The End of White Pants Season
Labor Day weekend has arrived. If memory serves me right, you’re not supposed to wear white pants or white shoes or something after Monday. This doesn’t really affect me as there was only one time in my life that I wore white pants. That would be the summer of 1989 when I worked as a vendor at soon-to-be-demolished Shea Stadium.
I fell into the job via a friend who already worked there. Back then, that’s how Harry M. Stevens hired their crew for that facility. You had to be referred by someone that already worked there. I was looking for something different to do other than the deli job I had held down for close to four years at that point. I do have a habit of staying in unsatisfying employment for long periods. Must be the “Depression kid” mentality my parents drilled into me. In any event I kept both jobs that summer and it was a good thing I did given the amount of money I often failed to rake in at the ballpark.
It sounded like a good deal when I went for the job. First of all, you would work only the games you want to work as the operation was done on a “shape” system – management decided how many vendors were needed based on advance ticket sales and put that number on a recording that you called the day of a game. The guys who had been there for more than a year and had worked at least 35 of the 81 home games the prior season were in the union and had a seniority number but that only came into play on days with inclement weather; I think I was only turned down for work once when I showed up at the stadium.
Although there was no salary, you got paid 13% of what you sold plus 100% of your tips (though you were expected to “tip out” the guy who ran the station where you were based for the night) and you got to knock off sometime near the end of the 7th or top of the 8th inning, change, and watch the end of the games for free. It sounded like it would beat the heck out of standing behind the counter of a deli/convenience store for 8-10 hours at a time. Better yet, if you worked 35 games your rookie season you were eligible for union status the following year where you could make 16% of what you sold and have a chance at choosing the item for sale rather than having it assigned to you.
It all seemed too good to be true. It was.
Now I know there are many people out there who have made a fine living being a vendor; a lot of guys who did it were cops or firemen who did it on the side for some extra dough. The management loved that since they figured if you had a cop selling beer it was a built in security system. Speaking of beer, as a rookie (or “blue sheeter” as they called you because the non-union sign-in slips were blue as opposed to the white ones for the union guys) I quickly learned that you pretty much had zero chance of ever getting to sell that high-ticket item until you had several years’ seniority. Besides being an item that would sell no matter what the weather and generating the highest income for the vendor since it was the highest priced item for sale you got to knock off an inning earlier than everyone else as beer sales in the seats stopped at the end of the 6th. Long-time vets would earn a ton of dough by showing up early to sell scorecards in the parking lot and then head in to sell beer thus double-dipping on their commissions.
One other note about that beer they served you back then: the guys who went around yelling “Bud” and had Bud marked trays were filling the cups from machines hooked up to Busch kegs and the “Bud Light” sellers were actually hawking Natural Light. I can’t say if anyplace else has done that or is doing it, I can only tell you what I saw 19 years ago.
Beer was largely irrelevant to my vendor existence in any event. As a rookie you generally got soda, peanuts, pretzels, hot dogs or ice cream. If you were lucky on the ice cream front you got Haagen Dazs bars on a warm day. If you were me, you got Haagen Dazs bars on an April night that was roughly, oh, I would say about minus 273 degrees with 15,000 people in the stands mainly concentrated in the lower level while you were assigned to sell in the upper deck in right field. I spent long stretches that night watching food wrappers and napkins dance in the breeze through the empty concourse while contemplating how nice it must be to stand behind a warm cash register in a deli making actual money. I netted about $2.75 for three hours work that night plus the two-hour each-way commute via public transit.
Not all nights were that awful. I wound up working around 16 or 17 games that season (while still doing shifts at the deli, fortunately) and some were good. I pulled in over $100 for one Banner Day Doubleheader worth of work selling Pepsi in the upper deck in left field. In 1989 that was a fair amount of dough for a college kid for a day’s work. And there were a couple of nights that I got to participate in the Peanut Scam.
