I am proudly responsible for putting a Kardashian (Jenner) on a Segway.
As a *Sales Associate* at Segway of Santa Monica in summer of 2011, my responsibility was to train new riders on the machines, give tours on the beach from Santa Monica down to Venice, sell machines, and repair current ones. I found the job on Craigslist, and while it wasn’t an easy job, it paid more than minimum wage. Of course, it didn’t pay as much as go-go dancing in WeHo, but I needed money to buy food to eat to bulk up so I could do that eventually.
I must have done shitty at the interview since the weirdly passive owner didn’t hire me. I wore my sharp black polo and white skinny jeans and taught the owner how to play tennis (we had to teach him something as part of the deal). Of course I hadn’t played tennis regularly in about 4 years so I dropped the ball and couldn’t even balance it on the racket. Derp.
But apparently their first round of new hires quit/left for school and I was next on the list. Soon I realized that, excepting one basketball player who was on his way out the door (Harrison, who was straight) the entire rest of the crew was gay. Jason, the owner, was gay and nerdy; David, the manager, was gay and bitchy; DJ, the on-and-off coworker, was gay and materialistic; and Seth, the other new hire, was gay and flamboyant. I don’t quite know where I fit into this mix, and since I didn’t really fit, I think I was pretty resented.
The first day a nervous-looking woman walked in with her two daughters and a driver. The daughters were decently behaved but she kept scolding them. I noticed she had a Birkin bag, probably worth about $18,000, as well as an AMEX Centurion black card. Later I found out she was Suzanne Rogers, one of the most wealthy and highest-profile women in Canada. Harrison was 15-minutes late to open the store because he was arrested the night before for a fake license, and David was openly scolding him in front of the Rogers clan. It was embarrassing, and little did I know what I had gotten into.
Having never ridden a machine, I didn’t realize I would need to for the job. I thought I’d simply hold down the fort and sell them. They don’t make people who work at a golf store play 9 holes in the aisles, so why the hell should I have to ride this two-wheeled bone-snapper?
Of course, next to our building was a big hill we had to take to the beach. I was nervous as all hell. Sweating profusely, knocked knees, knowing that this was it and I would die on some geekgasm invention. Thankfully, Harrison was patient and I didn’t die, and by the end of the day I was actually having some fun riding them.
I never fell. Except once. I hit the bottom of the hill too fast trying to deliver a machine to a customer and went over a curb. The machine flew one way, I flew the other into a parking lot, face-first. I limped away, bleeding, to the horror of onlookers. I still delivered the machine and got a $10 extra tip for my trouble. Enough to maybe buy bandaids.
Speaking of fell: people fell. A lot. More than we ever advertised. I saw a guy get his toe cut open, a guy skin his whole nose and side of his face, kids get bruises, bumps, and bleeding wounds left and right. One day we had a birthday party of 14 very rowdy 12-year-old boys. The mom knew the minimum age limit was 12 and still about 1/3 of the kids were underage. We let them ride anyway—after all, she signed the waiver. Four of the kids got injured, but they all had a blast, so I guess it was worth it.
And speaking of waivers: yes, we had very extensive waivers to sign. Initials here, here, and here, sign here, basically sign your life away. It always amused the British people for some reason.
Speaking of British people, over 60% of our customers were foreign. Tourists from all around the world, Germany, Scandinavia, China, Canada, France.
The French were the worst. Not regular French—they were polite and kind. No, the French Canadians and French Jews. Arrogant, rude, belligerent people. One French Canadian guy ran his machine into a wall after I told him to wait before getting on it. The French Jews were one family that came three times in a week. I had to scream at the kids to get them in line and to stop double-and-triple riding the delicate machines.
Seth was a godsend. As a former flight attendant, he had the patience to handle large bunches of rowdy people and instruct them properly. He was always cheerful, always kind, and always just got shit done.
