Concert Conversations
Here are some interesting conversations I had this weekend with Dave Matthews fans.
"Excuse me," began one gentleman, "but you need to help me."
Now, this was early in the evening. A few hours later, and my response would have been different. But since it was early, I was polite and pleasant and said, "Of course, sir, what can I do for you?"
"Well," he said, "my view is obstructed. By that big yellow pole you got out there. Pesk." He handed me his tickets.
"Sir," I said, looking at the tickets, "your seats aren't in the same section as Pesky's Pole. Pesky's Pole is to the right of your section, which means that if you're looking at the stage - which, well, I assume you will be - the pole is to the far right of the stage."
He nodded. "Of course! But that's not the point."
I was curious. "What, sir, is the point then?"
"If I look, I can see it!"
"So, you're telling me that if you turn to the right, away from the stage, and look at the pole, you can see it?"
"Exactly!"
"Well, sir, what would you like me to do about the fact that you have good eyesight?"
This is what made working at the concert fun: you could say this shit to these people, and they didn't seem to mind it. They seemed to like a little bit of attitude, here and there. Either that, or they were too drunk or high to notice. Take this next one:
"Sir," I said to this guy hiding behind this half-wall, "you can't smoke in the park. Please put it out."
He was wearing this giant cowboy hat. He turned around slowly. "What?"
"You. Can't. Smoke. Here."
"I - (drag) - can't - (drag) - smoke - (drag) - here?" Very cute.
"Yup. Can't smoke. Put it out. Now."
"What's this, a game?" he asked. I really didn't understand why he was asking me that, but whatever, I went with it.
"Sure, sir. This is a game. I play me, and you play you. Here's the rules. When I talk, you listen. And when I say stop smoking, you stop."
It worked.
And then a few hours later, when I was walking by a broken/out-of-cash ATM (these were, by far, the longest lines for the ATM I'd ever seen. DMB fans really spend money. On beer.)
"Excuse me! Excuse me!" some insane woman flagged me down.
"What's up?" (Yeah, I'd lost any customer service politeness after dealing with fifty cowboy hat smokers)
"The ATM's broken."
"Right, we're aware. Unfortunately, Bank of America can't fix the problem during the concert, so we're going to have to do the best we can with the one ATM right here. There are others -"
"Can you fix it?" Her eyes were pretty well glazed over. She'd probably used up all of her money already on the beers. And whatever else she was trying to buy from her fellow field-seating comrades.
"Can I fix it?"
"Can you fix it?"
"Can I fix it?"
(This was actually kind of fun, because she didn't seem to understand that I was making fun of her question, so we just repeated it at each other for a few minutes, until she finally ended it with, "Can I fix it?" drunkenly repeating my question word-for-word back to me.)
"I don't work for Bank of America."
"You don't work for Bank of America?"
"I don't."
"You don't?"
"Do I look like I work for Bank of America? Am I wearing a Bank of America red shirt?"
"Your shirt is black."
"I can't fix the ATM."
"Can you put more money in it? It needs more money." She really was a drunk dingbat.
"Sure. Tell you what, you wait here, and I'll go get some money. I'll either find my wallet or a tree, and I'll come back and put it right in the machine. In fact, don't put your card in. I'll just give you a free $100."
"Really?"
She was dumb. Duuuumb.
Then there was the guy that decided to pee off the spiral staircase out at the big concourse, from the top level. Just decided, hey, I'll go right here, right on the aforementioned line of people at the ATM. Well, a big guy in line didn't appreciate the evening shower and ran up the stairs and bashed the offender's head into the vent on the stairs. They were removed.
Then there was the girl sitting in the seats with her skirt around her knees and caution tape around her waist. I had to go with security to this one because I was the token chick who could tell her pull her skirt up and walk her out. She spent a while on the phone while she was being ejected which didn't go over very well with security so I had to tell whoever she was crying (literally) to that she would have to call them back. Buh-bye!
That was another thing. I've never seen so many crybabies. Everyone was freaking crying. If you got thrown out, you cried. If your friend got thrown out, you cried. If your brother's girlfriend got thrown out, you cried. If you were sitting in your seats, you were crying (I saw a few!). One woman was walking around the concourse, completely aimlessly, crying. At first I stopped and asked these people if they were okay (well, only the ones who were in their seats or walking around. The ones crying about ejections weren't getting any sympathy). I stopped doing this though because I only got blank stares in return, or every once in a while, a story that I really would have rather been okay not knowing, about how some guy cheated on her with the skank whore who just turned up and sat down next to them and how she was going to run the bitch down if she ever saw her outside of this park because other people already got thrown out for beating her skanky ass and she wanted to enjoy the show before she cut off her boyfriend's balls and fed them to this skank.
I stopped asking people how they were doing after that.
Guys were crying too, by the way. One guy was all watery-eyed as the head of security out at the gate told him he wasn't getting back in. I love this guy because he's always calm and collected and every once in a while, you see a flash of anger and it's beautiful and rather scary. He gets pretty upset when people try to touch him on their way out. If they even touch his arm to start talking to him, he says, real flat but angry-like, "Don't touch me." It's so good! And then when this 18-year-old idiot started to try to hit him, he pushed his hands right away. People should take courses from this guy.
Anyway, the point of all of this is the usual, that people are morons but that if the morons let you yell at them and then walk away, it's not so bad.
