I'll make this quick. I've got a little post-Christmas annex post that involves, in no means a coincidence, what happened at work the day after Christmas. I'll keep names out of it, because I have a feeling what I'll be describing is potentially illegal.
Anyway, some branches are friendlier with the customers, and some clerks are very friendly with the customers. Most of these friendly clerks are veterans, some have been with the company for over 30 years. Some of these clerks live in the same area as their own branch, usually because they've got the seniority to handpick where they want to work. The customers are their neighbors, their butchers and baby-furniture store owners. There's a certain rapport there that grows out of those relationships, adding another dimension to the clerk-customer dynamic. (This does complicate things for the rest of us, like when I curse out my co-worker's golfing buddy right in front of the guy.)
Some of these relationships are so strong that, during the holidays, gifts and cards are exchanged. One guy, who's an OTB vet and local resident, even buys cards for some customers' wives and families. In return, he gets cards loaded with cash. Big fat tips, basically, even if the card-givers aren't winning any races.
I happened to be sitting next to this clerk for the December 26 day shift. It didn't take long for him to start complaining that a lot of the customers weren't as generous this Christmas. Not only were the cards light, but a lot of them didn't even bother with gifts. He never mentioned if he knows about the worldwide recession currently ruining millions of lives, but he seems like a smart guy, and I'm sure he does, but apparently none of that matters. He didn't get his Christmas tips. And there will be hell to pay.
I usually drown out other co-workers to begin with, and this guy likes to talk even while I'm dealing with customers, which doesn't help, so I didn't really catch all that he was spewing at me. But the gist was, a lot of people "forgot about him" and now his "List" is getting a lot more names added to it. He's going to remember everyone who didn't remember him this yuletide season, and each and every one of them was going on The List, even the ones that have been his so-called friends for the past three decades. Again, I missed crucial chunks of this subdued rant, but I think it was implied that even other OTB co-workers somehow made The List. Everytime he mentioned The List, he'd motion to it, taped on the inside wall of his booth, but I never got to see it, fearing that if he caught me looking at it, I'd make The List.
What The List is exactly, I don't know. Who, specifically, is on The List, I don't know. But what happens to the people on The List... I also don't know. And that's what makes an otherwise ordinary list become The List, and that's why I thought it was interesting enough to merit a blog post. December 26 is many things to many people. Some celebrate Kwanzaa. Others enjoy Boxing Day. A lot of folks would just like to relax after a month of stressful holiday preparation. But in OTB, we have The List. And God help you if you're on it.
Tip your mail-carrier. And your OTB clerk. Happy New Year.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Merry Christmas
In the spirit of the season, here's a short vignette of what happened on a night shift earlier this week:
You may have noticed that a lot of basic cable networks like to use December as a dumping ground for all their syndicated films and crappy made-for-TV movies, typically assigning these marathons a random number. (See: 25 Days of Christmas, 15 Days of Christmas, 7 Days of Christmas, 1 Day of Christmas, etc.) I just wish these network execs would learn that the only way you're going to earn my viewership is by playing A Christmas Story twelve times in a row, but I digress.
So one night I go into the back area on my break to scarf down some street halal. On the tiny TV is another sappy made-for-TV Christmas movie starring C-listers and former B-listers. The manager is sitting at the desk, doing paperwork, using the Hallmark Channel more for ambiance than anything. I'm sitting at the table, completely ignoring the movie, working on a crossword c.o. Willie Shortz. Also seated at the table is a JBC who will go unnamed.
NOTE: This post and what follows specifically is in no way meant to deride or insult the position of janitor or anybody holding said position. Rather, this is to point out one man's complete stupidity, a man who happens to be a janitor.
Or JBC, rather. Junior Building Custodian. But, yeah, janitor. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Seriously.
So about an hour into the Hallmark crap-of-the-week, this JBC, who resembles a shaved three-toed sloth, give or take a toe, remarks: "Can someone explain to me what the fuck is going on?" I'm paraphrasing, but he does curse a lot.
I'm not really invested in the whole scenario but my manager's reaction was priceless. She puts the pen down and looks at him, bewildered. "Peter Falk's an angel. He's trying to get this couple back together before Christmas. What's not to get?"
"Oh." And we all go back to what we were doing, the manager picking up her pen, me taking another forkful of halal, the JBC's eyes moving back to the television screen, his synapses firing at an incredible rate, desperately trying to comprehend the plot that some overpaid screenwriter punched out sitting on the john. A script fine-tuned in such a way so that it would be easily digested by even an Alzheimer's-inflicted grandmother. A movie, that to this particular JBC, was 2001 a fucking Space Odyssey.
