Selling Beer at the Derby

In the spring of 1975, my mother-in-law suggested that I take a job at the Derby, selling beer.  Apparently, a number of people where she worked had done so the year before and had made a bunch of money.  It seems that they sold 12 oz. beer for 65 cents and often got the rest of the dollar in tips. Being a man who has had over 50 jobs from the age of 14 until now, I decided that it would be pretty cool and maybe an adventure.  It wasn't cool but it was certainly an adventure. 

I was told to get in line for the infield with my work pass and that I had to be there by 7:00  AM.  Good, I thought, I am an early riser anyway and this way I would beat the crowd.  That was my first mistake.  I did not consider that this was the 100th anniversary of of the first running and they expected 100,000 people in the infield alone and the line was already six wide and 200 feet long when I arrived. Princess Margaret, of Great Britain, was going to be in attendance and there were all kinds of security including a number of blokes with british accents.  I was not carrying anything such as a bag and showed them my pass for the job of brew pourer and yet they searched me for booze and patted me down and asked me if I were bringing in any.  I laughed and reminded them that I was there to serve alcohol.  They didn't laugh.  Once in I finally found the tent where I was supposed to report, the man in charge said proudly that they had increased the size of the cups to 16 ounces and were now charging 95 cents per beer.  He said it was a service to the customer that they would not have to stand in long lines as often and the the increase in price was fair to all.  

I'll admit that 5.9 cents per ounce is not much worse than 5.4 cents per ounce but to me it looked like I would have less volume of customers and that the tips were going to be a whooping 5 cents per beer and I was sure that some would not even do that, especially the relative young ones.  I decided, at that point that I would require ID's from everyone who looked and acted like they were under 40, and I did.  That made the lines longer to no ones pleasure, except a little bit, mine.

This turned out to be the job from Hell.  Not only was I stuck all day in a beer booth pouring draft beer, but I had no way to get to the bathrooms.  My hand were sticky to the point of sticking together and the Sun was hot and uncomfortable. As predicted, there were more than 100,000 people in the infield with an average age of about 30, meaning that I ID'd a lot.  The bathrooms had line like the great wall of China and the women were using both men and women's facilities because the wait was hours for the women.  practically every inch of the ground was covered with human flesh, often doing what human flesh should have been doing in the privacy of ones bedroom.  I never ventured out of the booth after about 1PM and did not go to the bathroom until the races ended at about seven, I never saw a horse but I wagered early on the winning ticket which paid about 2-1.  I still have the ticket somewhere.   I was miserable all day long and had I been older and more secure, I would have quit and waded through the human refuge and gone home. But I had made a commitment, so, there I was. 

Other inconveniences include:

A weight lifter ordered a beer I reached for his dollar and he jerked it back and walked off through the crowd with the beer.  I'm not stupid and after that I took and tilled the money, first.  His fellow weight lifters were not so happy about that. Then they began hanging around the stand and after someone payed and got their beer, they would snatch it away and drink it.  One man complained to the security people, but when they saw the weight lifters, they dismissed it with "boys will be boys" and walked away.  That was an invitation for mischief and things got no better.  

A young man climbed the 40 foot flagpole and mooned the Princess and was handcuffed to my beer stand  until the could get a car ready to take him away. He could barely stand up, so I don't how he got up and down that flagpole. The biggest insult of all, one of my students, a tall blonde, scandinavian beauty named Lisa, sincerely thought that I would sell her a beer, knowing that she was 16 years old. I told her to try somewhere else At the end of the day, the final insult was a demand that I hand over all my tip money and they would send it back if the amount of beer I sold at my stand was correct for the money that I collected.  I then said that ,with what little tips I had, I was going to keep it and if things didn't turn out right to let me know I would sent them the money. YEAH, RIGHT. Believe it or not I got my pay in the mail.

I decided I just wanted to only teach.