider a game in June of 2007 in which Kurt Schilling was an out away from pitching his only no-hitter and allowed the first hit. Perhaps baseball is a game of inches, because pitching an inch away from a no-hitter results in just another game. But look back in the scorecard and see that Schilling also had a perfect game until Julio Lugo committed an error in the fifth, allowing a man on base. An error removed the possibility of a perfect game, but the possibility of throwing a no-hitter was still there. But when Lugo made the error, he made it possible for another player came up to bat. If there had been no error, Schilling would have pitched to only 27 men. Instead, he pitched to 28, and allowed the only hit to the 28th.
There are no unnecessary moments in baseball, and nothing is too small to be insignificant. This is why statistics play such an important role in baseball. People even more obsessive than I am record each of these tiny moments, and nothing is ever forgotten or lost. This is so that every moment of every game can be measured against those that came before, and we can all understand its significance in the greater story.
All I really mean to say is, I love baseball. And when I got a chance to work at Dodger Stadium, I jumped all over it. I replied to the email, and received a quick reply. I was told to grab my gear and head over to Dodger Stadium. They’d have a uniform for me when I got there.
I have been reading a great deal lately about the dangerous of craigslist.org, and have even seen some tips on how to use the website safely. Let me say for the record that I am a fan of craigslist. I have found each of my apartments and roommates since college on craigslist. And I have had a string of uncommonly fantastic roommates. I have bought no less than three beds on craigslist, none of which had bugs. I have bought a room divider, a futon, and two bicycles. Craigslist even helped me find a local band to transport a new-to-me bed to my house with their van. They were nice guys. They gave me their demo cd and only smacked one of the door frames.
I have sold two of the three beds, and I’m still sleeping on the third. I have sold a microwave, television, and scores of desks and bookshelves. And the room divider, and the futon. The only issue I had with any of these experiences was getting the futon up two flights of stairs; it was difficult because I couldn’t figure out how to get it apart. When I sold it, the gentlemen who bought it had no problem prying apart and toting it back down without so much as a grunt. While I feel that I got the raw end of this deal, there’s no arguing that I haven't had a lot of luck on craigslist.
I’m sure you’re all dying to know my secrets to safely using craigslist. Well here they are: I don’t offer up any sexual favors on craigslist and meet the men who say they want to pay, and I refuse to meet anyone who responds to my emails with less than adequate skill in both composition and punctuation. So far, I have not regretted it.
And I even, once up on a time, found a job on craigslist that was nothing short of a dream come true.
One day in September of 2008, I found a post on craigslist that advertised an opportunity to hawk concessions at Dodger Stadium.
There were two reasons that I flipped completely out. One, the ad said that the job could pay as much as $150 in one night. Two, it was peripherally related to baseball. I love baseball. It’s a simple statement, but my reasons are complex, and probably a little odd.
A lot of people like to say that baseball is a game of inches: out by an inch, out by a mile. I don’t know that this statement is any less true for football, though, in which the entire objective is to move the ball a number of inches down the field. I like to say that baseball is a game of moments; the game breaks down into segments which are measured by achievement, and not by time. Games are divided by innings, which are divided by outs, also called plays or at-bats, which can often divide further into strikes.
All of these moments happen in threes. The home team gets three times three chances to beat the visiting team in the bottom of each inning. The batter gets three swings before he has wasted his chance to run the bases; the pitcher can send the batter three bad throws before he owes the batter something he can hit. The defending team must stop three men before they can return to offense, and each man scoring a run has already touched three bags, three gauntlets on the field.
To a storyteller’s mind, this means that each at-bat, each half-inning, and each game, has a beginning, middle, and end.
This is why extra innings make me very upset; they destroy the Aristotelian structure of the game. But at least there isn’t a clock ticking somewhere, and the game continues to play, moment by moment, achievement by achievement.
Even more storylike, each moment, however small in itself, can have a huge impact on the rest of the game.
