blog The Saga Of Monday
The Saga of Monday, Part 2: The Skippy
It was 11 PM, Death Cab For Cutie had ended, the crowds were filing out, and my night was just beginning, unbeknownst to me. After spending the Festival at the helm of the press room (I use military lingo because I am a manly man and not a skinny blogger), I assumed my role at the end of Bumbershoot 2008 would be mainly administrative.
But instead I found myself being the only marketing intern to drive around a skippy (basically an awesome little golf cart) on the Festival grounds in the cleanup process. And since I’m pretty much a nut behind the wheel (see: two years in pizza delivery), it came as a surprise to nobody that I loved tearing around Seattle Center in a tiny car, looking for ways to help with load-out.
But I made one mistake: driving my skippy up the covered walkway near the fountain lawn. I was spotted, and I was apparently breaking a cardinal rule of the skippy (as I was later informed): Don’t drive the skippy on cobblestones!!!
With my limited knowledge of masonry, I found myself in some hot water with Production, whom I loved so dearly (I keep telling myself I’ll complete that masonry apprenticeship… oh well, the best laid plans of mice and men, I guess). My night was about to get worse before it got better. But I’ll save that for part three.
The Saga of Monday: Part 3: The Penalty Box
Upon returning to the pavilion (or the Pav, as we called it, because we are seriously the coolest) I learned that I would be punished, which came as a mystery to me, as I had not yet been informed that I had done anything wrong. But apparently I had, and I had something bad coming my way (at 1:30 AM, when most bad things happen anyway.)
I wasn’t told anything about the nature of my punishment, except its mysterious, sinister name “The Penalty Box,” and the fact that all of my coworkers would be watching me in this so-called box. But before I could be subjected to it, I had to find out what the hell it actually was. I did this by joining the gathering circle of people assembled in the Pav, thirsty for the blood of miscreants such as myself, and watching a man named Darius subject himself, voluntarily, even, to the misery of the box.
The penalty box is as follows: you must assemble 27 interlocking rectangular pieces of plastic ground cover, known as gridmat, then sit in the middle of the square and contemplate your transgression for exactly one minute (though according to my favorite movie Se7en, this is attrition, but whatever), at which point you leap off the newly assembled mat and deconstruct it and put all the pieces back in the box, where they lay in wait for their next victim to attempt their seemingly innocuous challenge. If the offender doesn’t complete this series of tasks in under five minutes, then the process must be repeated, until done in five minutes or under. So obviously, the stakes were high.
After Darius completed the box at showoff speed of something near 3:40 (it was like 2 AM, I can’t remember, ok?), it was my turn. I was the first person from outside the production department to tackle the beast, and I didn’t want to be just another greenhorn. I had to bring the full force of the marketing department to the challenge, and that’s exactly what I did. I attacked those filthy rectangles like a man possessed, scrabbling around on the floor like a dog on linoleum, frantically slamming the pieces together, while the screams of my coworkers rang in my ears (their screams still haunt my nightmares). Kind of like an evil version of The Price Is Right.
Finally, as I hurled the last piece back into the box, my time was called. I emerged triumphant, with a time of 4:51, and thunderous applause once again made Seattle Center a place of mirth and celebration.
But, then, I got totally upstaged.
So, with Monday completed, I slunk home at 3 AM, to heave myself into my bed, knowing I had brought pride to myself, my family, the marketing department, and Bumbershoots past and present.
posted September 08 '08 at 11:00AM by Evan in blog, death cab for cutie, intern
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