Maybe you had to be there, but the look on the manger's face really did capture the absurdity of the moment. It showed me, at the very least, that stupidity is not some general concept that can be tossed about, but a habitual state of being with many subtlies and nuances. I mean, come on, it was the Hallmark Channel.
Oh, also, this has nothing to do with Christmas but a few weeks ago this very same JBC was watching a rerun of Numbers (with Judd Hirsch and the guy from Northern Exposure) on the very same TV. Some dude got shot like 39 times with a machine gun, then the JBC went to the bathroom or something. He came back and asked us "So did that guy die?"
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.
You may have noticed that a lot of basic cable networks like to use December as a dumping ground for all their syndicated films and crappy made-for-TV movies, typically assigning these marathons a random number. (See: 25 Days of Christmas, 15 Days of Christmas, 7 Days of Christmas, 1 Day of Christmas, etc.) I just wish these network execs would learn that the only way you're going to earn my viewership is by playing A Christmas Story twelve times in a row, but I digress.
So one night I go into the back area on my break to scarf down some street halal. On the tiny TV is another sappy made-for-TV Christmas movie starring C-listers and former B-listers. The manager is sitting at the desk, doing paperwork, using the Hallmark Channel more for ambiance than anything. I'm sitting at the table, completely ignoring the movie, working on a crossword c.o. Willie Shortz. Also seated at the table is a JBC who will go unnamed.
NOTE: This post and what follows specifically is in no way meant to deride or insult the position of janitor or anybody holding said position. Rather, this is to point out one man's complete stupidity, a man who happens to be a janitor.
Or JBC, rather. Junior Building Custodian. But, yeah, janitor. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Seriously.
So about an hour into the Hallmark crap-of-the-week, this JBC, who resembles a shaved three-toed sloth, give or take a toe, remarks: "Can someone explain to me what the fuck is going on?" I'm paraphrasing, but he does curse a lot.
I'm not really invested in the whole scenario but my manager's reaction was priceless. She puts the pen down and looks at him, bewildered. "Peter Falk's an angel. He's trying to get this couple back together before Christmas. What's not to get?"
"Oh." And we all go back to what we were doing, the manager picking up her pen, me taking another forkful of halal, the JBC's eyes moving back to the television screen, his synapses firing at an incredible rate, desperately trying to comprehend the plot that some overpaid screenwriter punched out sitting on the john. A script fine-tuned in such a way so that it would be easily digested by even an Alzheimer's-inflicted grandmother. A movie, that to this particular JBC, was 2001 a fucking Space Odyssey.
Maybe you had to be there, but the look on the manger's face really did capture the absurdity of the moment. It showed me, at the very least, that stupidity is not some general concept that can be tossed about, but a habitual state of being with many subtlies and nuances. I mean, come on, it was the Hallmark Channel.
Oh, also, this has nothing to do with Christmas but a few weeks ago this very same JBC was watching a rerun of Numbers (with Judd Hirsch and the guy from Northern Exposure) on the very same TV. Some dude got shot like 39 times with a machine gun, then the JBC went to the bathroom or something. He came back and asked us "So did that guy die?"
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.
Monday, December 8, 2008
119
Branch 119 is the quintessential, definitive OTB parlor. It's one of the biggest, one of the busiest, one of the loudest, smelliest, angriest, disgusting, exciting places to place a place bet. If you really wanted to grasp the concept of everything I've been spewing forth up to this point, 119 is the one to visit. It's not a coincidence this branch stands out from the rest--like most things in life, there's a complicated, dialectic web of reasons for its organized insanity.
First off, it's got branch 219, a teletheater, directly above it. The teletheaters are the few, "classy" joints designed specifically for higher-paying customers. Typically, there's a five dollar cover charge, a bar and/or restaurant hopelessly prepared for consumers just looking for a good meal and no gambling whatsoever, a wall of television screens for easy multi-track viewing, full track prices (no OTB commission removed from winnings) and carpets. The place is a little cleaner, and most employees wear a uniformed vest, and in theory, are more pleasant to the customers. These customers are higher-paying on the average, some blowing thousands at a time on a single horse, but there's also regular Joe the Plumber's who pay the five bucks to avoid the grudge and grime of a typical branch.
Anyway, having 219 right above 119 means that any wealthier, quieter, classier, and/or nicer customers are weeded out, all taking the stairs around the corner rather than patronizing the lower floor. That gives 119 the distinct advantage of having pure losers, with some nice dirt poor customers sprinkled in, robbing me of the occasional moments of not wanting to kill myself that most other branches provide.