Consider a game in June of 2007 in which Kurt Schilling was an out away from pitching his only no-hitter and allowed the first hit. Perhaps baseball is a game of inches, because pitching an inch away from a no-hitter results in just another game. But look back in the scorecard and see that Schilling also had a perfect game until Julio Lugo committed an error in the fifth, allowing a man on base. An error removed the possibility of a perfect game, but the possibility of throwing a no-hitter was still there. But when Lugo made the error, he made it possible for another player came up to bat. If there had been no error, Schilling would have pitched to only 27 men. Instead, he pitched to 28, and allowed the only hit to the 28th.
There are no unnecessary moments in baseball, and nothing is too small to be insignificant. This is why statistics play such an important role in baseball. People even more obsessive than I am record each of these tiny moments, and nothing is ever forgotten or lost. This is so that every moment of every game can be measured against those that came before, and we can all understand its significance in the greater story.
All I really mean to say is, I love baseball. And when I got a chance to work at Dodger Stadium, I jumped all over it. I replied to the email, and received a quick reply. I was told to grab my gear and head over to Dodger Stadium. They’d have a uniform for me when I got there.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Let me give you a tip
As the night began to grow chill, and the Subway wrappers were all thrown away, the Boss of the Outfit started prepping us for the pick-ups.
Over eight-hundred cars had been parked before the show. The garage itself had been mapped out on a grid, so that each row of cars was assigned an alphabetical letter, and each space in that row was numbered from left to right. Each car was in a space, with the letter and number of the space written on the ground in chalk. And each set of car keys was labeled with a letter and number to match the space.
The full-time drivers for this company had been busy at work labeling the car keys while the rest of us were eating sandwiches and staring at the wall, and now all the keys were hanging on one of several boards, all of which were set up on a horseshoe-shaped set of folding tables. The same full-time employees were now inside that ring of tables and boards, all of those keys hanging before them with their neat little tags.
As the guests came out of the auditorium, they handed their ticket to the hot-shots behind the table. The hot-shot matched the ticket to a set of keys, and handed those keys to the first driver standing in a long line. The driver then reads the location of the car, and starts running.
I remembered wondering what the Boss of the Outfit was talking about when he said we’d be running. Now it all made sense.
As you may have already realized, these cars were not the shiny black limos and sedans that brought the famous people to the red carpet. The cars we had parked were driven by regular people, people who were neither famous nor beautiful. But this was entirely irrelevant, as even people who drive their own cars to the Emmys have cash in their pockets. And getting that cash into our own pockets was the single objective of the next several hours.
The key to tips is turnover, I discovered. I probably would have already known this if, like the rest of the world, I had ever waitressed. The point is to run as quickly as possible to the car, drive the car as quickly as possible to the owner, collect the fat tip waiting for you, and run back to the line to fetch the next car.
Obviously, the more cars one gets, the more money one earns, but there is another reason for all this running. It’s important to get as many cars as possible because it helps to make up for the jackasses who don’t tip their valet driver at the Emmys.
I’ll admit it. I have failed to tip the valet driver at Mexican restaurants when I was unable to find street parking and felt that tipping the valet a dollar was too much to pay when the price of parking alone cost twice as much as the happy hour margaritas. I feel a little bad about this. But lets be honest. Happy hour at El Torito just isn’t at all like going to the Emmys. That’s because one is happy hour, and the other is THE EMMYS.
It’s difficult to decide whether or not the type of car has anything to do with the type of tip one will receive. I personally, don’t think it does, not most of the time. It also doesn’t matter whether or not the owner is male or female, not in my experience. However you slice it, though, there are plenty of people who don’t tip.
Towards the end of the evening, after most of the cars were gone and it was therefore much easier to find the cars, I was sprinting towards row P, space 17, and couldn’t find my car until I almost tripped on it. It was European, of course, and had a standard transmission. Not a car for someone who gets confused by a Prius’s power switch. I hollered for help, and traded keys with another driver who had no problem contorting himself into a pretzel and driving the itty bitty vehicle with a toothpick-sized shift.
