Improv Resource Center - Forums
There will be no O69 jokes here in this journal. It's my promise, to my sanity, and to yours.
Soon, I'll be leaving my first real job. The worst job ever. I hated every single moments of it, or so.
Yet... Yet I'll miss it.
I am a Bingo Dude. A Floor Guy. An eight-bucks-an-hour. Those are the names we give to the job - Random people who mostly work the floor as salespeople, but sometime do other work. Like unclogging the toilet, or giving first aid. The Bingo Dudes also work as elevator operators every once in a while. I do that, too. I never did get to work as a cashier, or a Nevada salesperson, but I took the interview for supervisor.
I do not, under any circumstances, call the numbers. I'm not a caller, or an announcer. I'm not trained to be. I barely understand how the sound system works. Craig Mitchell, at myboot.com, has a great story about a guy who works for Blockbuster. Every time he mentions the job, people think he rents movies. Every time you say you work in a Bingo hall, people will think you call the numbers.
Callers get to work sitting down, with a bottle of water by their side. They also get paid more. But they're usually the ones taking the most abuse. After all, if the little old lady didn't win, it's their fault, right?
But let me return to the true warrior of the church basement, the dabber ink monkey, the card-carrying people, They of the Dirty Hands : The Salespeople.
We are all insanely good looking. Well, not really, but it's not like the customers are in a position to speak. I get called "Miss" on a common basis, so, um... Maybe I don't want them to speak up. We are fearless. When the clock strikes six PM, we go out in the room, wearing our sneakers, our cheap polyester pants (WedgieMaster 2000™, for the pants connoisseur), our beige buttoned T-shirt, our aprons, our bundle of cards, our CBs (Family Radio Systems, if you care. Usually on channel 10. R rated content.) and a single earplug (RadioShack's Earriper™, for the modern sadist). The wireless microphone to check the bingos, we usually pick up when the game starts, at seven. Too many customers complained about getting them in the ribs as we moved between tables.
We weave and dance our way between chairs, trash cans and customers, careful not to hit anyone by accident, kicking doors open when the need arises, trying to breath in the cigarette smoke and cheap perfume and selling for about 600$ (Canadian) of bingo cards every evening. Those cards are only for special games - Extra cards for the jackpot and mini-jackpot, early birds, bonanzas and provincial games.
We run in the room. We leap over things (I spread myself all over the "Stage" just last night, much to the customer's pleasure). We try our best to satisfy the customers, sort of. We answer all the weird requests with a smile ("Can I have the caller's number? He's hot!").
At the end of the evening, we're sweaty, our hands are covered with strangely coloured ink, we smell like someone smoked in a Wal*Mart, we got swore at, we're tired, possibly have paper cuts...
And yet, I'll miss this job. It gives me something to complain about, you know?
Soon, I'll be leaving my first real job. The worst job ever. I hated every single moments of it, or so.
Yet... Yet I'll miss it.
I am a Bingo Dude. A Floor Guy. An eight-bucks-an-hour. Those are the names we give to the job - Random people who mostly work the floor as salespeople, but sometime do other work. Like unclogging the toilet, or giving first aid. The Bingo Dudes also work as elevator operators every once in a while. I do that, too. I never did get to work as a cashier, or a Nevada salesperson, but I took the interview for supervisor.
I do not, under any circumstances, call the numbers. I'm not a caller, or an announcer. I'm not trained to be. I barely understand how the sound system works. Craig Mitchell, at myboot.com, has a great story about a guy who works for Blockbuster. Every time he mentions the job, people think he rents movies. Every time you say you work in a Bingo hall, people will think you call the numbers.
Callers get to work sitting down, with a bottle of water by their side. They also get paid more. But they're usually the ones taking the most abuse. After all, if the little old lady didn't win, it's their fault, right?
But let me return to the true warrior of the church basement, the dabber ink monkey, the card-carrying people, They of the Dirty Hands : The Salespeople.
We are all insanely good looking. Well, not really, but it's not like the customers are in a position to speak. I get called "Miss" on a common basis, so, um... Maybe I don't want them to speak up. We are fearless. When the clock strikes six PM, we go out in the room, wearing our sneakers, our cheap polyester pants (WedgieMaster 2000™, for the pants connoisseur), our beige buttoned T-shirt, our aprons, our bundle of cards, our CBs (Family Radio Systems, if you care. Usually on channel 10. R rated content.) and a single earplug (RadioShack's Earriper™, for the modern sadist). The wireless microphone to check the bingos, we usually pick up when the game starts, at seven. Too many customers complained about getting them in the ribs as we moved between tables.
We weave and dance our way between chairs, trash cans and customers, careful not to hit anyone by accident, kicking doors open when the need arises, trying to breath in the cigarette smoke and cheap perfume and selling for about 600$ (Canadian) of bingo cards every evening. Those cards are only for special games - Extra cards for the jackpot and mini-jackpot, early birds, bonanzas and provincial games.
We run in the room. We leap over things (I spread myself all over the "Stage" just last night, much to the customer's pleasure). We try our best to satisfy the customers, sort of. We answer all the weird requests with a smile ("Can I have the caller's number? He's hot!").
At the end of the evening, we're sweaty, our hands are covered with strangely coloured ink, we smell like someone smoked in a Wal*Mart, we got swore at, we're tired, possibly have paper cuts...
And yet, I'll miss this job. It gives me something to complain about, you know?