Secondly and perhaps just as importantly, 119 is a block from Times Square, one of the most densely populated spots in the entire galaxy. That means a lot more customers than usual. It also means a lot more dirtbag customers than usual, given Times Square's ability to attract dirtbags and all. It also means the occasional tourist who should've stuck to the brochure and gets in way over his or sometimes her head (for some reason most of these tourists have Southern accents and many have cowboy hats.) Physically, 119 is one of the biggest branches in the city, with a ton of machines, more than twice the usual number of available clerks and two managers. Yet, it's never empty.
Maybe because of Times Square or maybe not, 119 also boasts one of the biggest homeless populations. Unlike the other branches though, the homeless here don't just take up three seats to make a bed/toilet. These bums bet, and they bet big. I'll watch them through the doors, standing out on seventh avenue with a rapidly-deteriorating coffee cup, collecting change from passerbys. Within the hour, they've got maybe a hundred bucks in dingy coins, and they're spending every last Monticello on a horse at Monticello.
These Vietnam Vets and their friends contribute to one of 119's most defining characteristics: the stink. As soon as you walk in, it hits you like an aluminum bat made of ass. It's mostly B.O. but there's plenty of urine, feces, puke, and other stuff I don't even wanna contemplate mixed in there. The fact that these guys are packed in there all day and all night rubbing against one another intentionally or not just adds to the nauseating atmosphere. Almost as bad as the stink are the weapons of anti-stink, the arsenal of Lysol cans at the full-timers' windows. These are fired multiple times an hour, often right in the customer's face, giving most of us a terrible headache that smells faintly of lilacs.
All this makes working there a huge chore; it's a given that your shift will be nonstop, your end total will show you've punched well over 1000 bets and cashed over 150 tickets. We'd cash more if the customers weren't so stupid. Like anywhere else, their impatience, ignorance and sheer idiocy will cause them to rip up or throw out winning tickets. There's a dedicated team of customers who make their money solely on others' mistakes, diving deep into our receptacles until you see only their legs, rummaging through the goblets of phlegm, emptied Old E's and chewed up Orbits. One guy supposedly makes around a thousand dollars a day from the winning tickets he finds discarded.
And while 119 does everything big, it's still at heart just another OTB, with its own slew of characters. There's the Russian, this short man with a deep thick voice and slow, spelled-out Siberian accent, who calls you Boss every sentence, looks and sounds utterly miserable, but really is a pretty nice guy. There's the Grandma from SoHo, who dresses and acts very upper-middle-class like. She spends the days in the quiet branch by Houston St. but when that closes at seven she inexplicably comes up to 119 to finish out the night's races. She's more of a television in the weeds than a diamond in the rough.
There's Igor, this little old man who looks exactly like his namesake from the old Frankenstein films. You can't help how you look, but he tops it off with a timid Eastern European accent that I can only assume is Transylvanian. His nickname isn't Igor, he literally is the guy. There's also Flopsweat, the ugliest man I've ever seen in my life, who has a giant bald head with weird skin-colored lumps all over. He's also got a ridiculous amount of flopsweat, even in the depths of February, though they're hard to distinguish from the lumps. In the ugliest branch in the state, he's definitely top candidate for ugliest man in the branch. There's Pizzaman, a flamboyant three-toothed Black man who buys a couple pizzas every night and then sells the slices to the customers for a small profit. He's nice enough to offer us slices on the house, but the day I accept open food from a 119 customer is the day I contract some form of Hepatitis. Besides the standout characters, many of whom I've left out, you've also got the broadest rainbow in the system, with dozens of blacks, whites, chinese, koreans, latinos, native americans, arabs, indians, pacific islanders, gays, bis, transvestites and transsexuals. If Times Square is the melting pot of the melting pots, 119 is the melting pot of the melting pot of the melting pot. With discount pizza.
119 might sound like the biggest hellhole of them all, but it's far from my least favorite places to work. It certainly has its perks. Time flies, since you work nonstop. Also, the staff there are really cool and down-to-earth, and staff conversation is a huge tool in speeding up that clock. By sheer statistics, the larger amount of customers means a larger amount of tips for me, which is also good for me. I could go into greater detail about the branch if I wanted to, but I don't, so I won't, and this is where I stop typing.
First off, it's got branch 219, a teletheater, directly above it. The teletheaters are the few, "classy" joints designed specifically for higher-paying customers. Typically, there's a five dollar cover charge, a bar and/or restaurant hopelessly prepared for consumers just looking for a good meal and no gambling whatsoever, a wall of television screens for easy multi-track viewing, full track prices (no OTB commission removed from winnings) and carpets. The place is a little cleaner, and most employees wear a uniformed vest, and in theory, are more pleasant to the customers. These customers are higher-paying on the average, some blowing thousands at a time on a single horse, but there's also regular Joe the Plumber's who pay the five bucks to avoid the grudge and grime of a typical branch.