I looked at the keys in my hand, noted the location of my new car, and sprinted towards it. Like I said, my experience had not convinced me that ugly cars meant bad tips, but this car immediately made me check my faith. It was a late-nineties Chevy Malibu that hadn’t been washed since the summer of 2007, and the interior was entirely covered in dirt. But the worst, the absolute worst, was the smell. This car had recently transported a wet dog. For many, many, poorly-ventilated hours.
I drove the car around to the curb, and as soon as I spotted my owner I felt bad about judging him for his car. It clearly belonged to his parents, who had only loaned it to him for the night. Of course he didn’t tip me, but who could blame him? His mind was on other things, since he must have been terrified of missing his curfew. I mean, cripes! He could be grounded for being a minute late with the car! My only question was why someone who isn’t old enough to shave should be invited to the Emmys.
Dear Academy of Television Arts and Sciences: Can you please explain to your seat-fillers that valet drivers should be tipped, even if said seat-filler has to sacrifice a portion of his or her Clearasil budget in order to do so? Thanks.
That was the last car of the night. Gritting my teeth, I shut the door of the Malibu and trudged back to the garage. I counted my money; I had earned $70 in tips.
While I turned in my tie and vest, I finally found the Random College Student who had recruited me. She asked me how she could get my wages to me, which would be paid to me in cash, but through her. After running through the list of our acquaintance and discovering that we shared no one, she asked me where I lived. She said she went to CalState, Fullerton. I blankly stared at her, only relatively certain that Fullerton was not a place in the Valley.
We decided we would be in touch about the money. I hoped that I could trust her, but figured that I at least had $70 more than before, and went home happy.
Over eight-hundred cars had been parked before the show. The garage itself had been mapped out on a grid, so that each row of cars was assigned an alphabetical letter, and each space in that row was numbered from left to right. Each car was in a space, with the letter and number of the space written on the ground in chalk. And each set of car keys was labeled with a letter and number to match the space.
The full-time drivers for this company had been busy at work labeling the car keys while the rest of us were eating sandwiches and staring at the wall, and now all the keys were hanging on one of several boards, all of which were set up on a horseshoe-shaped set of folding tables. The same full-time employees were now inside that ring of tables and boards, all of those keys hanging before them with their neat little tags.
As the guests came out of the auditorium, they handed their ticket to the hot-shots behind the table. The hot-shot matched the ticket to a set of keys, and handed those keys to the first driver standing in a long line. The driver then reads the location of the car, and starts running.
I remembered wondering what the Boss of the Outfit was talking about when he said we’d be running. Now it all made sense.
As you may have already realized, these cars were not the shiny black limos and sedans that brought the famous people to the red carpet. The cars we had parked were driven by regular people, people who were neither famous nor beautiful. But this was entirely irrelevant, as even people who drive their own cars to the Emmys have cash in their pockets. And getting that cash into our own pockets was the single objective of the next several hours.
The key to tips is turnover, I discovered. I probably would have already known this if, like the rest of the world, I had ever waitressed. The point is to run as quickly as possible to the car, drive the car as quickly as possible to the owner, collect the fat tip waiting for you, and run back to the line to fetch the next car.
Obviously, the more cars one gets, the more money one earns, but there is another reason for all this running. It’s important to get as many cars as possible because it helps to make up for the jackasses who don’t tip their valet driver at the Emmys.
I’ll admit it. I have failed to tip the valet driver at Mexican restaurants when I was unable to find street parking and felt that tipping the valet a dollar was too much to pay when the price of parking alone cost twice as much as the happy hour margaritas. I feel a little bad about this. But lets be honest. Happy hour at El Torito just isn’t at all like going to the Emmys. That’s because one is happy hour, and the other is THE EMMYS.
It’s difficult to decide whether or not the type of car has anything to do with the type of tip one will receive. I personally, don’t think it does, not most of the time. It also doesn’t matter whether or not the owner is male or female, not in my experience. However you slice it, though, there are plenty of people who don’t tip.