"Excuse me," began one gentleman, "but you need to help me."
Now, this was early in the evening. A few hours later, and my response would have been different. But since it was early, I was polite and pleasant and said, "Of course, sir, what can I do for you?"
"Well," he said, "my view is obstructed. By that big yellow pole you got out there. Pesk." He handed me his tickets.
"Sir," I said, looking at the tickets, "your seats aren't in the same section as Pesky's Pole. Pesky's Pole is to the right of your section, which means that if you're looking at the stage - which, well, I assume you will be - the pole is to the far right of the stage."
He nodded. "Of course! But that's not the point."
I was curious. "What, sir, is the point then?"
"If I look, I can see it!"
"So, you're telling me that if you turn to the right, away from the stage, and look at the pole, you can see it?"
"Exactly!"
"Well, sir, what would you like me to do about the fact that you have good eyesight?"
This is what made working at the concert fun: you could say this shit to these people, and they didn't seem to mind it. They seemed to like a little bit of attitude, here and there. Either that, or they were too drunk or high to notice. Take this next one:
"Sir," I said to this guy hiding behind this half-wall, "you can't smoke in the park. Please put it out."
He was wearing this giant cowboy hat. He turned around slowly. "What?"
"You. Can't. Smoke. Here."
"I - (drag) - can't - (drag) - smoke - (drag) - here?" Very cute.
"Yup. Can't smoke. Put it out. Now."
"What's this, a game?" he asked. I really didn't understand why he was asking me that, but whatever, I went with it.
"Sure, sir. This is a game. I play me, and you play you. Here's the rules. When I talk, you listen. And when I say stop smoking, you stop."
It worked.
And then a few hours later, when I was walking by a broken/out-of-cash ATM (these were, by far, the longest lines for the ATM I'd ever seen. DMB fans really spend money. On beer.)
"Excuse me! Excuse me!" some insane woman flagged me down.
"What's up?" (Yeah, I'd lost any customer service politeness after dealing with fifty cowboy hat smokers)
"The ATM's broken."
"Right, we're aware. Unfortunately, Bank of America can't fix the problem during the concert, so we're going to have to do the best we can with the one ATM right here. There are others -"
"Can you fix it?" Her eyes were pretty well glazed over. She'd probably used up all of her money already on the beers. And whatever else she was trying to buy from her fellow field-seating comrades.
"Can I fix it?"
"Can you fix it?"
"Can I fix it?"
(This was actually kind of fun, because she didn't seem to understand that I was making fun of her question, so we just repeated it at each other for a few minutes, until she finally ended it with, "Can I fix it?" drunkenly repeating my question word-for-word back to me.)
"I don't work for Bank of America."
"You don't work for Bank of America?"
"I don't."
"You don't?"
"Do I look like I work for Bank of America? Am I wearing a Bank of America red shirt?"
"Your shirt is black."
"I can't fix the ATM."
"Can you put more money in it? It needs more money." She really was a drunk dingbat.
"Sure. Tell you what, you wait here, and I'll go get some money. I'll either find my wallet or a tree, and I'll come back and put it right in the machine. In fact, don't put your card in. I'll just give you a free $100."
"Really?"
She was dumb. Duuuumb.
Then there was the guy that decided to pee off the spiral staircase out at the big concourse, from the top level. Just decided, hey, I'll go right here, right on the aforementioned line of people at the ATM. Well, a big guy in line didn't appreciate the evening shower and ran up the stairs and bashed the offender's head into the vent on the stairs. They were removed.
Then there was the girl sitting in the seats with her skirt around her knees and caution tape around her waist. I had to go with security to this one because I was the token chick who could tell her pull her skirt up and walk her out. She spent a while on the phone while she was being ejected which didn't go over very well with security so I had to tell whoever she was crying (literally) to that she would have to call them back. Buh-bye!
That was another thing. I've never seen so many crybabies. Everyone was freaking crying. If you got thrown out, you cried. If your friend got thrown out, you cried. If your brother's girlfriend got thrown out, you cried. If you were sitting in your seats, you were crying (I saw a few!). One woman was walking around the concourse, completely aimlessly, crying. At first I stopped and asked these people if they were okay (well, only the ones who were in their seats or walking around. The ones crying about ejections weren't getting any sympathy). I stopped doing this though because I only got blank stares in return, or every once in a while, a story that I really would have rather been okay not knowing, about how some guy cheated on her with the skank whore who just turned up and sat down next to them and how she was going to run the bitch down if she ever saw her outside of this park because other people already got thrown out for beating her skanky ass and she wanted to enjoy the show before she cut off her boyfriend's balls and fed them to this skank.
I stopped asking people how they were doing after that.
Guys were crying too, by the way. One guy was all watery-eyed as the head of security out at the gate told him he wasn't getting back in. I love this guy because he's always calm and collected and every once in a while, you see a flash of anger and it's beautiful and rather scary. He gets pretty upset when people try to touch him on their way out. If they even touch his arm to start talking to him, he says, real flat but angry-like, "Don't touch me." It's so good! And then when this 18-year-old idiot started to try to hit him, he pushed his hands right away. People should take courses from this guy.
Anyway, the point of all of this is the usual, that people are morons but that if the morons let you yell at them and then walk away, it's not so bad.
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