...to occasionally work in another locale. It may be another city, another state, another country or just another venue in your home town where someone else has more juice than you do.
There are rules.
They are not written down, but they do exist. They exist to keep order. Keep order, and we all can make some money.
For instance, although I am born and raised in the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts, when I work at Fenway Park, I consider myself to be working on other people's turf, people from Southie and Charlestown and Somerville and East Boston. I only work a handful of Red Sox games per season, I keep a low profile. I make a deal and I move on to another spot. I don't post up in The Square or on the bridge or outside the Cask. I work deep and try not to step on the toes of the guys who work eighty-one home games every year, because this is THEIR house.
I make less money at Fenway than they do and that is how it should be. I extend them the professional courtesy of not being a greedy fucking pig and they, in turn, extend me the professional courtesy of not threatening me or giving my partner grief or taking a swing at me or worse. It's all about the money. Beefs turn into fights. Fights attract police. No one can work when the cops are around. So, we usually keep the peace.
When Snags and I work out of town, same fucking thing. We work hard, but we DO NOT try to tear a place down.
But, Great Woods...That is MY house.
I have worked Great Woods for twenty-four years and I expect (and nearly always get) the same courtesy. All are treated as equals. Everyone gets a taste. Just don't slice us (approach a customer who was heading my way), don't approach cars until they are parked, don't sell blinks. These are rules which, if broken, will have repercussions. Some other rules are more like strong suggestions: Don't be too early. Don't stay too long or come too often. Don't bring your whole crew. Ignoring these suggestions will get you the cold shoulder and when someone in authority asks me if I know you, the answer will be, "No."
There are half-a-dozen of us who have been there since the beginning. Wrong Allan and Cadillac Frank pretty much work the middle - the walkway next to the Jersey barriers. Jeremustin (Jeremy and Justin). They work up front, mostly. Me and Snags? We work the cars. As soon as you park, you will see us. Before that, it was me and The Animal and before that, it was just me.
We are the ones that are always there, but there are usually anywhere from two to ten other hustlers present, depending on the event. Locals from Boston who repay the professional courtesy I show them at Fenway, a couple of Hartford guys, and every now and then, Jersey John and Jersey Chris - good guys, but Jersey Chris has been known to stretch the truth a time or two (claims to own a Lamborghini, which no one else has ever seen).
So that's the regulars and semi-regulars. But when a big event like Ozzfest or Mayhem or Rockstar come through our town, we are inevitably visited by out-of-town talent. Most of these cats, I have known for years - crews from Philly, Chicago, New York; all solid characters who "get it". I see these guys at the Super Bowl and the Final Four every year. They're all right.
But every Summer, there is at least one. One ignorant, arrogant, head-up-his-ass-turd-in-the-fucking-punch bowl who thinks they are going to come to my fucking house and take it down, like we are going to bend the fuck over, and, to quote The Dude, "This aggression will not stand!"
Mayhem Festival Tour, Summer 2012. The show comes to Mansfield. Snags and I have a brick, but we know it is going to be huge, so we are trying to add to our stack by picking up....
"Tickets! Tickets! Anyone have any extras? Anyone NEED tickets?"
I've got my sign which reads, "I NEED TICKETS" (which means, oddly enough, that I NEED tickets, not what people think that watched that fucking movie with Drew Barrymore and Jimmy Fallon).
We hit two rows of cars when I spot them. Some off-brand motherfuckers that are being pretty aggressive and ignoring our presence. One is this blonde dude who looks like he got in a motorcycle accident without a helmet on when he was a child. The cars are being parked in a double-row. Assface is working the front while his girlfriend (let's call her "Classy") is moving her enormous mass in between the back row of cars. Snags tries to explain that we can alternate sales, but she just shoves him aside, her armfat flapping as she does so. I try to reason with Assface. He assures me that he will be cooperative, but he tries to get every buy and every sale.
Classy, meanwhile, is giving Snags no quarter and he is starting to get real agro. He tells me that shit is going to go down. Moments later, he is proved correct.
Cadillac Frank comes over to work the cars. This happens, early. Ten people working the only row of cars being parked. He tries to work in, but Classy is blocking. She finds a customer and tries to buy their extra ticket for ten bucks. Frank offers twenty. She flips. Classy bumps Frank and he gives her a very light hip check back. She freaks.
"You hit me!"
She runs to get security. Her man is sure we are going to get kicked out, leaving them with the spoils. We're fucked. If they believe her, we will all get shut down. No money for anyone. If the cops get involved, we may be out of work for a week. This is how some lowlife from Rochester or Cinci or, in this case, Detroit, can fuck up our good thing.
It's stupid to get into this shit early on. If we just wait, there will be more cars parking, more people showing up, more money to be shared, less tension in the air. But these guys were just pieces of shit. Yo. Here comes two golf carts. One with the Yellow Shirts. One with the cops. Great.
Classy goes on to tell her bullshit story. She's laying it on real thick. Her boyfriend says he saw the whole thing and swears that Frank hit her. Officer Patullo, who (unbeknownst to these two douchebags) has known me for fifteen years and has never had a problem with me or any of my friends, asks me what I saw.
"I saw her shove him. They seem to be running some kind of con, faking an assault so they can get us kicked out and have the place for themselves. You might want to check them for outstanding warrants."
"That's a good idea," The officer says. "Lets see some ID's."
Really guys? You thought you would come to our fucking house and rat us out to the people who have known us all for years? Nice move.
I'm not a toughguy or a bigshot. I try not to gloat, but I gotta say, when I saw those two scumbags getting handcuffed, I couldn't help but think...
"It's good to be The King (at least for today)."
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