Towards the end of the evening, after most of the cars were gone and it was therefore much easier to find the cars, I was sprinting towards row P, space 17, and couldn’t find my car until I almost tripped on it. It was European, of course, and had a standard transmission. Not a car for someone who gets confused by a Prius’s power switch. I hollered for help, and traded keys with another driver who had no problem contorting himself into a pretzel and driving the itty bitty vehicle with a toothpick-sized shift.
I looked at the keys in my hand, noted the location of my new car, and sprinted towards it. Like I said, my experience had not convinced me that ugly cars meant bad tips, but this car immediately made me check my faith. It was a late-nineties Chevy Malibu that hadn’t been washed since the summer of 2007, and the interior was entirely covered in dirt. But the worst, the absolute worst, was the smell. This car had recently transported a wet dog. For many, many, poorly-ventilated hours.
I drove the car around to the curb, and as soon as I spotted my owner I felt bad about judging him for his car. It clearly belonged to his parents, who had only loaned it to him for the night. Of course he didn’t tip me, but who could blame him? His mind was on other things, since he must have been terrified of missing his curfew. I mean, cripes! He could be grounded for being a minute late with the car! My only question was why someone who isn’t old enough to shave should be invited to the Emmys.
Dear Academy of Television Arts and Sciences: Can you please explain to your seat-fillers that valet drivers should be tipped, even if said seat-filler has to sacrifice a portion of his or her Clearasil budget in order to do so? Thanks.
That was the last car of the night. Gritting my teeth, I shut the door of the Malibu and trudged back to the garage. I counted my money; I had earned $70 in tips.
While I turned in my tie and vest, I finally found the Random College Student who had recruited me. She asked me how she could get my wages to me, which would be paid to me in cash, but through her. After running through the list of our acquaintance and discovering that we shared no one, she asked me where I lived. She said she went to CalState, Fullerton. I blankly stared at her, only relatively certain that Fullerton was not a place in the Valley.
We decided we would be in touch about the money. I hoped that I could trust her, but figured that I at least had $70 more than before, and went home happy.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Working My Shift
There are two types of people who do valet at such a large event as the Emmy’s for this particular company. They are: sorority girls, or regular valet drivers who work for the company all the time. I am neither, so the day was lonely, and especially irritating.
I suppose that the Random College Student In Charge of Such Things is herself in a sorority, and this is the reason that so many of the people contracted to work at this event are so very far from clever. I suppose I should be charitable here and suppose that all young women between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one are bound to be shrill, insipid little gum-chewers who don’t know that the top button of a white shirt must be buttoned when one wears a tie, polyester or otherwise. But I personally suspect that the young women who are not in a sorority are far less annoying. God knows they couldn’t be more annoying, not if they tried.
But all I’m really trying to do here is get across just exactly how poorly I think of myself. If nothing is funnier than watching a grown man hide his white socks, nothing is more depressing than realizing that the Alpha Delta Pi currently smacking her gum to your left is capable of driving a stick shift, but you are not.
It isn’t like I haven’t tried.
In fact, my father taught me to drive a stick shift before he taught me to drive an automatic. He claimed that it would be an easy matter to switch from the former to the latter, but not the other way around. Of course he was right. So I practiced driving his Toyota 4Runner around the community college parking lot until I was ready to drive the car home. On my first journey on the open road, we stopped at the video store to return some videos. A guy in the parking lot mentioned to my dad that he’d always wanted a 4Runner, and offered to buy the truck if my father could ever stand parting with it. Evidently, my dad wanted to sell the truck, though he had never mentioned it before, and the guy in the video store parking lot bought our family’s only standard transmission automobile the week after I learned to drive it.
It was all automatics after that, and I’ve never looked back until I did valet at the Emmy’s.
