Blunder from Down Under ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

  

     Some of y'all might know that besides waiting tables, et cetera, at a couple of restaurants, I'm also a beer vendor at the local football team's home games. I stroll around the stadium, toting a big-ass tub of ice and brewskis. And I'm versatile, too; sometimes I'll work other events, like concerts or different sports. My beer-vending supervisor called me last week to ask if I could work an upcoming show at the local shed, Tampax® Amphitheatre. I said I'd try. I wound up being scheduled at the regular gig that evening but a co-worker asked if she could pick up. So I took the vending opportunity. The show was last night.
    Every venue has its own rules, beyond what you might expect. These edicts can even be more, or less, stringent within the same building for different events. This show, headlined by a C&W-tinged pop act, was expected to draw plenty of folks under 30. Therefore a lot of strict rules and the promise of more enforcement and spying than usual were in effect.
    One of the rules was ID everyone every time. I've dealt with that one a lot. Another, imposed sometimes but not always, was that driving licenses from outside the US and Canada weren't to be accepted. And by the way hockey fans, welcome and thanks for visiting but don't flash that sweet CHT Card at me. I can't accept it for ID and it'll just make me jealous.
     Anyway, at one point during my pretty lucrative night, a 35-year-oldish-looking dude ordered a beer from me and passed along a driving license from Australia. He didn't seem at all intoxicated and I'm sure he's well over 21. In other situations, I'd have been at least tempted to sell him a brew anyway. But for that show, the bosses seemed very serious that surveillance and enforcement were at the max, so I shut the guy out. "I'm sorry sir. I'm afraid I can't use that. Did ya bring your passport?" He didn't.
     I felt bad and hoped he hadn't come all that way just for this one lame (to me) show. I was trying to think of a way I could help him out. Maybe I could make a legit sale to another patron with the instruction to not pass it to dude until I'd walked away or something like that. Before I'd decided what, if anything, I could do for the tourist—and just to be nice too; one measly sale's not going to make or break my night—he got a little pleady and a lot argumentative, which withered my sympathy considerably. I thought about fucking with him back a little. It even briefly crossed my mind to get security into the mix—under venue protocol, his verbal hostility had given me that option—but I didn't. His words didn't hurt my feelings or anything. I try to not give a shit about something somebody has said and in this instance was successful. I shrugged and told him, "I just work here," or, "My kids gotta eat," or whatever, and walked away.
     He probably got suds later if he half-assed tried. I'm easily imagining one of my dumbass fellow vendors thinking Queensland's a province or a state. It'd be cool if he told another vendor what a dick I was and the story making them realize they couldn't sell him anything either.
     I like my vending gig OK, especially when it's as profitable as last night, but it's pretty physical and always wears me out. I cheerfully eschewed the Outback Steakhouse® I passed on the way home—take that, Australia!—and instead got to the crib and microwaved some Campbell's Chunky®, 'cause it's the soup that eats like a meal and I was pretty fucking hungry.





     Oh yeah, I almost forgot: I've got Twitter now. @JoeSixtop. I haven't checked it in a couple of days but as far as I know, my next follower on there will be my first and I want it to be you!