An engrossing tale,
Characters I cared about,
Nothing exploded.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
THE QUEEN OF KINGS - In loving memory of Cathy King May 11, 1954 - April 10, 2009.
I loved Cathy from day-1.
It was 1982. I had recently dropped out of Ithaca and had found work as a barback at Bentley's, the cocktail lounge at the Holiday Inn in Tewksbury. It was fun. Lame music (the house band would play Hall and Oates' "Maneater" three times in a night!), free drinks, tips, and lots of laughs. My favorite bartender was Mary. She was cool, funny and pretty. I had a little crush, but I was basically a kid and not to be taken seriously. But she liked me, and when I could no longer deal with living at my parents' house, Mary offered me a spare room in her home in exchange for a few hundred bucks a month and an agreement to be available to babysit her two boys, Joey, 6 and Jamey, 4. It was to be a very happy time in my life for many reasons, not the least of which was meeting Mary's older sister, Cathy.
Cathy pulled into the driveway in her big-ass Mercedes. When she walked into Mary's kitchen, she shined so brightly, she made the midsummer day look like night. All diamonds and teeth. Mary was pretty, maybe even gorgeous. But Cathy.... Cathy was...stunning. Literally.
And I responded appropriately. Stunned. Speechless. And to all who know me, I am not using hyperbole, here. I was, briefly, unable to speak. My crush on Mary was officially over and Cathy was now the "girl-I-don't-even-dare-to-dream-about-because-girls-like-her-do-not-consider-guys-like-me-serious-contenders". I was so insecure, so positive that I had no shot that there was no pressure on me and from that day forward I became very comfortable (on the outside) around the Stunning Miss King. We flirted shamelessly, harmlessly, without any hint of possibility in real life. I didn't even wish it, that is how off-the-charts-far-fetched the concept of "Cathy and I" was in my mind.
Cathy was married to Arthur King. No one called him that. He was simply, "King". I never met the man. To me, he was just some older guy who had paid for the accessories which looked so good on Cathy.
Cathy would come over fairly regularly for coffeetalk with Mary. I would greet Cathy with a hug, spin her around into a low dip, before asking when she was going to come to her senses, leave her husband, and run away with me. Her laughter would fill the room. Mary would laugh or roll her eyes at me. I would be on my way and not give her another thought. It was just a game we played. We played it often and stuck to the script. I moved away from Massachusetts in the Fall and did not see Cathy again until 1990.
Eight years is a long time. I worked for my Uncle Bob for a year in New Jersey and spent four years in The Marine Corps before moving back to New England, where I lived for another couple of years with my girlfriend, Helen. I had stayed in touch with Mary over the years, but I don't remember if I saw Cathy or not, but I must have. **update: I just remembered. I saw Cathy one time in the interim. She ran into my arms in Mary's kitchen and wrapped her legs around my waist. How could I forget that?
Helen and I broke up in 1990. I was lonely and sad. I knew that Cathy and King had divorced, so I asked Mary for Cathy's number. I just wanted a shoulder to cry on and four years in the Marines and working for Uncle Bob had made me brave, so yeah, I was making a move. Sue me.
Cathy's heart was bigger than her Carly Simon smile. Bigger than her 450 SEL. Bigger than her biggest diamond. Bigger than her ridiculously big house...and that is what I loved about Cathy.
To say that people did not get "us" would be an understatement. Yes, she was beautiful. Yes she was so sexy, she could (and did) stop traffic, but it was "Her" I loved.
At first, we were discrete. Cathy's boys, Gary and Brandon, were teenagers of divorced parents. She did not want to do them any more emotional harm and also wanted to be a "good mom". One night, she and I were watching TV in her bedroom. She suggested that I "fall asleep", fully clothed, on top of the covers, so that when Gary came into her room to kiss her goodbye in the morning, I would be asleep in the big bed, but in the most innocent way possible. Gary came in, kissed his mother goodbye and went off to school.