The Boss of the Outfit assured all of us that it was okay if we didn’t know how to drive a particular kind of transmission. In fact, he made us promise to get out of any car that made us in any way nervous or uncomfortable. Passing the car off to a more experienced driver is far better than crashing it.
I was relieved to hear this, until I realized that things have become even more complicated since I learned to drive. You used to just put the key in and turn to start the engine, and maybe, if necessary, depress the clutch. But now there are these strange, noiseless vehicles that look like regular cars but are reserved for those people who are indeed rich enough to be actually concerned about the environment, are not rich enough to be concerned about the environment but wish to appear to be so, or are truly rich and only want to look concerned. I am none of the above, and therefore didn’t know how to drive a hybrid.
The actual driving of a hybrid was not in any way different than driving any car that is entirely out of my price range. Intimidating, yes, but the steering wheel and the brake and the accelerator were all in the right place. It’s the starting and stopping of the electric power that is the tricky part, because the car gives precious little indication of its power status. On or off, the damn things are quiet and futuristic.
And then there are the cars that start with the push of a button. And then there are cars that start with fobs. They confused me terribly. And there are even some cars, like a Jaguar I drove, that have a transmission that looks like the volume knob on a stereo. You just turn in a couple notches to the right to put it in drive, and turn it back to put it in park.
I discovered that many of the people who had signed up for the job were not as desperate for employment as myself, but only wanted to drive really expensive cars all afternoon. The Sorority Sisters were indeed some of those most keen on getting the “hot cars.” The sight of a European car with its top down could cause a shrieking chorus of “DIBS!!!” so urgent that several off the girls accidentally spat out their Extra from excitement and glee.
I rarely joined into this feeding frenzy during the arrivals, since there were far more drivers waiting to hop into a car than there were cars with guests waiting to hop out. And besides, most of the hot cars had clutches, so I had to take the Camrys and Accords whenever they were available. A notable exception was the Jaguar with the dial-a-gear transmission. But the seat was so low in that car I could barely drive it, and had to peer over the steering wheel like a prairie dog on the lookout for coyotes, which made it just a little less fun.
After all the arrivals were parked, there was nothing to do but sit and wait for the ceremony to be over. Subway sandwiches were delivered, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Nothing beats a job with a free meal.
Industry awards ceremonies are incredibly long, as anyone who has watched one on television can attest. But sitting on a cold folding chair in a parking garage, staring at the wall in your black socks and abhorrent polyester vest, in fact makes the hours pass more quickly than actually watching the show.
It wasn’t long before we were preparing for the end of the ceremony, which is just the beginning of the show for valet drivers.
I suppose that the Random College Student In Charge of Such Things is herself in a sorority, and this is the reason that so many of the people contracted to work at this event are so very far from clever. I suppose I should be charitable here and suppose that all young women between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one are bound to be shrill, insipid little gum-chewers who don’t know that the top button of a white shirt must be buttoned when one wears a tie, polyester or otherwise. But I personally suspect that the young women who are not in a sorority are far less annoying. God knows they couldn’t be more annoying, not if they tried.
But all I’m really trying to do here is get across just exactly how poorly I think of myself. If nothing is funnier than watching a grown man hide his white socks, nothing is more depressing than realizing that the Alpha Delta Pi currently smacking her gum to your left is capable of driving a stick shift, but you are not.
It isn’t like I haven’t tried.
In fact, my father taught me to drive a stick shift before he taught me to drive an automatic. He claimed that it would be an easy matter to switch from the former to the latter, but not the other way around. Of course he was right. So I practiced driving his Toyota 4Runner around the community college parking lot until I was ready to drive the car home. On my first journey on the open road, we stopped at the video store to return some videos. A guy in the parking lot mentioned to my dad that he’d always wanted a 4Runner, and offered to buy the truck if my father could ever stand parting with it. Evidently, my dad wanted to sell the truck, though he had never mentioned it before, and the guy in the video store parking lot bought our family’s only standard transmission automobile the week after I learned to drive it.
