Turning a blind eye as a security guard

In the second instalment of our My Worst Summer Job series, reporter Josh Reich shares his experience as a security guard.

I should have realised it may not have been the job for me when I was handed a clip-on tie and told ‘‘we don’t give you a normal one because it could be used to strangle you’’.

However, on the encouragement of a friend* who was making a mint guarding the staff carpark on a site used for filming The Lord of the Rings, I signed up for a job as a security guard.

Rather than mixing with hobbits, however, I joined a large security firm with contracts to provide security to half of Wellington, including the city council, Westpac Stadium and the Ministry of Justice.

Then, as now, I have what I would consider a healthy disregard for being told what to do, and it’s fair to say I don’t enjoy making the same demands of others.

However, as a low-level guard with absolutely no training, much of my time was doing exactly that.

Whether it was stopping irate taxi drivers on the hunt for a fare from driving onto the waterfront, checking concert-goers who wanted a beer for the correct red wrist-band, and trying to stop fans at a Hurricanes match standing where they shouldn’t, I was that guy preventing others from having fun.

While the warning about the tie was probably merited in some circumstances, my philosophy was that my employer didn’t pay me enough to justify putting myself in harm’s way, so I typically erred on the side of turning a blind eye if a situation was becoming confrontational.

Without a doubt, the worst part of the job was the mindnumbing tedium of most of the assignments.

I spent a couple of weeks working in Wellington’s City Gallery, which on the face of it, didn’t sound too bad.

Unfortunately, the role largely consisted of standing in various exhibition rooms, suspiciously eyeing visitors who may be getting too close to the pieces. And that’s it. It got even worse when an exhibition by Bridget Riley was installed, with her optical art making me nauseous.

I spent a few shifts in various Winz offices, which consisted of eight hours sitting in a chair and making sure none of the clients was causing a fuss.

At the time I became an expert on entitlements, with my efforts to sneak in a newspaper being thwarted by a zealous office manager, forcing me to read pamphlets instead.

The only hint of excitement was when, in the Porirua office one day, a couple of patched Mongrel Mob members came for a meeting.

Turns out with their dole cheque on the line, they weren’t going to create any problems.

Twelve hours was spent guarding a fully functional cash machine, and I was sent to the top of a hill in Karori to guard a door leading to a Telecom something-or-rather because it wasn’t closing properly.

Despite the lack of training, I was required to spend one morning in the passenger seat of an armoured van to do the cash run, which I admit apart from the potential of a hold-up, wasn’t too bad.

Not so much fun was being required to sit in the cash room that same afternoon, bagging all the coins that had been collected.

After a couple of months, I managed to find a job much more suited to my tastes, working for a liquor company, and was able to reduce my shifts to a token four hours a week.

When I eventually quit, I wasn’t quite sure who was more relieved, me or the company.

A couple of weeks later, I found my clip-on tie on the floor of my car, and when I received my final pay slip, they had docked me $12 for not returning it. * My friend was later fired after being caught sleeping on the job. When he protested his innocence, the boss pointed to the duvet and pillow on the back seat.