It Happened To Me: I Thought I’d Landed My Dream Job, Then I Spent Five Hours Guarding A Piss Trough
Working at Wrigley Field was the only thing I wanted in the world
Happy Day, cuties,
I'm really excited to have this It Happened To Me story today by our Charlie, because I love his writing and his stories and because I know how happy you Charlie fans will be to see it in your inboxes.
Without comparing yourself to Charlie or anyone else, I'm also encouraging you (yes, you!) to send me stories about anything that has happened to you that you would be interested in having published here as part of our lengthy and legendary (est. Sassy magazine circa 1988!) series of stories only you could tell. Send them to me at jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com, because I just last night fixed that email when a reader told me the emails from there were bouncing back again. Thanks, Outlook! But really, thanks Meeka for alerting me. And know whenever you submit something to me, I'm not an editor who is looking for reasons to say no. I am right there supporting your ambitions and always looking for ways to say yes to everything. So don't be shy or intimidated or any of those things and send your IHTM stories my way if you want them published and want to make a little money off of them.
I'm going to end this there today because there are so many heavy discussions going on in comments from the past couple of days' pieces (man, this week has been A LOT) that I'm more inclined to follow up on those conversations, because they are important and because we are still getting to some resolution on the issues there, rather than raising a new issue for discussion now. That's not usually my way. And you're welcome for it!
I love you all and let's all love Charlie's story together now!
Xox Jane
It was early March 2002. I was sitting on my couch playing Tony Hawk Pro Skater, a detail I know not because of the memory, but because I spent almost every waking moment playing that game. I can also tell you that I was playing as Rune Glifberg (because the Christ air was the coolest special trick in the game) and listening to Millencolin’s “No Cigar” (because it was the best song on the soundtrack) when the phone rang.
I rushed over to answer it, never taking my eyes off my game. Although my controller was wireless, my phone was still attached to the wall by a cord, showing my financial priorities at 21.
“Hello.”
“Hi. This is [name forgotten due to years of drinking] from the Chicago Cubs, we’re calling to let you know you got the job.”
“HELL YEEEEEEAAAAAAAH!! I mean, thank you very much, and sorry about that outburst…”
And that’s how I became an usher at Wrigley Field. I’d been dreaming about landing this job for at least a decade, if not longer. Every time I walked out to my seats at Wrigley, there’d be a friendly person checking my ticket, and when they weren’t actively checking tickets, they were watching the game. They weren’t just seeing every game for free, they were GETTING PAID. I hoped that someday I could laze away the summer at the ballpark, checking tickets and getting paid. This was my dream job and it would be absolutely perfect. I was ecstatic.
At least I was until my first day on the job when I spent five hours guarding the exit of a men’s room from drunk Cubs fans eager to cut the line and take a piss. It was kinda funny for a couple minutes, then it became surreal for another couple minutes. Then, for the next four hours and 50 minutes, it sucked shit.
Seniors Have Seniority
The first hard lesson I learned as an usher was that a system based on seniority sucks when you’re brand new. I don’t know if I wasn’t paying attention or had one too many Old Styles coursing through my veins, but I had never noticed that most of the ushers checking tickets were in their 70s. The daily job assignment was based on how many years you’d been working for the Cubs, which meant the chances of landing in a prime section were drastically reduced if you didn’t have an AARP card.
This is when I started to understand how a job can be like an iceberg — the public only sees the pristine 10% on the surface — and that there were countless thankless tasks for an usher to do. Let’s run through them really quickly:
Ticket Taker: This involved ripping the stub off of a physical ticket (remember those?) as fans rushed into the stadium. While not fun by any means, work went pretty quickly and you’d usually get turned loose by the 7th inning, which was nice.
Upper Deck Crowd Control: Fans were only allowed into the upper deck if they had tickets for the upper deck, so midway up the ramp, they’d stick an usher to check everyone’s tickets. This sucked for two reasons. First, the ramp was super wide and there was only one of you. Secondly, nobody understood what you were doing and complained incessantly about having to show their ticket. This got even more ridiculous when they had tickets in the lower deck and didn’t understand why they weren’t allowed to go to worse seats. This was also the second coldest place in the stadium, something that matters a ton on April nights.
Lower Deck Crowd Control: Pretty much the same as above, but in the tunnels of the lower concourse. This was, semi-shockingly, the coldest spot in the ballpark. The wind would whip through the tunnel and right through me as I pissed off every single fan who had to juggle their beers and hot dogs to reach in their pocket to find their ticket stub.
Usher: This was the gig I coveted. I’d sit on a tiny little bench in a section and walk people down to their seats. The rest of the time I’d shoot the shit with folks and watch the game. It ruled. In my time with the Cubs, I was assigned this job roughly a dozen times, and I was right — it was awesome. I was posted here during Mark Prior’s debut and I even met Bobby Bonds (Barry’s dad and former MLB star himself) where he asked me not to boo his son after we’d been talking for a while (I’m not skilled at social graces when it comes to my disdain for the San Francisco Giants).
Wheelchair Runner: This job was unexpectedly a ton of fun. I’d meet fans who needed a wheelchair (or who were already in one) at the gate and take them to their seat. We’d talk, I’d drop them off, and at the end of the game, pick them up again.
Bathroom Warden: The worst job of all.
You shall not pass!
“Charlie. You’re going to be guarding the men’s room exit outside section 112,” my supervisor told me about an hour before gates opened on my first day.