It was all automatics after that, and I’ve never looked back until I did valet at the Emmy’s.
The Boss of the Outfit assured all of us that it was okay if we didn’t know how to drive a particular kind of transmission. In fact, he made us promise to get out of any car that made us in any way nervous or uncomfortable. Passing the car off to a more experienced driver is far better than crashing it.
I was relieved to hear this, until I realized that things have become even more complicated since I learned to drive. You used to just put the key in and turn to start the engine, and maybe, if necessary, depress the clutch. But now there are these strange, noiseless vehicles that look like regular cars but are reserved for those people who are indeed rich enough to be actually concerned about the environment, are not rich enough to be concerned about the environment but wish to appear to be so, or are truly rich and only want to look concerned. I am none of the above, and therefore didn’t know how to drive a hybrid.
The actual driving of a hybrid was not in any way different than driving any car that is entirely out of my price range. Intimidating, yes, but the steering wheel and the brake and the accelerator were all in the right place. It’s the starting and stopping of the electric power that is the tricky part, because the car gives precious little indication of its power status. On or off, the damn things are quiet and futuristic.
And then there are the cars that start with the push of a button. And then there are cars that start with fobs. They confused me terribly. And there are even some cars, like a Jaguar I drove, that have a transmission that looks like the volume knob on a stereo. You just turn in a couple notches to the right to put it in drive, and turn it back to put it in park.
I discovered that many of the people who had signed up for the job were not as desperate for employment as myself, but only wanted to drive really expensive cars all afternoon. The Sorority Sisters were indeed some of those most keen on getting the “hot cars.” The sight of a European car with its top down could cause a shrieking chorus of “DIBS!!!” so urgent that several off the girls accidentally spat out their Extra from excitement and glee.
I rarely joined into this feeding frenzy during the arrivals, since there were far more drivers waiting to hop into a car than there were cars with guests waiting to hop out. And besides, most of the hot cars had clutches, so I had to take the Camrys and Accords whenever they were available. A notable exception was the Jaguar with the dial-a-gear transmission. But the seat was so low in that car I could barely drive it, and had to peer over the steering wheel like a prairie dog on the lookout for coyotes, which made it just a little less fun.
After all the arrivals were parked, there was nothing to do but sit and wait for the ceremony to be over. Subway sandwiches were delivered, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Nothing beats a job with a free meal.
Industry awards ceremonies are incredibly long, as anyone who has watched one on television can attest. But sitting on a cold folding chair in a parking garage, staring at the wall in your black socks and abhorrent polyester vest, in fact makes the hours pass more quickly than actually watching the show.
It wasn’t long before we were preparing for the end of the ceremony, which is just the beginning of the show for valet drivers.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Knock my socks off
If my contacts haven't often helped me in my writing career, they have all done a great deal to help me make money. While I lament that these two things seem to be forever sundered I am grateful for the opportunities that I have had. Case in point: industry awards valet.
Last September A friend of mine found out from someone at her internship that some random college student was looking for people to do valet at the Emmys. My friend sent this person’s email address to me and I was able to get on the list of drivers. All I needed to provide was my driver’s license number, and then I just needed to show up on time and in uniform. I even owned up to the fact that I was not comfortable driving a stick shift, but the random college student in charge of these things told me that my limited skills would not keep me from performing the job.
I have no idea if they checked my driving record. They didn’t seem to mind that I could only drive half the cars that needed to be parked. But Jiminy Crickets they were concerned about socks.
The uniform for drivers hired by this particular valet company, and I would guess many others, is a white button-down shirt with long sleeves (no three-quarter sleeves), black slacks (no black jeans), entirely black shoes, and black socks. Evidently, you can only ask people to pay attention to three components of their outfit. Requiring more than that will inevitably lead to incidents of dress code violation, and in this case, the first thing to go is the socks.
I arrived at the Nokia Center exactly at 1pm, as requested. There, dozens of other drivers and I were given black polyester vests and matching ties. When everyone had on his or her ill-fitting valet accoutrements, the Boss of the Outfit (not the random college student, who still had not presented herself) gathered us all around him and started lecturing us on socks.