That night, Cathy, Gary, Brandon and I went clothes-shopping. Gary and I were trying on shirts. He looked at me and said,
"So, you got to sleep in Mom's bed, last night."
"Is that a problem?" I asked.
"Nope."
My motives were pure. I was straight-up in love. It also probably didn't hurt that I was a ticket-scalper, so Gary and Brandon got great seats for free after that.
We were together for maybe a year. We had a lot of fun. We had a lot of laughs. We had a lot of fights. Cathy drank. A lot.
At the time, I was sober. I tried my best not to judge people who drank heavily, but when we fought, she would sometimes say cruel things that she would forget the next day. She would apologize, promise that it would never happen again and it wouldn't until it did. I tried to help. I took her to AA once. At the time, I was on the outs with her family and could not discuss it with them. No one would have believed her to be an alcoholic, anyway. She worked full-time. She raised two boys. She didn't drink during the day. On and on. Even I didn't think she was a terminal case.
The fights became more frequent and eventually the day came when leaving her was less heartbreaking than fighting with her or watching her fight herself. No one could fathom why someone like me would break up with someone like her. I don't know if people realized we had been talking about marriage. We stayed in touch for a bit and then...not.
I called Mary last Summer. It had been a long time and I wanted to catch up. She told me that Cathy had died, years ago. She described the lonely, excruciating death of an alcoholic that I had heard described countless times while I was attending AA meetings. My wife, Allison's Father had suffered a similar fate. I could not believe it. I could not imagine a line from the nightly vodka and tonic to the description Mary gave me on the phone that evening, last Summer. I still cannot.
I am sad and guilt-ridden for not having stayed in touch with Cathy. Knowing what I know about alcoholism, I am confident that I could not have "saved" Cathy, but I would give almost anything for the opportunity to open my heart to her as she opened her's to me twenty some odd years ago. I intentionally distanced myself from her because she seemed to have a bitter streak toward me. I was too self-absorbed to not recognize that she was just hurt.
I know why Cathy drank. She told me once during one of the hundreds of heart-to-heart talks we had that are so easily obscured by time and rancor and regret. The gist of it was no real mystery to anyone who wanted to know. She drank to forget. She knew there was work she could do which could help and I watched her try. But the fear of the truths she would have to confront was too great for her. And booze worked. It was not a perfect solution, but it worked. At least it still was last I saw her.
That is all the sorrow I have for the memory of Cathy King. Though she passed years ago, the wound is fresh for me; but joy still creeps into my consciousness like a mischievous 4-year-old sneaking out of bed to watch "Late Night With David Letterman" from behind an overstuffed chair.
I choose to remember Cathy as I remember her: Vivacious and flirtatious. Compassionate and funny. Loyal and tender. And one of the truly great kissers of all time.
Rest in peace, my love. It is for people like you that the human imagination has conjured heaven.
xo,
ron
It was 1982. I had recently dropped out of Ithaca and had found work as a barback at Bentley's, the cocktail lounge at the Holiday Inn in Tewksbury. It was fun. Lame music (the house band would play Hall and Oates' "Maneater" three times in a night!), free drinks, tips, and lots of laughs. My favorite bartender was Mary. She was cool, funny and pretty. I had a little crush, but I was basically a kid and not to be taken seriously. But she liked me, and when I could no longer deal with living at my parents' house, Mary offered me a spare room in her home in exchange for a few hundred bucks a month and an agreement to be available to babysit her two boys, Joey, 6 and Jamey, 4. It was to be a very happy time in my life for many reasons, not the least of which was meeting Mary's older sister, Cathy.
Cathy pulled into the driveway in her big-ass Mercedes. When she walked into Mary's kitchen, she shined so brightly, she made the midsummer day look like night. All diamonds and teeth. Mary was pretty, maybe even gorgeous. But Cathy.... Cathy was...stunning. Literally.
