Tall Boy

by Anthony Sonsalla

“One of these days I’ll be able to afford some of those box seats at field level,” I say, looking down at the field. 

“Bro…” Mark hints, “I saved up for three months just so we could sit slightly below the nose bleeds.”

“I’m just saying. Imagine being down there. They have their own bar. We could literally sit at the bar and watch the game in front of us. Instead, we’re hoping we can get a beer before the second half starts. Not to mention SoFi Stadium is charging like eighteen dollars for a single tall boy.”

“Chargers are up seven points at the half, and you still have to find a reason to bitch.”

We trekked down the stadium stairs to the lower level and got in line for the beer cart. It’s not exactly a beer cart; probably five feet wide and as far as I can tell, it’s not on wheels. But the stadium did their damnedest to make it look like an L.A. street vendor. Oddly, the beer cart was two dollars cheaper than the concession “bar” they offer us peasants. The line was shorter too. Albeit, just slightly shorter. I know I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of these lines for food. If a tall boy costs this much, then I don’t even want to know how much they’re charging for nachos.

“The stadium came out nice, huh?” Mark asks, finally drawing my attention away from the prices on the beer cart’s menu.

“Yeah. That’s probably why they’re charging so much. Must be trying to recoup their losses.”

“Man, if you’re complaining about this, what do you think is going to happen when you get those box seats?”

“By then it won’t matter.” 

“Why’s that?” Mark asks while staring at the jumbotron playing highlights from the first half. 

“Once I finally get promoted, I won’t have to trip about paying for a stadium tall boy.”

“You know the bar down there serves off tap right? There’s no tall boys down there.”

“That’s fine. Soon enough it won’t be an issue.”

“Bro. No offense, but you still work at Target. You realize Sean’s been there like for like thirteen years and only makes a dollar twenty-five more than you?”

I didn’t want to show that I was offended by his first remark. He’s the one that got me the job in the first place. Just because he left six months ago to work at Jiffy Lube doesn’t mean he suddenly knows better.                                                                                              

“What are you talking about? Did you see the car he just bought?” I rebuttal.

“It’s a 2010 Camaro with a salvaged title,” Mark claims, breaking his eye contact with the jumbotron just to side-eye me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s twelve years old and really isn’t as expensive as you think it is.”

I match Mark’s gaze toward the jumbotron. The players are making their way back onto the field. I knew we were going to miss kick-off.

“So… what?” I ask, “should I get a second job? I heard AutoZone’s hiring. I also used to be a line cook. I could give that a shot again.”

“I mean… you’d definitely have more money. But, good luck even watching a game; let alone coordinating time off between two jobs to get box seats.” Mark says still intently watching the jumbotron.

“What can I get you?” The man tending the beer cart interrupts.

“Just two Bud Lights, please,” Mark tells him. 

The man checks our I.D.s and then starts digging through the large ice chests behind him.

“I’ll Venmo you on payday,” I tell Mark. Shit, I think I owe him a couple hundred just for the tickets alone.

“Don’t worry about it, bro. I got these.” Mark tells me, still staring at the jumbotron.

“$32 the man interrupts again while turning his tablet towards us.

Mark uses his finger to sign it. Of course, the thing is suggesting a tip. Obviously, thirty-two dollars isn’t enough for two tall boys. I mean… 7-11 only sells three packs for $6.99.  But I guess we’re financing this new stadium. 

We grabbed our drinks and moved out of the line’s way. It’s pretty screwed up that we can see the game better while standing at the concessions than we could while sitting in our own seats. We tap our “slightly” overpriced beers together and take a drink.

“So, what should I do?” I ask.

“About what?” Mark replies while making direct eye contact with me for the first time since we left our seats.

“The box seats!”

“I don’t know… go to med school. Maybe law school. Some shit like that. And in like ten years you might be able to afford it.” Now Mark isn’t breaking eye contact with me. “Or… just get over it and enjoy the rest of the game.” He adds.

I take a long drink from my tall boy. It’s surprisingly refreshing. They could have charged Mark twenty dollars each for these, and I wouldn’t have minded.

“Fuck it. Let’s go watch the game. What are the odds the Chargers blow another lead?”