Behind Enemy Lines

Bossman said something strange when I entered the building to sign in. "He's not one," he said, naming me. When Estella walked it, it was the same. Apparently, former-Super had gone into work to drop off his keys. He said with him, five people will surely quit. Bossman was just wondering which of his employees would choose a side. I'm a neutral party.

Brandon was in parking. Early on, he said he wasn't going to stay the long period. This meant that I was going to get gate duty when Julie left. And sure enough, there I was standing at the gate, making sure people don't leave with beer. Time passed, and I noticed that no one was coming to take my place.

Bossman had left Brandon go home early because he'd complained the night before, not wanting to be at the gate. It's not fair, though, because later in the night as I rushed to get the rooms cleaned, Bossman looked at me with this air of anger. "I'm the son of a super woman, I'm not a super man," I wanted to say. Even my mother would've struggled to clean the suites if she had to stand at the gate because some lazy, whiny white boy didn't want to work. It's alright. Tonight Fred's going to be at the game, and I'll leave him at the gate while I go and clean the rooms. I refuse to relieve Brandon and I have made my complaint with Estella about it.

Two more games for this home stand, and then I'm on break for four days. I can only anticipate the hell I'm going to have when things blow up and Brandon takes the inevitable step in quitting the moment when it's announce that he's stuck in the lot.

On Evaders, Firing, Work Changes & Books

Javi was out yesterday. Fred and I already knew he was planning on missing work. As we were heading our way to our lots, Estella told us they were not going to want Javi back. The reason wasn't good by the sound of her voice. Fred and I talked it over for a bit. We couldn't come up with anything.

Tim was supposed to take Javi's place in his absence, but he was a no show. Another guy assigned by Super came to relieve me of parking two and sent me to three. I wasn't happy about the news. I went anyway, but being pissed off meant no one was getting in for free. No one.

The toll jumpers laughed at me as the zoomed around and parked for free. When they walked to the gates of the stadium, Estella was standing there waiting for them. As they left the lot, I laughed back. Another toll jumper told me I should be standing up front. That four people got passed me. Which is funny because the four people who got passed me did a U-turn (not really) and came back to me to pay, or ask if I was there to collect payments. How do I know this? Because I was talking to one when he told me that I had to move up.

My response was angry, "Sir, I can be standing anywhere on the lot. I can have a huge sign that says pay here. The thing is, people like you will still continue to take the other route and still say I'm not doing my job right. If you didn't see me, you would've turned where you're supposed to and continue to park. Instead, you drove along the median and turned into the lot to park. And there's several of you who do that and then you act innocent and pretend that you didn't see me. Today I chose to be further in the lot because you all expect me right there as you turn in. I've already caught seven people who normally don't pay because they didn't see when I was closer to the entrance. Don't tell me how to do my job and I won't tell you how much of a dick you are."

I'm sure that was embellished...all that in one angry breath seems impossible. Later I told Super the same thing. He agreed, even stating that me standing there in the sun with a bag strapped on my shoulder was a sign that people had to pay.

After going in, I went to the bank, counted my money and came out eight dollars over. It should've been twelve, but Super apparently hadn't turned in the money he picked up. The guy who took parking two, normally in tickets, asked me how I keep my bag organized. It's a hard job especially when people come in waves. The money gets bunched. Because I'm the only person in the lot who has a bag (I provide my own), I suggest that maybe management looks into to buying three more (just in case I'm absent). Hopefully the word gets to Bossman.

Fred and I went back to work to pick up the barricades. When returning, because Javi was out, Super put me on gate duty, a job I loathe because I have to do some more standing. Starting Monday, however, I take over Mom's maintenance job after parking. I'm probably not going to see a raise in my paycheck as my mother let me in on her secret after agreeing to do so. Apparently there isn't any work to be done, she just makes herself look busy. Great. But if I have to go in during the day to do the job, then I'm asking for a raise.

While on gate duty, I learned who will be replacing Javi, one of the beer island guys. While speaking to Super about parking three, he asked if he could have a book. I looked up, unsure what was going on. Super looked at me and repeated what he just asked. My eyes grew wide. What happens in lot three, stays in lot three. I don't tell them I listen to music or that I write during down time. And I never, ever look like I'm not working. When I write, it's in a tiny composition book and I do it standing.

