Pest Mexico
Pre p ar in g fo r th e E n g lish Exit Exam
“Stupid Jobs are Good to Relax With” by Hal Niedzviecki
S
pringsteen kicked off his world tour in Toronto’s Massey Hall a while back. Along with record company execs and those who could afford the exorbitant prices scalpers wanted for tickets, I was in attendance. As Bruce rambled on about the plight of the itinerant Mexican workers, I lolled in the back, my job, as always, to make myself as unapproachable as possible - no easy feat, trapped as I was in a paisley vest and bow-tie combo. Nonetheless, the concert was of such soporific proportions and the crowd so dulled into pseudo-reverence, I was able to achieve the ultimate in ushering - a drooping catatonia as close as you can get to being asleep while on your feet at a rock concert. But this ushering nirvana wouldn’t last long. For an usher, danger takes many forms including wheel-chair bound patrons who need help going to the inaccessible bathroom, vomiting teens, and the usher’s worst nemesis, the disruptive patron. And yes, to my semi-conscious horror, there she was: well dressed, blonde, drunk and doped up, swaying in her seat and...clapping. Clapping. In the middle of Springsteen’s solo dirge about Pancho or Pedro or Luisa she was clapping. Sweat beaded on my forehead. The worst was happening. She was in my section. Her clapping echoed through the hall, renowned for its acoustics. The Boss glared from the stage, his finger-picking folkiness no match for the drunken rhythm of this fan. Then, miracle of miracles, the song ended. The woman slumped back into her seat. Bruce muttered something about how he didn’t need a rhythm section. Placated by the adoring silence of the well-to-do, he launched into an even quieter song about an ever more desperate migrant worker.
I lurked in the shadows, relaxed the grip I had on my flashlight (the usher’s only weapon). Springsteen crooned. His guitar twanged. It was so quiet you could hear the rats squirreling around
“Stupid Jobs are Good to Relax With” by Hal Niedzviecki
S
pringsteen kicked off his world tour in Toronto’s Massey Hall a while back. Along with record company execs and those who could afford the exorbitant prices scalpers wanted for tickets, I was in attendance. As Bruce rambled on about the plight of the itinerant Mexican workers, I lolled in the back, my job, as always, to make myself as unapproachable as possible - no easy feat, trapped as I was in a paisley vest and bow-tie combo. Nonetheless, the concert was of such soporific proportions and the crowd so dulled into pseudo-reverence, I was able to achieve the ultimate in ushering - a drooping catatonia as close as you can get to being asleep while on your feet at a rock concert. But this ushering nirvana wouldn’t last long. For an usher, danger takes many forms including wheel-chair bound patrons who need help going to the inaccessible bathroom, vomiting teens, and the usher’s worst nemesis, the disruptive patron. And yes, to my semi-conscious horror, there she was: well dressed, blonde, drunk and doped up, swaying in her seat and...clapping. Clapping. In the middle of Springsteen’s solo dirge about Pancho or Pedro or Luisa she was clapping. Sweat beaded on my forehead. The worst was happening. She was in my section. Her clapping echoed through the hall, renowned for its acoustics. The Boss glared from the stage, his finger-picking folkiness no match for the drunken rhythm of this fan. Then, miracle of miracles, the song ended. The woman slumped back into her seat. Bruce muttered something about how he didn’t need a rhythm section. Placated by the adoring silence of the well-to-do, he launched into an even quieter song about an ever more desperate migrant worker.
I lurked in the shadows, relaxed the grip I had on my flashlight (the usher’s only weapon). Springsteen crooned. His guitar twanged. It was so quiet you could hear the rats squirreling around