- Atlanta ------- 6
- Washington --- 4
After last night's relative success with hotdogs, I went at it again tonight. It's still cold, so I'm still in favor of avoiding the cold aluminum to tote around the hot steel box of dogs again. And one of the perennial top vendors, a 37-year veteran named Howard Hart, picked dogs ahead of me, which gave me confidence in the decision. So off I went again, for a loop around the upper deck.
But it is not wise to wish twice for the same thing. The air had warmed slightly, shifting lightly the interests of the audience. The hunger that had steadied sales just last night was no longer there, and I struggled through slow business. It doesn't take much to alter the spirit of a crowd.
On good nights, the product moves fast enough that you never hold onto a full case for very long at all, and it's mostly light going even as sales are heavy. Then, it's easy for the vendor to let the constant flow of activity carry him along in its slipstream and nine innings of sales are over in a flash. Bad games bring everything to a halt, and the irony is that slower sales make for harder work, as a full load is lugged around the deck over and over again. The vendor has to work for his business, through charm or conversation or evoking mere sympathy.
The first two cases went upstairs before I took the third down to the lower deck to compete with the other two dog vendors there. One of them was still on his second load, and the other -- Howard -- was just starting a fourth and not happy about it.
"I made a bad call," Howard said regretfully. "It's warm -- it's a beer night. I shoulda known that! I'm gonna finish this load and I'm out." He shook his head and seemed really disappointed; it might be strange to say that there is vendors' pride but he has it. Howard is competitive and doesn't want to give up the contest to poor judgment. Gambling and losing (on a non-alcoholic product no less) while watching everyone else leave you behind in sales totals, is like watching a party through the front window.
I finally got back to the re-stock room right as the game ended, having finished that third load. The cashiers were not at all impressed.
"About time you got back," one of them growled at me. The other one wouldn't even look at me, and kept counting money. "You are the last vendor in the stadium!"
"That should indicate something about my work ethic," I said, feeling the burn.
They were having none of that. "You're holding us all up, waiting for you to come back. I have to leave for work tomorrow at 5 a.m. for a two hour commute!"
I tried to protest that the people were still buying, and they were there at all, but this was falling on deaf ears. And she had a point; I have sympathy for anyone who has to wake up that early for their real job.
Vending is a 'fun job' -- fun to do in a fun place to be -- but it's not just that. There is money involved, and most vendors below a certain age hold down 'real jobs' -- full time with full commutes and real responsibilities. Being at the stadium is a break from all that, and extra money, and no time left to spare during the season. During a full homestand, a full week's worth of evenings are gone to the ballpark, and the Beerman's cycle runs a constant course: job, vend, job, vend, again and again and again.
This is especially true for the vendors who work full seasons at RFK and in Baltimore, who work as many as 160 games over the six months of the season in an unending mill of sweat and effort. They are painting and plumbing contractors, office workers, a travel agent, a nursing assistant, a tax accountant, sales managers, a travel agent, a couple of college students, and at least one researcher on the staff of a magazine. One vendor routes his schedule as a furniture truckdriver to Atlanta in time for Falcons football games in the fall. They are everyday players, and they are as comfortable with pounding, grinding labor as they are with the money it earns them.
No comments:
Post a Comment