And I responded appropriately. Stunned. Speechless. And to all who know me, I am not using hyperbole, here. I was, briefly, unable to speak. My crush on Mary was officially over and Cathy was now the "girl-I-don't-even-dare-to-dream-about-because-girls-like-her-do-not-consider-guys-like-me-serious-contenders". I was so insecure, so positive that I had no shot that there was no pressure on me and from that day forward I became very comfortable (on the outside) around the Stunning Miss King. We flirted shamelessly, harmlessly, without any hint of possibility in real life. I didn't even wish it, that is how off-the-charts-far-fetched the concept of "Cathy and I" was in my mind.
Cathy was married to Arthur King. No one called him that. He was simply, "King". I never met the man. To me, he was just some older guy who had paid for the accessories which looked so good on Cathy.
Cathy would come over fairly regularly for coffeetalk with Mary. I would greet Cathy with a hug, spin her around into a low dip, before asking when she was going to come to her senses, leave her husband, and run away with me. Her laughter would fill the room. Mary would laugh or roll her eyes at me. I would be on my way and not give her another thought. It was just a game we played. We played it often and stuck to the script. I moved away from Massachusetts in the Fall and did not see Cathy again until 1990.
Eight years is a long time. I worked for my Uncle Bob for a year in New Jersey and spent four years in The Marine Corps before moving back to New England, where I lived for another couple of years with my girlfriend, Helen. I had stayed in touch with Mary over the years, but I don't remember if I saw Cathy or not, but I must have. **update: I just remembered. I saw Cathy one time in the interim. She ran into my arms in Mary's kitchen and wrapped her legs around my waist. How could I forget that?
Helen and I broke up in 1990. I was lonely and sad. I knew that Cathy and King had divorced, so I asked Mary for Cathy's number. I just wanted a shoulder to cry on and four years in the Marines and working for Uncle Bob had made me brave, so yeah, I was making a move. Sue me.
Cathy's heart was bigger than her Carly Simon smile. Bigger than her 450 SEL. Bigger than her biggest diamond. Bigger than her ridiculously big house...and that is what I loved about Cathy.
To say that people did not get "us" would be an understatement. Yes, she was beautiful. Yes she was so sexy, she could (and did) stop traffic, but it was "Her" I loved.
At first, we were discrete. Cathy's boys, Gary and Brandon, were teenagers of divorced parents. She did not want to do them any more emotional harm and also wanted to be a "good mom". One night, she and I were watching TV in her bedroom. She suggested that I "fall asleep", fully clothed, on top of the covers, so that when Gary came into her room to kiss her goodbye in the morning, I would be asleep in the big bed, but in the most innocent way possible. Gary came in, kissed his mother goodbye and went off to school.
That night, Cathy, Gary, Brandon and I went clothes-shopping. Gary and I were trying on shirts. He looked at me and said,
"So, you got to sleep in Mom's bed, last night."
"Is that a problem?" I asked.
"Nope."
My motives were pure. I was straight-up in love. It also probably didn't hurt that I was a ticket-scalper, so Gary and Brandon got great seats for free after that.
We were together for maybe a year. We had a lot of fun. We had a lot of laughs. We had a lot of fights. Cathy drank. A lot.
At the time, I was sober. I tried my best not to judge people who drank heavily, but when we fought, she would sometimes say cruel things that she would forget the next day. She would apologize, promise that it would never happen again and it wouldn't until it did. I tried to help. I took her to AA once. At the time, I was on the outs with her family and could not discuss it with them. No one would have believed her to be an alcoholic, anyway. She worked full-time. She raised two boys. She didn't drink during the day. On and on. Even I didn't think she was a terminal case.
The fights became more frequent and eventually the day came when leaving her was less heartbreaking than fighting with her or watching her fight herself. No one could fathom why someone like me would break up with someone like her. I don't know if people realized we had been talking about marriage. We stayed in touch for a bit and then...not.
I called Mary last Summer. It had been a long time and I wanted to catch up. She told me that Cathy had died, years ago. She described the lonely, excruciating death of an alcoholic that I had heard described countless times while I was attending AA meetings. My wife, Allison's Father had suffered a similar fate. I could not believe it. I could not imagine a line from the nightly vodka and tonic to the description Mary gave me on the phone that evening, last Summer. I still cannot.
