Another weekend down the toilet, so to speak. Now, you may be curious as to what Stratu gets up to on his weekends. Well sometimes, he sells 'glo-stix' to kids at big rave parties, like he did on Saturday night.
See, my brother is a techno DJ here in Sydney and he and his friends put on rave parties. They need somebody trustworthy to work at the glo-stix stall, and since I don't make much money at my regular job, it is in my best interests to moonlight now and then for extra clams.
So Saturday night Mikel (my brother) drove me out to the Super Dome at Homebush Bay and from 9.30 pm to 3.30 am I worked my arse off, hustling glo products to kids half my age.
Most of the kids I deal with are OK. Well mannered, polite, friendly, and selling them their glo-stix for the evening is a pleasure. What drives me bananas are the rude, obnoxious little brats, and believe me, out of a crowd of 7500, there's more than enough of that sort to really take the glamour out of the glo-stick selling business.
You get kids who come up and simply point at whatever colour they want. I guess to them I am below having to actually talk to. Couldn't a monkey do this job? That's probably what they think. Then there are others who ask for a free one. "Aw come on! just one!" with a cheeky grin. "Run along you little scamp," I say, grandfatherly. Then one kid demands his money back because his glo-stick doesn't seem to be as bright as the one in the little electric display box. He looks like he's going to hit me. I feel sick. I don't wanna be here, why is this horrible kid talking to me? I wish he would disappear. I don't give him his money back. I win. Finally he walks away without any violence erupting. Phew. Then, a girl, hysterically yelling at me because there are no FAT glo-stix left; only THIN ones, and I have made the mistake of selling her THIN ones. She's so loud and upset I picture her in a straitjacket. Is this really happening? It doesn't make sense.
The problem is, all I notice are the little turds; the worst ones, the ones that make me so goddamn frustrated and mad it feels like my head is spinning, I may black out. I wish I would - then the first aid guys would have to take me out on a stretcher, and maybe I'd have to be sent home. That would be great. But it never happens, and there's hours of this torment to go.
When that time finally comes, I feel dirty, and getting the hell out of there, back on the road home at 4.00 in the morning, I can breathe again. I got the money, that's all that counts. I made it through another night selling goddamn glo-sticks to a stadium full of kids I wound up hating, barely disguising my loathing of them.
I don't know how long I can go on doing it. It's only every two months or so. One night out of two months. I don't really NEED to do it, but there's the money, see? It's pretty good money just for seven hours work. It's just that that work really makes me sick with disgust. I'm a whore. Yes, that must be it. A whore. Whore's do that kind of thing, don't they?
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