What is the Peanut Scam you ask? Well, in the ’89 season the going rate for a bag of peanuts was $1.60. The crafty vendor would only buy rolls of dimes for his change because I’d say at least half the time when people saw four dimes coming back their way in change they’d say “Forget about it” and you would pocket a cool 40 cents on top of the 21 cents you just made by selling that bag. Of course people who bought two bags would sometimes give you $3.25 and you’d only get a nickel, but even when that happened you’d never offer quarters back in change. Peanuts were light too. They were much easier to maneuver than the bulky soda trays or the heavy hunks of hot metal that were the hot dog or pretzel bins.
Sympathy buys were another good scam that I only was able to cultivate once. I’m sure there were some guys who limped around or acted hurt to play on the feelings of the crowd (the occasional Mets fan does have a shred of humanity left in their soul we found) but I inadvertently pulled off a real gem one night. I was working soda in the upper deck behind home plate. I had just completed a sale about ¾ of the way up to the top of the stadium and took two steps down when my foot hit a wet step and I went right down on my rear end. I then proceeded to slide down the whole flight of stairs in that fashion; thinking quickly I held my tray in the air so as not to spill any soda as I slid down the stairs; an orange-shirted white-panted, blur whizzing past surprised fans.
When I got to the bottom of the stairs I stopped myself with my feet, popped up and became the surprised recipient of a nice round of applause from the fans in the immediate area. People started saying “Aw, the poor kid, hey buddy gimme a soda.” I sold out of the rest of that tray in a few minutes and hobbled to the concourse where once out of sight I sprinted to the station to get another tray to hawk to my new fan club. As I was leaving the station guy saw the black streaks on my ass and said “What happened to your pants?”
“Fell down the stairs”
“You OK?”
“Gotta make some money, bye!”
It wound up being a very profitable night.
The season wore on, the weather worsened as did the Mets playoff chances and the crowds dwindled. After a couple of unprofitable games and hellish late night commutes home I stopped showing up and drifted back to working more hours at the deli. The white pants, orange polo shirt and denim apron got shoved into the back of a closet and haven’t been seen since. Every so often I think about those handful of games I worked and, well, don’t get particularly nostalgic for them. It was an experience; it had its season, and its over.
I haven’t worn white pants since.
I fell into the job via a friend who already worked there. Back then, that’s how Harry M. Stevens hired their crew for that facility. You had to be referred by someone that already worked there. I was looking for something different to do other than the deli job I had held down for close to four years at that point. I do have a habit of staying in unsatisfying employment for long periods. Must be the “Depression kid” mentality my parents drilled into me. In any event I kept both jobs that summer and it was a good thing I did given the amount of money I often failed to rake in at the ballpark.
It sounded like a good deal when I went for the job. First of all, you would work only the games you want to work as the operation was done on a “shape” system – management decided how many vendors were needed based on advance ticket sales and put that number on a recording that you called the day of a game. The guys who had been there for more than a year and had worked at least 35 of the 81 home games the prior season were in the union and had a seniority number but that only came into play on days with inclement weather; I think I was only turned down for work once when I showed up at the stadium.
Although there was no salary, you got paid 13% of what you sold plus 100% of your tips (though you were expected to “tip out” the guy who ran the station where you were based for the night) and you got to knock off sometime near the end of the 7th or top of the 8th inning, change, and watch the end of the games for free. It sounded like it would beat the heck out of standing behind the counter of a deli/convenience store for 8-10 hours at a time. Better yet, if you worked 35 games your rookie season you were eligible for union status the following year where you could make 16% of what you sold and have a chance at choosing the item for sale rather than having it assigned to you.
It all seemed too good to be true. It was.
Now I know there are many people out there who have made a fine living being a vendor; a lot of guys who did it were cops or firemen who did it on the side for some extra dough. The management loved that since they figured if you had a cop selling beer it was a built in security system. Speaking of beer, as a rookie (or “blue sheeter” as they called you because the non-union sign-in slips were blue as opposed to the white ones for the union guys) I quickly learned that you pretty much had zero chance of ever getting to sell that high-ticket item until you had several years’ seniority. Besides being an item that would sell no matter what the weather and generating the highest income for the vendor since it was the highest priced item for sale you got to knock off an inning earlier than everyone else as beer sales in the seats stopped at the end of the 6th. Long-time vets would earn a ton of dough by showing up early to sell scorecards in the parking lot and then head in to sell beer thus double-dipping on their commissions.