I am sad and guilt-ridden for not having stayed in touch with Cathy. Knowing what I know about alcoholism, I am confident that I could not have "saved" Cathy, but I would give almost anything for the opportunity to open my heart to her as she opened her's to me twenty some odd years ago. I intentionally distanced myself from her because she seemed to have a bitter streak toward me. I was too self-absorbed to not recognize that she was just hurt.
I know why Cathy drank. She told me once during one of the hundreds of heart-to-heart talks we had that are so easily obscured by time and rancor and regret. The gist of it was no real mystery to anyone who wanted to know. She drank to forget. She knew there was work she could do which could help and I watched her try. But the fear of the truths she would have to confront was too great for her. And booze worked. It was not a perfect solution, but it worked. At least it still was last I saw her.
That is all the sorrow I have for the memory of Cathy King. Though she passed years ago, the wound is fresh for me; but joy still creeps into my consciousness like a mischievous 4-year-old sneaking out of bed to watch "Late Night With David Letterman" from behind an overstuffed chair.
I choose to remember Cathy as I remember her: Vivacious and flirtatious. Compassionate and funny. Loyal and tender. And one of the truly great kissers of all time.
Rest in peace, my love. It is for people like you that the human imagination has conjured heaven.
xo,
ron
Saturday, September 24, 2011
I AM or I AM NOT
Looking into his eyes. Listening to his voice. Holding his hand. Holding him in my arms. I am.
Gazing into her eyes. Taking in her scent. Softly kissing her mouth. Holding her close. I am.
Awakened by the call, "the pull". Allowing the seed to take root. Ignoring the world and creating my own. Letting go... Writing. It. Down. Losing myself. Reading. Re-writing. Showing one trusted friend. Fixing. Fade out. I am.
Otherwise, I am not.
Gazing into her eyes. Taking in her scent. Softly kissing her mouth. Holding her close. I am.
Awakened by the call, "the pull". Allowing the seed to take root. Ignoring the world and creating my own. Letting go... Writing. It. Down. Losing myself. Reading. Re-writing. Showing one trusted friend. Fixing. Fade out. I am.
Otherwise, I am not.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Grateful Dead MSG Onsale - 199?
It was the SOMETIME IN THE EARLY 1990'S. The Grateful Dead was still one of the top-grossing acts in the United States; this, despite the fact that they had only had only one top-ten hit in decades (Touch Of Grey - 1987 Arista) and their policy of allowing fans to record all their concerts - in effect, giving there music away. This was a band that simply had to be seen live, and their fans did so in record numbers over and over again.
They were a great band. But behind that great band and their loyal fan base, was a business which generated hundreds of millions of dollars. And though the hippies who followed the tour with their vision of a giant commune where love, alone, was the coin of the realm, the fact was that this was a giant, capitalist machine which churned out stacks of cash for everyone from the promoters, agents, accountants, bankers and venue-owners and operators at the top of the food chain all the way down to the Deadheads down on "Shakedown Street" selling tour shirts, glass pipes, LSD and grilled cheese. They were even more loathe to admit that the greatest beneficiaries of this model of Capitalism was The Grateful Dead, themselves. But, in fairness, though the members of The Dead were all multi-millionaires, The Music drove the profits, not the other way around. Their love of their music and the fans who inspired and worshipped them was always evident. When the Grateful Dead performed, they never phoned it in.
Back to the cash. Where there is a successful act, there are scalpers, and Dead concerts were no exception. Working a Grateful Dead concert would have been just another day at the office for me if it weren't for one simple fact:
Deadheads hate ticket scalpers.
