After five hours volunteering at the San Jose Jazz Summer Festival on Saturday, I thought I’d rest my feet and go listen to the last song of Booker T. To make sure that was OK, I asked the gatekeepers for permission to enter the VIP section by the main stage and wound up following three other volunteers inside. That’s when you saw me. Beautifully dressed in your colorful dress and wide-brimmed hat, you approached and asked if I was assigned to work in this area. I told you no, but I’d just gotten off my shift and was told I could come in. That’s when you informed me that you were the VIP manager and that I was blocking everyone’s view and needed to leave. I nervously turned around to see 50 or more empty chairs and asked if I could sit on the empty bench next to us. Nope. You told me that if you let me do that, you’d have to grant every other volunteer the same privilege. As you ushered me out walking about an inch behind me, I turned around and almost ran into someone, which prompted you berate me in your loud “section manager voice” that I almost toppled their beer. Perhaps I should have confided with you that, at 66 years old, my bone-on-bone arthritis in both knees was killing me and I desperately needed to sit down. But I’m sure that even if I did, you’d still have found the authority to escort me to my proper place.
I Saw You is an anonymous “man on the street” column. Email your rants and raves about co-workers or any badly behaving citizens to [email protected], or send to 380 S. First St, San Jose, 95113. Submissions should stick to about 100 words.
