"Hon, go get me some of that kettle corn,"
she'd call to me. I was her go-to-girl.
It was the shrill voice of
Sandy Trimble--my boss, my superior,
with her pronounced Baltimore accent
resounding through the speakers of the walkie talkie
I clutched, as though my job depended on it.
"Sure," I'd say, nervously, glancing over at her
and nodding in affirmation.
She sat on the hill in a lawn chair,
sipping cheap wine coolers,
waiting for more feed.
Every night of the July weekend,
I'd run around changing trashbags,
racing to the office to turn off the lights
just before the fireworks went off,
and not a moment too late,
under Sandy's command.
Then, at the end of the night,
all of us "concert staff" would line up, prison style,
each with a black trashbag,
picking up the wrappers,
cans, bottles, papers, that she pointed to,
demeaned by the dread
of a first job in the summer heat.
Minimum wage,
a 4-12 shift
won about 56$ big ones--
Me making 2 cents less
than my brother and his college-bound buddies,
but trying 10 times harder.
Still, we all made about half as much as Sandy,
who liked me for my obedience,
but hated them, perhaps for the promise of their collegiate futures.
I was too young, yet, for her to tell.
Sandy lived in a world of golf carts,
Sam's Clubs, and here she was,
the only thing she would ever have authority over,
except maybe her retired husband.
Her resentment of their privilege
was made clear by the way she spoke to them over the walkie for all of us to hear,
by the way she didn't thank them at the end of the night.
I had to learn the hard way
that this is how these things work,
the corporate hierarchy of the dead end job,
it doesn't pay you more for potential
that may, or may not be fulfilled.
Forced to tag along by the will of my mother,
I was too kind to be lazy,
too scared of the shamefulness
that would result in being fired.
I just listened to Sandy's orders,
tried to be cooperative,
and committed myself to going beyond.
No comments:
Post a Comment