This fact cannot be overstated. While peace and love may not have been all there was, they most certainly served as a backdrop, the tapestry on which the whole Scene (and it was a Scene) was painted. Kindness in the form of brotherly and sisterly love was thick in the air. But derision was not absent. It was kept hidden and allowed to foment until one came across a ticket scalper. Only a confidential, police informant would be viewed with more disdain, and not by much. Shirts bearing the words "Die, Scalper Scum!" were only seen at Dead shows. These haters represented a minority, but a VERY vocal and aggressive minority.
I often tried to engage these scalper-haters. I have a disarming personality and as a result, have very few enemies. I am a hard person to hate and I tend to get along with nearly everyone I meet. A typical argument would go something like this:
I would be walking between rows of cars, announcing, "Tickets, tickets, tickets! Buying, selling. Tickets!" over and over, as I walked, when I would be accosted by a Deadhead, selling tour shirts with the band's name and/or image on it.
"Why don't you just leave, scalper? No one wants you here!"
Someone else would come up and buy a couple of tickets from me and the Scalperhater would harass them...
"Don't buy tickets from scalpers! Find a fan who has an extra, bro!"
"You're ripping off the band, man!"
At this point, I would introduce myself and engage in a sort of debate where I would state my case -
"You are selling shirts with the band's logo on it. They are not making any money off this. You are literally stealing money from the band you claim to love. This ticket I am selling was initially purchased through legitimate channels, so every member of the band as well as the promoter and venue operator have already received their cut. The Grateful Dead already got paid for the ticket I am selling. Also, every ticket I sell ends up in the hands of a happy fan. Why do you hate me and what I do?"
"Why don't you just leave, scalper? No one wants you here!"
Someone else would come up and buy a couple of tickets from me and the Scalperhater would harass them...
"Don't buy tickets from scalpers! Find a fan who has an extra, bro!"
"You're ripping off the band, man!"
At this point, I would introduce myself and engage in a sort of debate where I would state my case -
"You are selling shirts with the band's logo on it. They are not making any money off this. You are literally stealing money from the band you claim to love. This ticket I am selling was initially purchased through legitimate channels, so every member of the band as well as the promoter and venue operator have already received their cut. The Grateful Dead already got paid for the ticket I am selling. Also, every ticket I sell ends up in the hands of a happy fan. Why do you hate me and what I do?"
The responses ranged from the inane:
"Because you represent Babylon, bro!"
...to justification: "I use all this money to get to the next show. For me it's about the music. You're all about the money. I bet you don't know one Grateful Dead song. And the band doesn't care that we sell these shirts."
This latter point was not true. The band spent hundreds of thousand of dollars protecting their trademarks. That being said, they were also pragmatic. Band members often wore bootleg shirts on stage.
The best I would get from a scalper-hater would be an acknowledgement that I seemed like an alright guy, as far as scalpers went.
"Because you represent Babylon, bro!"
...to justification: "I use all this money to get to the next show. For me it's about the music. You're all about the money. I bet you don't know one Grateful Dead song. And the band doesn't care that we sell these shirts."
This latter point was not true. The band spent hundreds of thousand of dollars protecting their trademarks. That being said, they were also pragmatic. Band members often wore bootleg shirts on stage.
The best I would get from a scalper-hater would be an acknowledgement that I seemed like an alright guy, as far as scalpers went.
So, on to the part where scalpers really do suck: The "Onsale", the initial offering of tickets to the general public.
Back then, there was no internet, so the only way to buy tickets from an outlet like Tickemaster or Ticketron. There were only two ways to buy from these outlets: by phone or by standing in line in front of a store that sold hard tickets.
In 199?, the Capital Theatre was one of only a few outlets selling tickets for the upcoming Grateful Dead's Madison Square Garden shows. This is was where I chose to make my move. I brought half-a-dozen kids with me. This was my "crew", who would stand in line with me, use cash I had provided them with to but tickets, then give me those tickets. In return, I would pay them anywhere from $30 to $100 each, depending on how many seats they got. There are two reasons I was successful at onsales:
Back then, there was no internet, so the only way to buy tickets from an outlet like Tickemaster or Ticketron. There were only two ways to buy from these outlets: by phone or by standing in line in front of a store that sold hard tickets.
