Last week I worked three jobs. This is the last requirement to fulfill my Jamaican citizenship criteria. But it wasn’t like a job, job. It was a side hustle job. I know what you’re thinking; no I didn’t sell crack rocks on the corner. Instead I sold merchandise at a concert for an artist I was actually a fan of.
After I drove from Santa Monica to downtown LA in rush hour traffic, I was standing outside of the venue looking like “one of those girls”. The ones on the phone dialing and redialing the promoter to get them in. Turns out I was at the wrong venue, classic Kiana. When I walked one door down to the right venue I was greeted by the English tour manager, Barton (not his actual name but close enough). Anyway Barton gave me a cash box (no cards like the olden days), an inventory list, and left me to it. I couldn’t help thinking how trusting he was; I could have stolen merchandise, sold the merchandise for more and pocketed the profits. Lucky for him all I wanted was a beer to hide under the booth while I eased the social awkwardness of being posted directly in front of the entrance. I had a front row seat to all the hipsters who walked in. I thought about how much time and effort were put into those cut offs, clever novelty tees, and hats that had no business being worn indoors. Although I wasn’t able to see the whole show, it sounded awesome. I made friends with one of the guards so they let me take a peek while they watched the booth. At the end of the night Barton and I took inventory while I prayed I didn’t miscount sales. Luckily everything came up Millhouse. I was paid my $50 bucks and out the door before midnight.
I arrived to the venue much earlier this time around. So early that I was able to see the sound check! I found Barton and he escorted me backstage where I saw how the artists were living: Bottles of Jack, IPA’s, cheese and crackers, premium spreads like chipotle hummus, you know, the good stuff. I quickly made my small plate of shit I shouldn’t be eating for fear of seeming ungrateful for being offered such luxuries. I made no eye contact with the group of guys (artists and tour crew) in the room who were probably all 17*. I didn’t get to meet the headliner artist I was working for. I did however get asked “how much two of everything would be at a 75% discount” by one of the openers. Because I had no idea who he was, I actually did this calculation for him. Only for him to say “I’m just kidding I just wanted to introduce myself I’m (inanimate object rap name). He was also 17. After the show I decided to take Barton up on his offer and head to the after party where I would finally get to see the rooftop of the Ace Hotel. Moral of the story: take random jobs because they give you random experiences.
*Everyone 25 and under is 17 to me.