One other note about that beer they served you back then: the guys who went around yelling “Bud” and had Bud marked trays were filling the cups from machines hooked up to Busch kegs and the “Bud Light” sellers were actually hawking Natural Light. I can’t say if anyplace else has done that or is doing it, I can only tell you what I saw 19 years ago.
Beer was largely irrelevant to my vendor existence in any event. As a rookie you generally got soda, peanuts, pretzels, hot dogs or ice cream. If you were lucky on the ice cream front you got Haagen Dazs bars on a warm day. If you were me, you got Haagen Dazs bars on an April night that was roughly, oh, I would say about minus 273 degrees with 15,000 people in the stands mainly concentrated in the lower level while you were assigned to sell in the upper deck in right field. I spent long stretches that night watching food wrappers and napkins dance in the breeze through the empty concourse while contemplating how nice it must be to stand behind a warm cash register in a deli making actual money. I netted about $2.75 for three hours work that night plus the two-hour each-way commute via public transit.
Not all nights were that awful. I wound up working around 16 or 17 games that season (while still doing shifts at the deli, fortunately) and some were good. I pulled in over $100 for one Banner Day Doubleheader worth of work selling Pepsi in the upper deck in left field. In 1989 that was a fair amount of dough for a college kid for a day’s work. And there were a couple of nights that I got to participate in the Peanut Scam.
What is the Peanut Scam you ask? Well, in the ’89 season the going rate for a bag of peanuts was $1.60. The crafty vendor would only buy rolls of dimes for his change because I’d say at least half the time when people saw four dimes coming back their way in change they’d say “Forget about it” and you would pocket a cool 40 cents on top of the 21 cents you just made by selling that bag. Of course people who bought two bags would sometimes give you $3.25 and you’d only get a nickel, but even when that happened you’d never offer quarters back in change. Peanuts were light too. They were much easier to maneuver than the bulky soda trays or the heavy hunks of hot metal that were the hot dog or pretzel bins.
Sympathy buys were another good scam that I only was able to cultivate once. I’m sure there were some guys who limped around or acted hurt to play on the feelings of the crowd (the occasional Mets fan does have a shred of humanity left in their soul we found) but I inadvertently pulled off a real gem one night. I was working soda in the upper deck behind home plate. I had just completed a sale about ¾ of the way up to the top of the stadium and took two steps down when my foot hit a wet step and I went right down on my rear end. I then proceeded to slide down the whole flight of stairs in that fashion; thinking quickly I held my tray in the air so as not to spill any soda as I slid down the stairs; an orange-shirted white-panted, blur whizzing past surprised fans.
When I got to the bottom of the stairs I stopped myself with my feet, popped up and became the surprised recipient of a nice round of applause from the fans in the immediate area. People started saying “Aw, the poor kid, hey buddy gimme a soda.” I sold out of the rest of that tray in a few minutes and hobbled to the concourse where once out of sight I sprinted to the station to get another tray to hawk to my new fan club. As I was leaving the station guy saw the black streaks on my ass and said “What happened to your pants?”
“Fell down the stairs”
“You OK?”
“Gotta make some money, bye!”
It wound up being a very profitable night.
The season wore on, the weather worsened as did the Mets playoff chances and the crowds dwindled. After a couple of unprofitable games and hellish late night commutes home I stopped showing up and drifted back to working more hours at the deli. The white pants, orange polo shirt and denim apron got shoved into the back of a closet and haven’t been seen since. Every so often I think about those handful of games I worked and, well, don’t get particularly nostalgic for them. It was an experience; it had its season, and its over.
I haven’t worn white pants since.
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