Attack of the Killer Popcorn

“You and me, we got it coach. We got it. Don’t be a doubter.”
Famous last words – yeah, almost. At least the “we” turned into a trey before anyone (me) died from electrocution or being beaten to death as some patron gagged from food poisoning.
My turn to work the concession stand fell on a hapless Wednesday night. No big, I thought as I desperately coerced some of the kids I coach into helping me. No joy there. Only one said he’d show, and I knew I could count on him. But, two people cooking and taking orders and counting up money – nope – not enough. So I fretted to my co-hort and he reassured me, over and over that he and I could do it.
Game starts at 6 p.m., so I go to the stand at 450 to start the process of slapping down some franks on the roller cooker thingy, heating up the pork bbq, microwaving the cheese for nachos, starting the first of about 30 turns of popcorn, dragging out condiments, finding the candy bars, restocking the cooler with drinks, and cooking the chili for the dogs. As I was loading up the 64 frozen dogs onto their cooker, a slow panic loaded into me. There was no way. No way. No way two of us would be able to handle it all. No way two of us would even be able to get everything ready in time for the game.
A bead of freak out settled on my brow as the dogs slowly began rotating on the electric frying thingy. Luckily my athlete showed up early and started setting up the counter and stocking the drinks; then miracle of miracles, another athlete showed up – my athlete had rethought the all out philosophy and asked the new one to come help.
At 550-ish, the asst. athletic director opened us up. People flocked to the concession stand like flies to fresh cow crap. Candy, popcorn, and sodas were the trifecta of choice for those frequently the stand early in the evening.
Around 530, an older crowd started purchasing items; many parents often use concessions for their dinner when their child is playing at night. Soon, orders poured in for nachos and chili-cheese dogs, and bbq sandwiches. As it was my job to “cook” I went to the cheese crockpot and dipped the ladle into the gooey yellow nacho mess glob. Hmm, I thought, it’s cold. Odd. Actually, I said this aloud because the girl athlete came to check on the freaked out panic permeating from every poor. I felt the chili and bbq crockpots, as well. All cold.
Oops.
Forgot to plug them in.
It’s gonna be at least 30 minutes for cheese and the like, I announce to the growing mob of people fueled by growling stomachs. Angry mob time. Here, have some popcorn. Yes, placation.
Time flies serving the masses heart attack inducing fare cooked by someone who once burned water and set off the smoke detector – at the same time. The game starts and I finally have a couple of minutes, between nachos and soft pretzels and jeering comments from students I know, to eat a chili dog – the epitome of crappy fast food ballgame staples. As I stuff my mouth, and feel my arteries screaming in pain, the girl starts screaming and dives to the floor, the boy covers his face and yelps. I hear it before I see it - mini explosions reverberating off the concrete concession stand walls. I do believe I utter the no-no phrase of “What the fuck?”
Then I see it – shards of popcorn sailing through the air. We are under attack. The popcorn maker was taken over by evil entities bent on my school’s domination. The first line of defense, myself and the two hardy athletes realize that we must mount a defense – we all shriek and run into the safety of the hall.
When the explosions finally stop, I stick my head back in the door to find the white-tiled floor littered with hundreds of popped corn kernels. Fun time – I’ll clean that later. I grab another bag of the small yellow kernels and ignore the possessed machine’s grinding noises and commence making another turn.
That bunch burns in 10 minutes because I forgot to remove it from the heat. So I pop in another bag; 10 minutes later, a black cloud wafts from the machine. Damn – again.
A vote was taken by the two high school kids – I was voted outta the concession stand. But, being the adult, I got to override their coup – but I did agree to stay away from the popcorn machine the rest of the night.
Thirty minutes later a father from the opposing team motions me over and hands me a couple of small bolts and washers he found in his popcorn. Oops.
Another thirty minutes and we run out of cheese. No problem got six tubs in the cabinets. Because I am the adult, I get the cheese down and begin to open it with an old-fashioned can opener. Of course I pick the tub that is bent to hell and back and the opener won’t cut through the bent areas. Again with the no-no “What the fuck?”
I turn to the kid standing next to me – I’m not sure who he is, but he has taken to restocking the drinks – here, you do this before I hurl it through the door. He laughs at me – I should figure out who he is at some point. The last thing I see is him taking a pair of scissors to the metal container; two minutes later this new kid is wearing yellow nacho cheese all over his clothes, some is even in his hair. I don’t care so much. I have cheese.
Another thirty minutes pass – a nice older lady orders a bbq sandwich. I go to fix it, and oops, I’ve burned all the bbq pork to the side of the crock pot. No more bbq.
Fourth quarter – I open the oven door and almost cry. There are about 60 wrapped hot dogs that didn’t sell. So much for being proactive and cooking and cooking an cooking. I tell the kids to run and sell them at half price, then when no one else is buying give them away. They came back empty handed – I don’t want to know how many they gave away.
Clean up time. Thank goodness.
Damage estimate:
• One popcorn machine maker
• Two nachos, five chili dogs, six cokes, two Gatorades, four candy bars= what the kids ate gratis.
• Three wasted bags of popcorn (I spilled one on the floor)
• One vat of pork bbq (burnt)
• One glass crock pot lid – oops.