Row after row of beat down junker cars filled the lot. In his one size too large hoodie that read ‘Staff’ across the back, Everett wander between the cars, tried to avoid the need for a tetanus shot, and went about the least glorious part of his job for the evening.
The parking lot surrounded a building that acted as a basketball arena, hockey rink, once-a-quarter craft fair haunt and, this evening, concert venue. The world renowned Blue Oyster Cult cover band Red Mussel Sect was kicking off a world tour inside. The roar of the crowd could be felt outside and Everett was pretty sure he had seen a half dozen rear view mirrors rattle free from their duct tape holds during the bands polka infused rendition of Burning For You screamed into the night half an hour earlier.
His regular duties at the arena generally included making sure the catering was up to the standards of the visiting acts, keeping the humming sound of the florescent lights in the ceiling to a minimum, and convincing superstitious visitors that the story of the arena’s ghost was in fact just a story. Tonight though he was tending to a particularly odd request of Red Mussel Sect’s concert rider.
Everett hated concert riders. He loathed reading through page after page of inane demands from famous rock stars and craft makers. He once needed to have hot glue imported from Germany to adhere to a request from a famed doily maker. He had never seen a doily held together with hot glue and could not make sense of the request at all. He did it though. Everett was good at his job and wanted guests of his establishment to know they were valued and they should tell their famous friends to make appearances at the arena as well.
“Everett, I think I found it,” said Hasan, Everett’s partner for the evening. Hasan held in his hand a golden golf ball and showed it to Everett. The final chords of Cities on Flame with Rock and Roll sounded through the parking lot.
“Oh thank goodness,” Everett was overjoyed their search had ended. The band had spent an hour that morning hitting golf balls from the top of the arena into the then empty parking lot. According to their concert rider, the building’s management team was to search for a single golden ball when the concert started. After the show, if the ball was found the band would buy every staff member a chocolate bar because the ‘golden ticket’ had been found.
“These polka playing classic rock cover bands have the weirdest sense of humor,” Hasan noted. Everett pocketed the ball and headed back to the arena just in time to hear the band close the evening with Veteran of the Psychic Wars.
“I don’t get it. Why don’t they close with the one everyone knows?” Hasan asked as the song started playing.
“Trust me kid, a few more years in this business and you’ll learn to stop asking questions that have no answers,” Everett answered. He hated concert riders.
Thanks for sticking with that one.