He explained that white socks would show up while we were running, which would look terrible and embarrass the company. I tried to imagine a scenario in which I would run in this garage, and could only surmise that running would be required after I crashed someone’s Porsche so terribly that I would need to flee on foot. I panicked at this thought, but supposed that the guests would not be allowed to bring their weapons into the event. Therefore, the angry owner of the Porche would have to retrieve his gun from the flaming vehicle before shooting me, allowing me to get away unscathed. Unless the Boss of the Outfit, who did not have to pass through any security screens, had a gun on him right now and felt that death by shooting was an appropriate punishment for such transgressions. Which I thought might be possible, because he was now lining everyone up and demanding to see their socks.
Luckily, I had noted all the details of the dress code and could proudly pull up my slacks and display black socks. But not all of the valet drivers could boast such a claim. And there is nothing funnier than watching a grown man trying to hide his white gym socks from the watchful eye of the Boss of the Outfit. A couple guys tried to hide in the line, but they were called out, their ankles inspected. A couple others tried to lazily pull up their pants legs just a little, and so quickly, that the luminosity of their white socks might be overlooked. But no such luck. The Boss of the Outfit cannot be duped. More than one poor driver was sent home for not being properly dressed.
Take note, friends. If the job requires black socks, you’d better get yourself a pair.
Last September A friend of mine found out from someone at her internship that some random college student was looking for people to do valet at the Emmys. My friend sent this person’s email address to me and I was able to get on the list of drivers. All I needed to provide was my driver’s license number, and then I just needed to show up on time and in uniform. I even owned up to the fact that I was not comfortable driving a stick shift, but the random college student in charge of these things told me that my limited skills would not keep me from performing the job.
I have no idea if they checked my driving record. They didn’t seem to mind that I could only drive half the cars that needed to be parked. But Jiminy Crickets they were concerned about socks.
The uniform for drivers hired by this particular valet company, and I would guess many others, is a white button-down shirt with long sleeves (no three-quarter sleeves), black slacks (no black jeans), entirely black shoes, and black socks. Evidently, you can only ask people to pay attention to three components of their outfit. Requiring more than that will inevitably lead to incidents of dress code violation, and in this case, the first thing to go is the socks.
I arrived at the Nokia Center exactly at 1pm, as requested. There, dozens of other drivers and I were given black polyester vests and matching ties. When everyone had on his or her ill-fitting valet accoutrements, the Boss of the Outfit (not the random college student, who still had not presented herself) gathered us all around him and started lecturing us on socks.
He explained that white socks would show up while we were running, which would look terrible and embarrass the company. I tried to imagine a scenario in which I would run in this garage, and could only surmise that running would be required after I crashed someone’s Porsche so terribly that I would need to flee on foot. I panicked at this thought, but supposed that the guests would not be allowed to bring their weapons into the event. Therefore, the angry owner of the Porche would have to retrieve his gun from the flaming vehicle before shooting me, allowing me to get away unscathed. Unless the Boss of the Outfit, who did not have to pass through any security screens, had a gun on him right now and felt that death by shooting was an appropriate punishment for such transgressions. Which I thought might be possible, because he was now lining everyone up and demanding to see their socks.
Luckily, I had noted all the details of the dress code and could proudly pull up my slacks and display black socks. But not all of the valet drivers could boast such a claim. And there is nothing funnier than watching a grown man trying to hide his white gym socks from the watchful eye of the Boss of the Outfit. A couple guys tried to hide in the line, but they were called out, their ankles inspected. A couple others tried to lazily pull up their pants legs just a little, and so quickly, that the luminosity of their white socks might be overlooked. But no such luck. The Boss of the Outfit cannot be duped. More than one poor driver was sent home for not being properly dressed.
Take note, friends. If the job requires black socks, you’d better get yourself a pair.
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