However, I do carry a book with me that I read before and after work, never during. I'm not that crazy. I've tried it once, but it doesn't work. I'm thinking new guy just lost his spot in lot three.

Hipsters are the new douche bags

"Let's just jump the fucking fence," the tiny hipster girl says as the group of three stroll by me. The fence she's talking about is the back exit, which is still locked even though I'm supposed to be guarding it as Beer Bouncer.

I'm surprised that they even go to the baseball games; don't they normally just lounge around pretending not to have money and not to care about anything else? And it's not because it's Thirsty Thursday, because they're way too young to even pass off as anything but 14.

I'm not going to pretend to know what a hipster's into, because when I was a kid - which is beginning to feel like a long time ago - a hipster was an old man who pretended he was still hip and young. Now, after looking up the definition, it's a rich kid who likes to dress poor and all his/her money comes from mommy and daddy. Man, how things change.

And they're not the only ones who attend, there are others who pass me by in the parking lot, pretending not to have the two-dollar toll, yet drive around in a fancy Jag or some other imported car that they probably got the same day as they did their license. It's not taken care of, however, to give it that "authentic" look of being riches to rags.

But their clothes give them away. They're boots and Converse might be from ropa usada (a Valley term for used clothes stores), but their garments are from American Apparel. They reek of fashion faux pas (I'm one to speak), but pretend they're also individualistic - oh the irony! Sometimes, I feel like I should overcharge them when the come into the parking lot - them with their fancy automobiles with that layer of grim. I won't, but I do think about it.

Something's up with Jack

No one is appreciative anymore. I'm fully aware that with every sport pass time, hecklers will come out of the woodwork and place in their two cents. Like Super told me in the truck when we were picking up the barricades, "Opinions are like assholes: Everyone's got one and they stink." Hecklers, by the way, are the in-the-stadium Parking Lecturers (which I should've named them Parking Philosophers, but that's giving them way too much credit).

After I finished my shift at the parking, Super told me to stay behind so I can do gate work - this is when the parking lot Nazi becomes the Beer Bouncer (it's more like a reverse bouncer: Rather than keeping people out, I cannot let those with beer in the hand out of the stadium). Of course, they can't keep me on the clock and not do anything, so before the game is even close to ending, they have me on guard. I've already been Beer Bouncer once this week, but Super figure I could do it again, just for kicks. I later found out from Bossman that I'm being paid a flat rate - which means, all that over time I just put in doesn't mean jack shit because I'm going to get paid the same. However, that means if I clock in and then clock out an hour later, I'll be paid the same rate. It's a win/lose situation, if you think about it, but at least I still get paid even on days when I work two hours.

During my time on guard - I learned after work that I was supposed to make sure that kids don't get on top of the box(?) where the baseball players are - a foul ball soared over the fence and right over the light post (while it was soaring, I swore it was going to be one of those Hollywood moments when the ball smashes into the lights, sending a flurry of sparks down below). Either way, I moved out of the way only to notice a little tyke running passed me. Luckily for him (and for me, if you think about it), the ball smashed into the bar that was directly behind us.

During this period of time, I also noticed the highly annoying and very drunk hecklers who were shouting out into the field, demanding the players to do this and that: "Hit the ball!" "What's wrong with you? The ball hit him!" "Get him off the field." And this was coming from the same table. What really upset me was when the batter (of the offending team) smashed the ball right into the stomach (it was more like the kidneys) of the pitcher. Even from where I stood, I could tell that hurt. The drunk hecklers, on the other hand, started to call him a cry baby because, you know, they obviously could take a baseball to the gut.

So like I said, no one is appreciative. People love the fact that the baseball team is back and throw their money down to see them, but they're still in some sense demanding more. Baseball, unlike a movie, isn't something that is planned - it's all by chance, a 50/50 deal. And not only are they unappreciative toward the players, but those who actually put the game together - the staff who are only getting paid a flat rate.

You're welcome, you jerks.