In 199?, the Capital Theatre was one of only a few outlets selling tickets for the upcoming Grateful Dead's Madison Square Garden shows. This is was where I chose to make my move. I brought half-a-dozen kids with me. This was my "crew", who would stand in line with me, use cash I had provided them with to but tickets, then give me those tickets. In return, I would pay them anywhere from $30 to $100 each, depending on how many seats they got. There are two reasons I was successful at onsales:
1. I put together a great crew. I would choose someone with initiative and ambition as a sort of foreperson who would then, in turn, recruit their best friends - people they trusted implicitly. I only really had to trust the one in charge, who in this case was Sandi. Sandi was and is still a cool fucking chic with a bunch of friends who she brought into my scene. Loyalty was rewarded. There were bonuses for bringing in more tickets or better seats. I ran crews for ten years and never once got ripped off by anyone on my crew. Well, almost never, but that is a tale for another day.
2. I was always first. Or nearly so. I would do everything in my power to be first in line. When people were lining up the night before an onsale, I would drop my crew off two nights before. This was the least defensible part of my business. I can justify my actions by stating that anyone could have gotten in line ahead of me (which happened from time to time) and though i was not without compassion for "real" fans, ultimately greed was my motivator. And the fact remained that tickets were limited and the front of the line was the smartest place to be.
For this event, I and my crew had arrived two nights before the actual onsale. We were the first seven in line and were joined by only one or two fans that night. It was important for my crew to not let these "real" fans in on the fact that they were working for a ticket broker. It would be a very uncomfortable two days if everyone behind us knew what we were about. However, everyone would figure it out eventually, but as long as everyone got tickets, no one usually bitched. Of course, the occasional scalperhater would rant, but if people behind us did not get tickets, they would either try to buy them from me or any one of the ticket agencies I supplied.
By the second night, we had been joined by twenty or more people on the sidewalk. These were actual concertgoers, many of them deadheads. The combined odor of Speed Stick, Pantene Shampoo and Conditioner, and weed gave way to the heavier smells of clove cigarettes, Patchouli oil, and better weed. In a short time, most of the Deadheads were on to me, so I bought a keg and made friends. I soon fell into the "not-a-bad-guy-for-a-scalper" category. I was on the sidewalk with them, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and codeine cough syrup (sobriety was eluding me). It was a fun and festive night.
One of Sandi's friends, Renee, and I hit it off. She also hit it off with one of the local residents who was in line, a super cool guy named Jeff who let me and my crew take turns going to his nearby apartment to use his shower . Renee came back from her shower looking amazing. She was laying it on pretty thick with Jeff and would teasingly look over at me hoping to playfully arouse some jealousy. This totally worked. Jeff was better looking than me, he was so cool, I liked him, and worst of all, he had his own place only blocks from where we were. My hopes with Renee seemed dim.
I was ready for a shower myself and Renee suggested that she and Jeff join me at the apartment so we could all get some food. I know this sounds like she was hoping for a threesome, but I assure you that her goal was to inflame my jealousy further. Renee was 20 and I was 27. I was not sexually adventurous enough to consider sharing her with this Jeff guy and was sure that they would be fucking while I was showering.
I was ready for a shower myself and Renee suggested that she and Jeff join me at the apartment so we could all get some food. I know this sounds like she was hoping for a threesome, but I assure you that her goal was to inflame my jealousy further. Renee was 20 and I was 27. I was not sexually adventurous enough to consider sharing her with this Jeff guy and was sure that they would be fucking while I was showering.
We went to Jeff's place and the two of them had some grub, while I showered. I did the full-on "I-might-get-laid" shower, even though I felt my odds were less than 50-50. I got out of the shower and was drying off. I could hear Renee laughing at whatever witty shit Jeff was saying.
