The Sunday Memory Drawer - When A Kid Worked During the Summer - Final Chapter

 

No, that's not me in the picture.  Trust me, ballpark sodas have never cost a nickel in my lifetime.

But I did have a job like this.   Read on.

Since my two-summer career as a Mount Vernon playground supervisor had literally jumped the shark, I went back to the employment canvas in hopes of drawing a better picture. 

But now, there were other factors pulling at me. 

I had gotten myself involved up to my hips at Fordham's college radio station, WFUV. And since they were on the air all year round, there was plenty I wanted to do there during the summer months. Work on the radio and play off the radio with all the friends I made there. The only rub was that, after extensive rounds of negotiation with management there, my salary for this volunteer work was, well....nothing. 

That was not going to be an answer. To make matters even worse, I had made plans to move on-campus for the junior and senior years in an effort to cut down my painstakingly long fifteen minute commute to Fordham. The university was paying me nothing to work at WFUV and, at the same time, they wanted to charge me big bucks for the dormitory apartment. Sheer indignation. 

The only person who was even more annoyed by this nasty disparity... Dad. 

"You better bring some money in to help out or you can forget about the dorm." 

I'm sorry, Dad, this sounds like I have a choice, but I don't think I do. Oh, never mind. I began to work feverishly on a plan that would satisfy me in all areas. Money coming in. Time to work at the station. Flexibility. 

My college best friend and upcoming roommate had the answer on his own paycheck. Work alongside him as a vendor at Yankee Stadium. The notion was intriguing. The Yankees were home only half the summer. It's not the Mets, so there would be no distraction in my work. And I could work at WFUV when the Yanks were on the road. It all jelled. 

Sort of. 

There is a definite caste system when you work as an usher for a baseball team. Newbies don't get to sell beer or hot dogs. Those assignments go to the grizzled veterans who were trolling the stands back when Joe DiMaggio was patroling centerfield. Nope, I'd show up for my daily gig and had to hope that I would even get something or anything to sell that day. If the advance sale for the game was low, they wouldn't need as many vendors. And the newest folks would be told to skidaddle. 

That happened my first few days. I'd show up only to turn around and head back to the subway within ten minutes. Unlike the red tape my father was able to snip through for my playground gig, there was nobody he could call about this. It took about a week to get assigned for a game. The new kids on the block of 161st Street and River Avenue always got the crap to sell. Ice cream cups. Scorecards. Cotton candy. But, even if it was garbage, you still had to sell out to get your daily commission. There was money to be made, but it was hard work. With some tray strapped around you. An apron where you kept change. And a goofy paper hat that held a button that spelled out the price of your concession. 

If I had any pictures of me doing this job, they would have been burned by now. As you walked up and down the stands, you had to announce your arrival with those piercing catcalls. You adapted it depending upon what you were hawking. 

"Ice cream here. Get your ice cream here. Cold and refreshing." 

Except, of course, if you were still holding the very last cup that had melted to the consistency of chocolate milk an hour ago. It was no longer cold or refreshing. You might as well try to sell a container of pre-packaged diarrhea. 

"Peanuts. Peanuts here. Who wants my nuts?" 

I always thought that was a clever call until, of course, some girl would beckon me over and ask to see my nuts. That pretty much ended that gag. 

When you were assigned for the day, you prayed silently to wind up on the field level because that section was very easy to maneuver. If they threw you in the ultra-steep upper deck, every aisle looked like Mount Fuji. With a tray full of junk, I dreaded each climb like poison. My first time selling soda was memorable. I was also given the field level area behind home plate and it was a typical New York hazy, hot, and humid day. Ka-ching. The sweetest day of work ever.

Until I tripped down the stairs with a full tray of Coke.

Sitting on the concrete steps with sticky liquid covering me, I sheepishly tipped my paper cap to the applause around me. So, when you're watching a baseball game on TV and you suddenly hear crowd applause although there's no action on the field, just know that a stadium vendor has probably fallen down.

The great part of working at a ballpark, even in this lowly capacity, is you have immediate access to every area of the place. Nobody stops you as long as you're wearing your paper hat with a button that says "Soda $4.50." I used to work through the bullpens all the time and frequently one of the players would buy something. With a five dollar tip included. On Oldtimer's Day, Whitey Ford asked me for a soda and I complied. As I stood next to him waiting for his end of the transaction to be processed, he stared me down. And offered no cash.

"Kid, I'm the Chairman of the Board."

I tipped my hat to acknowledge his lofty presence. That's $4.50, please.

He still hasn't paid me and now that he's dead...Gin blossomed bastard.

Yankee vendors also got to extend their employment into the football season as they were also used at New York Giant games. And this presented a interesting dichotomy for one of the units we were frequently asked to sell.

If you got assigned those little containers of Sun Dew orange drink during the baseball season, you might as well kiss your day's financial take goodbye. Nobody bought that shit.

But, one week into the football season, I discovered this swill was a premium item. Fans bought them by the carton. You didn't even have to move. All I had to do was crack open a box and I'd draw a line. They'd even ask me to pour it directly into their Thermos. I quickly figured it out.

The Thermos was full of vodka. And I was mixing their screwdrivers. Ideal for the nippy Fall weather. By the third quarter, I could be scalping this stuff for ten bucks a container.

As lucrative as that summer job was, I still was apparently not meeting the budget line item my father had on his ledger of life. So, when the following summer rolled around for what was probably my last hot weather job, I needed to rethink it all one more time. Actually, he rethought it for me.

"You can make a lot more money in my place."

Namely, the factory where he worked nights in Stamford, Connecticut. It was more than a suggestion. It was a stipulation. A demand. An edict. One more time, he made a call and got me a night job manning the shipping department. Gone was my flexibility. Gone was the chance to work regularly at WFUV. Gone was a lot of hanging out with my friends.

But, enter a shitload of money. For doing virtually nothing.

I would ride up to work with my dad around 3PM every afternoon. Then, I would head into the huge shipping room, where, for perhaps no more than an hour, I would load some metal parts into a box. 

And then I was done. 

For the rest of the evening, I would sit and listen to the radio. And write. And write. And write. The WFUV situation comedy I was producing would be going into its second season. I used my time in the shipping department to commandeer the writing staff (me) in the development of all the scripts for the year. I never wrote more regularly and consistently and successfully as I did on that dirty work bench in my father's factory. And I was paid handsomely for it. In my mind, this was the first time ever I was paid to write.

So, looking back, my father did me a huge favor that summer.

Moving forward, there would be no more summer jobs. The rest of my employment was all for real. And keeps.

Dinner last night:  Spicy peanut noodles with beef from Chin Chin.