Anyway, having 219 right above 119 means that any wealthier, quieter, classier, and/or nicer customers are weeded out, all taking the stairs around the corner rather than patronizing the lower floor. That gives 119 the distinct advantage of having pure losers, with some nice dirt poor customers sprinkled in, robbing me of the occasional moments of not wanting to kill myself that most other branches provide.
Secondly and perhaps just as importantly, 119 is a block from Times Square, one of the most densely populated spots in the entire galaxy. That means a lot more customers than usual. It also means a lot more dirtbag customers than usual, given Times Square's ability to attract dirtbags and all. It also means the occasional tourist who should've stuck to the brochure and gets in way over his or sometimes her head (for some reason most of these tourists have Southern accents and many have cowboy hats.) Physically, 119 is one of the biggest branches in the city, with a ton of machines, more than twice the usual number of available clerks and two managers. Yet, it's never empty.
Maybe because of Times Square or maybe not, 119 also boasts one of the biggest homeless populations. Unlike the other branches though, the homeless here don't just take up three seats to make a bed/toilet. These bums bet, and they bet big. I'll watch them through the doors, standing out on seventh avenue with a rapidly-deteriorating coffee cup, collecting change from passerbys. Within the hour, they've got maybe a hundred bucks in dingy coins, and they're spending every last Monticello on a horse at Monticello.
These Vietnam Vets and their friends contribute to one of 119's most defining characteristics: the stink. As soon as you walk in, it hits you like an aluminum bat made of ass. It's mostly B.O. but there's plenty of urine, feces, puke, and other stuff I don't even wanna contemplate mixed in there. The fact that these guys are packed in there all day and all night rubbing against one another intentionally or not just adds to the nauseating atmosphere. Almost as bad as the stink are the weapons of anti-stink, the arsenal of Lysol cans at the full-timers' windows. These are fired multiple times an hour, often right in the customer's face, giving most of us a terrible headache that smells faintly of lilacs.
All this makes working there a huge chore; it's a given that your shift will be nonstop, your end total will show you've punched well over 1000 bets and cashed over 150 tickets. We'd cash more if the customers weren't so stupid. Like anywhere else, their impatience, ignorance and sheer idiocy will cause them to rip up or throw out winning tickets. There's a dedicated team of customers who make their money solely on others' mistakes, diving deep into our receptacles until you see only their legs, rummaging through the goblets of phlegm, emptied Old E's and chewed up Orbits. One guy supposedly makes around a thousand dollars a day from the winning tickets he finds discarded.
And while 119 does everything big, it's still at heart just another OTB, with its own slew of characters. There's the Russian, this short man with a deep thick voice and slow, spelled-out Siberian accent, who calls you Boss every sentence, looks and sounds utterly miserable, but really is a pretty nice guy. There's the Grandma from SoHo, who dresses and acts very upper-middle-class like. She spends the days in the quiet branch by Houston St. but when that closes at seven she inexplicably comes up to 119 to finish out the night's races. She's more of a television in the weeds than a diamond in the rough.
There's Igor, this little old man who looks exactly like his namesake from the old Frankenstein films. You can't help how you look, but he tops it off with a timid Eastern European accent that I can only assume is Transylvanian. His nickname isn't Igor, he literally is the guy. There's also Flopsweat, the ugliest man I've ever seen in my life, who has a giant bald head with weird skin-colored lumps all over. He's also got a ridiculous amount of flopsweat, even in the depths of February, though they're hard to distinguish from the lumps. In the ugliest branch in the state, he's definitely top candidate for ugliest man in the branch. There's Pizzaman, a flamboyant three-toothed Black man who buys a couple pizzas every night and then sells the slices to the customers for a small profit. He's nice enough to offer us slices on the house, but the day I accept open food from a 119 customer is the day I contract some form of Hepatitis. Besides the standout characters, many of whom I've left out, you've also got the broadest rainbow in the system, with dozens of blacks, whites, chinese, koreans, latinos, native americans, arabs, indians, pacific islanders, gays, bis, transvestites and transsexuals. If Times Square is the melting pot of the melting pots, 119 is the melting pot of the melting pot of the melting pot. With discount pizza.
119 might sound like the biggest hellhole of them all, but it's far from my least favorite places to work. It certainly has its perks. Time flies, since you work nonstop. Also, the staff there are really cool and down-to-earth, and staff conversation is a huge tool in speeding up that clock. By sheer statistics, the larger amount of customers means a larger amount of tips for me, which is also good for me. I could go into greater detail about the branch if I wanted to, but I don't, so I won't, and this is where I stop typing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