Sensing my hookup slipping away, I decided to search for a consolation prize...in Jeff's medicine cabinet. As I mentioned before, sobriety was not a priority at this point in my life. I was pretty savvy as to the effects of various prescription medications, and if i did come across a previously unknown substance (remember, this is pre-internet and I did not carry a Physician's Desk Reference), I could always look for the "Sleepy Guy" warning label.
As soon as I opened Jeff's medicine cabinet, a smile crossed my lips. I could not have dreamed better drugs.
Sensing my hookup slipping away, I decided to search for a consolation prize...in Jeff's medicine cabinet. As I mentioned before, sobriety was not a priority at this point in my life. I was pretty savvy as to the effects of various prescription medications, and if i did come across a previously unknown substance (remember, this is pre-internet and I did not carry a Physician's Desk Reference), I could always look for the "Sleepy Guy" warning label.
As soon as I opened Jeff's medicine cabinet, a smile crossed my lips. I could not have dreamed better drugs.
I entered the kitchen with a swagger. Renee immediately picked up on my new confidence and was confused, for up until now, she had had me totally off-balance, yet now, here I was, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Jeff was handsome and used to women throwing themselves at him, but he was not that bright and had no idea that Renee had been taunting me right in front of him. He excused himself and went to the bathroom. Renee tried to regain the upper hand.
"I think Jeff is really into me!" she teased.
"Seems so." I responded, coolly.
Renee furrowed her brow, wondering what was I up to. I leaned in.
"Before you and Jeff swap bodily fluids, you might want to check his medicine cabinet. See you on the sidewalk."
I walked out of Jeff's apartment and headed back to the party in front of the Capital Theatre and smiled, satisfied, as I waited for Jeff and Renee to return.
It is pretty rare for most guys to be absolutely sure that they have won one of these battles, but I was certain, because I knew two things:
1. Renee had worked herself into such a lather, that someone was getting laid, that night. And,
2. I did not have a medicine cabinet, containing half-a-dozen bottles of Tetracycline.
Renee and I shared a blanket, that night. The next morning, I was happy, Renee was sore, and Jeff was confused.
EPILOGUE
Only thirty or so tickets were sold out of the Capital Theater's Ticketmaster machine that morning. No one behind me and my crew got tickets. We high-tailed it out of there pretty quick, before things got ugly. The whole onsale was shady. Ticketmaster and/or The Capital Theater released many more tickets a couple of hours later and though I have no evidence that someone within one of these organizations diverted tickets for the same purpose I had, these things were not uncommon in those days. It was one of the things that made me justify my own actions. While I competed with fans for thirty tickets, some unseen hand scooped up hundreds or perhaps thousands of tickets which never saw the light of day. Not that day, anyway.
"I think Jeff is really into me!" she teased.
"Seems so." I responded, coolly.
Renee furrowed her brow, wondering what was I up to. I leaned in.
"Before you and Jeff swap bodily fluids, you might want to check his medicine cabinet. See you on the sidewalk."
I walked out of Jeff's apartment and headed back to the party in front of the Capital Theatre and smiled, satisfied, as I waited for Jeff and Renee to return.
It is pretty rare for most guys to be absolutely sure that they have won one of these battles, but I was certain, because I knew two things:
1. Renee had worked herself into such a lather, that someone was getting laid, that night. And,
2. I did not have a medicine cabinet, containing half-a-dozen bottles of Tetracycline.
Renee and I shared a blanket, that night. The next morning, I was happy, Renee was sore, and Jeff was confused.
EPILOGUE
Only thirty or so tickets were sold out of the Capital Theater's Ticketmaster machine that morning. No one behind me and my crew got tickets. We high-tailed it out of there pretty quick, before things got ugly. The whole onsale was shady. Ticketmaster and/or The Capital Theater released many more tickets a couple of hours later and though I have no evidence that someone within one of these organizations diverted tickets for the same purpose I had, these things were not uncommon in those days. It was one of the things that made me justify my own actions. While I competed with fans for thirty tickets, some unseen hand scooped up hundreds or perhaps thousands of tickets which never saw the light of day. Not that day, anyway.
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