David, on the other hand, was a nightmare. Demanding, overbearing, sleazy, virulently liberal (“OMG, Bachmann is such a cunt”). He was upset because he was 27 trying to get a degree at UCLA in the same major I received at 19, that I had a better car than him, whatever he could find. I later discovered he was bitchy because his mom was going through cancer, he had a deadbeat brother, and a boyfriend on the way out. Still no excuse, but after I discovered all that he seemed a little less bitter and a little more sympathetic to me. I think he viewed me as some sort of Devil Wears Prada surrogate to him (I was also intelligent, a stickler for perfection and cleanliness, and uncompromising) but just as Andy left, I did too.
So that was our little group. Jason was rarely seen and only came in the office to complain. David kissed his ass of course, which was sad to watch. Our Long Beach office had some awesome folks, most notably Suzanne, who was a kind-hearted, motherly woman who we had the opportunity to have a few joint tours with and who helped come out and watch over things occasionally. Wished I could’ve had her as a boss instead.
We once had a joint trip down to San Diego for a group of orange juice people. I don’t know how, but we managed to get everyone together and our shit organized in order to pull it off. To say we were dysfunctional was a massive understatement. We rented a gorgeous house overlooking a lake in San Diego for the night, and of course got drunk, played Scattegories, and hot tubbed. I got way too drunk, so the next day was kind of uncomfortable, but we pulled off a huge tour with only one person falling. Not a bad deal.
Which brings me to the Kardashians. As one of our most notable celebrity clients (they each had a machine) David was of course terrible to them. I couldn’t understand why—they were excellent PR for us—but apparently they always had an issue with their machines and them not working properly.
Kris Jenner’s new assistant, Karen, called into the store one day asking if we could come out and repair their machines because they weren’t running. David blew her off, so she called again and I explained that it may be a battery issue. The batteries cost $1k each. She paused and shrieked, “Kris is gonna SHIT HER PANTS!” I told her she could bring them in and we would fix the problem.
The next day Karen called again, asking if we could come out to the Jenner house to fix the machines. David ignored her call and I told her I’d get back to her. He bitched and moaned over and over again about how they had so many problems and how they were needy. I explained that they paid for service each time, so it shouldn’t be a huge issue. He scowled and ignored me.
The day after, David was off and we had someone else in to help out in the meantime. Karen called in and I told her I would personally come out and handle the issue. So I did, and despite the fact it took me 45 min to get there, I was soon pulling into the famous Jenner driveway by their white Mercedes G up at their Hidden Hills house.
Karen greeted me and let me in, and I had to contain how marveled I was at the cleanliness of the house and the sheer volume of family portraits that scaled the walls. She led me to the garage, and I tested the machines labeled “Kylie” and “Kendall”, sneaking glances around in the meantime. The whole family was in Santa Barbara preparing for Kim’s wedding, she said, and they were doing renovations while they were gone. Kris’s clothes were all racked in the garage, all on Dolce & Gabbana hangers, organized to a tee. I asked Karen for a quarter to open the back of the key battery with (the device has a small, round watch-face for a key and, without it, the device won’t run). She looked sideways at me and fetched the quarter, and sure enough I found the problem: the key battery, a little watch battery, was out. I took the keys with me and told her I’d mail them back. I tested the machines and they worked just fine, but I had to explain that they won’t work correctly unless you leave them plugged in at all times. Karen couldn’t grasp this concept, so I had to plug them in for her and begin my departure. As I walked out the door, she pried the quarter from my hand, leaving me somewhat in shock as I was getting ready to hand it back to her with other screws and paraphernalia. I almost backed into their fountain on the way out, and left to return to the store.
I replaced the key batteries at the store and labeled which was for which girls’ machine, and Fedexed them back to the house. Karen called and was very appreciative that they worked—she was new at her job and could not fail otherwise, it seemed, Kris would fire her. It felt good to help out, and to watch David squirm upon his return that I got the damn job done.
The next day I was taking a tour to the beach when I saw Kendall with some friends. Some members of my group went to talk with them, and she blushed and smiled and kept walking. I didn’t want to say anything, it would’ve been weird.
I finished working there 2 weeks later and returned back home, missing out on their huge Burning Man rentals gig, which I didn’t really regret because being out in the desert with them for a week didn’t sound appealing in any way. We went our separate ways, but the memories that I had of that summer I’ll never forget.
