Last Minute Request & a Foul Ball

Super called me last minute, asking if I could go in. Tim was out of town and Fred had already worked on extra game. I was next on the list. I didn't have a ride so he sent Estella over to get me. On her way, she looked for my mother who had taken off walking earlier. No sign. Luckily, when we arrived, we learned that mother had arrived safely. It's a wonder where I get it from, these sudden urges to something insane and/or stupid.

The "horses" were placed up already so I just walked over to lot 3 and took my place. Typical Wednesday, it was slow and annoying. I called Jyg to tell her I had gone in so she wouldn't go to the house to visit and find me not there. Time moved slowly. Finally, around 8:30/8:40, Estella called me in and I walked back to the stadium, gave the tickets and cash to the banker, got it counted and initialed out. I knew I was going to stick around to pick up the "horses" so I awaited Javi to get out from lot 2. After he did, I went to talk to Super about picking up the stuff so we could check out. He finally came out and started talking to the girl who was on lot 1 and the girl on tickets. Javi stood talking to his girlfriend when the announcer called out a foul ball.

Without much thinking or looking, I saw the ball sail over high, smack into the roof to our left and spit out forward. Quickly, I flinched backward saw the ball fly by my face and watched it hit the bank window and bounce off the wall only to roll out of the stadium, under the gate.

In that same instance, Javi let out a loud, "Whoa!" and cupped his shoulder. It was then that I realized in my perception of the foul ball flying passed my face, I lost it for a second as it hit Javi's shoulder. I'm not sure how bad it was, but Super thought he was in good enough shape to pick up the stuff, which he did, falling down after the first one. I was paranoid, to say the least, when we were riding on the bed of the truck. I thought the worse and was prepared to snatch him if he should decided (not really decide, obviously) to fall off.

As we left the stadium, having put away the materials, I noticed that his shoulder was slightly swelling. He even complained that his arm was going numb. The only thing he could feel was a tingle, like "spider legs walking all over it."

Theories and other Parking Lot Philosophies

There's a man who possesses the Baseball Parking Permit - a perk of purchasing season tickets - who parks in lot three. Back when I started working in 2007 for the Coyotes, he's been parking out in the distance. There are theories behind this, but nothing I'm too sure of:

1. The dangers of parking at the stadium (i.e. traffic, the occasional baseball through the windshield, people who don't know how to park, etc.)
2. He is health conscious and likes walking
3. He doesn't know any better.

He's a nice man, one I've nicknamed Buddy because I don't know his real name and he does look like one.

I don't know why it is, but several people who park in lot three get so bent out of shape. I understand, believe you me, that two dollars is a little too much for parking no where near the entrance. I also know how annoying it could be for students who arrived early in the day only to return to their cars to see that the other exits are blocked by our "horses." But don't blame the staff, don't blame anyone who can't help it.

I suppose that's another reason why I chose to name the blog "Confessions of a Parking Lot Nazi" rather than "....Parking Lot Philosopher" - the correlation between my, "I'm sorry, but I'm not in charge of the pricing," to the Nazi's "I only did what I was told to do." That and I'm hardly a philosopher.

I want to be calm with the patrons, despite how rude they can be. Not all of them are so bad and Bossman did state that we had to be polite to them because we're, of course, "the first people to greet them every game." But patience can run thin: I allow others to cuss me out under their breath for how unfair it is, but the moment they accuse me of stealing, then it's a whole other ballgame (no pun intended).

First of all, I wouldn't overcharge to pocket money - it's not in my nature. Sure, like most people, I've thought about it but thinking and doing are two different things, am I right? Secondly, I only (on average) sell about 7 tickets daily (except on Thirsty Thursdays, where I sell about 12). At two dollars a piece, I'll only be taking home $7. It's hardly a big whoop. That's not to mention I'm also horrible at math and the fact that I have to give change. None of the rude, accusing patrons think about that.

And that's why I like Buddy parking in lot 3, because rather than grimacing or cussing me out, he greets me every home game with a smile and a wave. And that, my absentee readers, is worth while.

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.

Conflicts

For the most part, I attempt to keep my job on the down low. The simple fact that I am two years out of college and still can't land a job in the Rio Grande Valley as anything other than a teacher depresses me. It's also rather embarrassing.

Today, I saw my former creative writing professor. There's not hiding from this man; he knows me just by the sight of me. It's not like it was preventable. The parking lot I'm in charge of is right across the street from the university gym, where most of my former classmates and college professors work out (mostly because it's deducted from their paychecks or added to their tuition). We talked for a bit, before some rude jerk who cursed me under his breath, pulled in and paid the toll. He had the small chance of driving by and parking without paying, but he chose to make my life miserable.

Before the interruption, the professor asked me if I was still hosting poetry readings. The truth is, I haven't been in the mood, nor have I been writing very much. I've been jotting down ideas and thoughts, but nothing major. I was hoping that working at the baseball stadium would wind the cogs again and words would pour out. However, this blog is the only creative thing I've done since - well, since anything really.

I'm going to end this before I get too "emo." But I suppose what really gets me down about this job (even though I'm good at it, well, when I was allowed to chase down cars and force the patrons to pay) is that I'm the odd man out. Unlike my fellow co-workers, I don't really care much for picking up girls. I'm too old to play that game. Thing is I'm not the oldest one in the group. It doesn't make me uncomfortable when they talk about these "hot girls" (and they're all pissed off because I took the parking lot right across from the University gym), but it does exclude me from the group. For the most part, until work starts, I keep to myself. And I don't attend their after work reindeer games either.

Dangers and other garbage

It's a dangerous job, toll collector. Not only are we possible victims of jerks who attempt to run us over in order to avoid the two-dollar (my lot) or three-dollar (main lot) parking toll, but we're also subject to freak accidents.

In 2007, a fellow Parking Lot Nazi - let's call him Lou for the sole reason I can't remember his name - had the misfortune of dropping a heavy object on his foot while at a gym. That sealed his fate and pretty much promoted me to parking two. Lou, however, decided to go an file a lawsuit on the establishment. Whether or not he won is still unknown to me.

This year, my former partner, Marcus, called in saying he won't be coming into work again because of a cast on his arm. Details have been spared, but I'm sure it was another freak accident.

We're a small group of people who are constantly being harassed by the patrons of the baseball stadium. We are lectured because prices are too high and sometimes we have hagglers who want a better deal. One time, a man asked if I would park his car. We're toll collectors, not valet parking. Sometimes I wonder if the girls who have the misfortune of becoming Parking Lot Nazis are treated better than us guys. There are two who have joined the team recently. I want to ask, but I'm all the way over on parking three - apparently, it's called parking four now - so I'm completely set apart from them.

With the new members comes a new schedule. One that I only half like. Not only will I be taking tolls this week, I'll also be picking up tickets, a job that has more hours despite if it's a slow day. However, I'm also off three of the eight home games on this stand. That upsets me.