Earlier this evening I was walking to my car through Harvard Square, thinking how lucky I am. Truly, I could die tomorrow (knock, knock) and—if nothing else—know I’ve lived an incredibly charmed life. My greatest career goal was to one day write for Sports Illustrated, and I did it. When I was young and dumb and unable to meet women, all I wanted was a nice wife who’d eat with me at outdoor cafes. Now I’m married to my ultimate dream woman. I wanted kids, and I’ve got two extraordinary ones who, come tomorrow morning, will greet me with hugs and kisses. I’ve got a cool house, supportive friends and family members, a Mazda … really I’m golden.
Which leads me to Felix.
Upon getting my car from the lot, I was dumbfounded to find the same attendant sitting in the coffin-sized booth who’d been there, oh, 7 1/2 hours earlier. “Holy shit!” I said. “Aren’t you the same guy from this morning.” He nodded. The guy’s name was Felix—an Amherst College student holding down what must surely be the worst summer job in world history. Felix sits in this booth for 12 hours; he can take bathroom breaks in a building across the way until 4:30, when that place closes. He has no AC, just a small fan and an open window.
I’ve had some crap gigs in my life (No. 1 with a bullet—Opinion Survey Taker, Jefferson Valley Mall), but I’ve never spent 12 hours in a 120-degree coffin. (The photo here is where he sits)
So Felix, I told you I’d offer props. Here they are.
