The times are a changin'

It's a Bob Dylan song playing on a continuous loop. Since last Thursday, when I missed because I was sick, things have been slowly changing at the stadium. Yesterday, the major changes began. Super was fired.

I was outside before work, as usual, reading. I went inside the main office to see if the sign in sheet was there. It wasn't, so I went back outside and went back to reading. Afterward, Super came out of the doors. He looked at me, eyes distant. He was frowning. Rough day, I was guessing. He mumbled, "I'll be right back." His voice was farther away. I didn't think anything of it. Soon after he stepped out of the gates, Bossman came up to me and leaned upon the table in front of me.

"Things are going to be different," he said. I thought he was talking about my new work load. It didn't matter, I signed up for it. "How much of a load will it be if we were to take the barricades?"

"Like one by one? We can take two at a time, but that's walking back and forth. It's going to be a lot of work."

I still hadn't caught on. I told him Fred had a truck and we'd use his. I called Estella to get his number. Fred didn't answer, so I looked up and saw Brandon (the new guy) walk in. He has a truck. We used his. When we get back from setting up, Fred greets us with the bags. Estella is somewhere inside. He tells me that Super's gone for the day. Things aren't making much sense. Was he sick?

I take parking two's bag and Estella comes out. She tells us what has just taken place. She's now our supervisor. Apparently Super had run out of warnings and Bossman had to do the final thing. It was sad to see him go. I know I didn't really like the guy because I didn't really know him well. But any man willing to show you his scars is worth knowing. Things will change.

After setting up, the Deal Maker (who I never speak to, but yesterday was different) pulled up and asked if I wanted to do promotions. I said that I didn't really like people, which is why I'm in parking. We closed up lot 2 and I was going to trade places with Brandon. When arriving, Deal Maker stayed on his cell and told me to get back into the car because they wanted me inside instead. From now on, lot 1 will be the only entrance to the game. I can only imagine the hell that will be the parking lot. Of course, on Thursday's all three will be open and not free.

For the meanwhile, I'm still to report at my same time, mop up the suites that need it, replace paper towel and toilet paper in the restrooms and sweep up excess crap. Then I'm wherever they put me. I'm going to ask if I can do Estella's old job in the meanwhile, because after a while, I'm just a guy walking around. I don't want to be on that list.

We're going to see a few people quitting, mostly the Ticket Troll girls. Super always left them go, Estella's not as nice. They have to stay until the end, is what she always said. Yesterday, the one who arrived caught word of the change and knew that she would have to stay. She faked her daughter's sickness and went home.

No one said working outside the diamond was going to be pretty.

No Ticket Trollin' for this Parking Lot Nazi

I go in sick yesterday, thinking I was going to be a Ticket Troll. When I got there, I see Estella at the gate, money bags in hand. I know the worse is coming. Because my sickness dealt with my stomach, I requested them not to send me all the way to lot 3 because with the heat, I might just wind up puking my guts out with no one ever knowing it was happening. So they gave Fred 3 and I stayed in lot 2. For the most part, it was grand.

Until the old f@#k in the red Ford truck pulled up. I've dealt with him this past home stand. He's a bitter old man who thinks the world owes him a great deal of everything. The first time, he cussed me under his breath - in Spanish, I should add, so it makes the insults way more annoying that those who do it in English. This time, however, I was running out of fives and I hate giving out ones in change - c'mon people, if the toll's $3, why don't you just give me a five or a ten? Stop using that, "Oh the ATM only gives out twenties" excuse because you can stop at a store and buy a drink.

Anyway, I'm on the phone, calling Super to bring me some fives or ones or something, as long as it's change. The old f@#k in the red Ford truck pulls up, I take his money and give him his ticket, with the phone glued to my ear in hopes that someone on the other line will answer it. As he drives away, however, the old f@#k in the red Ford truck, again deciding to cuss me out in Spanish, tells me to get off the phone and do my goddamn job. To which, I turn and blatantly, in English, tell him to go f@#k himself. Two can play that game, but only one of us knows both languages.

I told Fred about it and he's the one who pointed out that he drove a Ford. Because I know the truck he drove was red, the description matched. If I'm ever at lot 2 again, and that old fuck comes in with his attitude. I'm snapping a picture of him, his plates and then running them over to Bossman so the fucker can get banned from the stadium. There's not need to treat anyone in such a fashion.

Like I told Jyg, this guy's just in a permanent bad mood. I'm usually in one, as well, but I, at least, have the decency to stray away from things during it. Or if it's because he has to pay for parking, then he can find another lot - a so-called free lot - and park. Or he doesn't have to go to the game at all; he can just sit at home and wank off. Just as long as he doesn't bother me with his shit.

And that's all I have to say about that. I'm in the process of making a list of dos and don'ts for both parking lot Nazis and those who inhabit the lot.

Drama at the Work Place

Go figure. With a "new" team and "new" management, you'd think that things finally in the stadium would be graceful and happy. Wrong. With the new schedules now in place, I'm not longer a parking lot Nazi, but a parking lot Nazi slash Ticket Troll as well.

That's not the worse part. I work at the stadium for two reasons:

1. My mother works there so getting the job wasn't hard
2. I like chasing cars to collect tolls (which I'm not allowed to do anymore)

And I was in agreement that parking three (or four, whichever it is now) would be my home lot. I'm uncomfortable being in the throes of people. It's part of my anxiety problem (which correlates with a series of mental issues like depression and neurotic behavior). Bossman doesn't like us getting too comfortable in our positions so he wants to expand them. Now I'm in the risk of heat stroke come Thursday and conked on the head by a foul ball on Saturday. This hardly seems fair.

But to add injury to insult, Bossman decided yesterday (on my day off) to attack my mother for doing her job. While the men maintenance workers sit on their backsides most of the day, my mother was doing their job. And it's not a lie, or an over exaggeration. One of these guys used to work on the lot before he decided he wanted more hours (like I did) and request to be transferred to maintenance (like I did, but unlike him, didn't get). On Sunday, said guy was out with his father when I was called in, rather than picking up and cleaning the stadium.

Looks like it's going to be a hell of a season. Let's just hope this blog doesn't get me into trouble. And if it does, then I guess I'll just have to write an inside report. Simple as that.

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.