by Theresa H.
The projected 54,000 audience definitely came through for this momentous event in all its glory. I couldn't have asked more of Wal-Mart on a Friday night. These people are proud of their subculture founded upon the essential human rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of beefcake entertainers donning spandex in an array of bold colors that puts Crayola to shame.
As I tentatively exited the Honda outside the Pyramid Ale House, the magnetism in the air drew me across the street and down the block to Safeco's employee entrance. To think...I had the privilege to see such an event at no charge, and on top of that...get paid to be there. Many of these flip-flop wearing swamp people would give up their 7-Eleven corn dogs and Big Gulps for a week to have such an honor. And there I was, dodging unruly patron after unruly patron to squeeze past the "restricted area" sign.
After obtaining my lovely lemon yellow polo shirt, a good 7 sizes too big, I ascended to club level seating and was immediately overtaken by the stage set before me: pyrotechnics, screens, music, large bald security men...and...the ring...all set and ready for the festivities. For some people waiting outside, this was Christmas.
I have to say that the time flew by, preparing trays of delectable fare...nachos, hot dogs, pizza, burgers, fries, peanuts, pretzels, and the beer, oh the beer. An entire line of taps ready, begging to be pulled, and a fridge full of shiny plastic bottles.
All of a sudden, what started as a low rumble quickly turned into a roar as the tide of spectators flowed in. Now I know what it must have been like when Caesar had the Colosseum flooded to stage naval battles. And then...the orders started pouring in, great quantities of beer, hot dogs, beer, beer, pretzels, beer, beer, and beer, too. Amidst these enthusiasts I ran with my tray, over and over again, quenching their throats tired of yelling obscenities for hours upon end. We stopped in-seat service at 7 pm...and I realize that many of those people do not have a lot of money, but shoot, I only made $3.00 in tips. I had to pour all beers and sodas in the aisles because bottles, I guess, make great missiles. Cheap bastards.
Anyway, tired from all the excitement of Ashanti's rendition of "America the Beautiful", Limp Bizkit's performance of "Rollin'", and the frequent bursts of pyrotechnic mastery announcing the arrivals of the spandex-clad gladiators to the ring, I departed my post. As I was leaving through the tunnel with some of my coworkers, there he was...the Rock! Let me tell you, this is one beautiful man. We waved stupidly and whistled a bit, but I think he was like, in "the zone" or something and simply ran past with his walkman...and...cute...little...spandex speedo thing. Sigh...that made up for the lack of tips, let me tell you.
As I bid Safeco Field goodbye, I had to stifle a tear, not because I had to take the damn bus home, but because I, of all people, was paid to attend one of THE cultural events of the year, Wrestlemania, March 30, 2003. Anthropologists should really stop studying remote tribes in remote places and come to one of these things, because believe me, it is its OWN culture.
The End.