Forgoing Mark Morris a second night

Last night I decided not to go. A friend couldn't make it, and then another, and I decided I didn't want to re-experience the dance alone and so I decided to sell my tickets.

I arrived at Lincoln Center just as the rain began. I ran to duck under the awning of the State Theater, then held my tickets in my hand while I read the New Yorker. A man, soaked from the rain, asked me how much I was selling them for. His glasses dripped with rain and he squinted at the tickets. I told him the price, and he considered. He asked if I thought Les Ballets Jazz de Montreal would still be performing at Damrosch Park. I said that this seemed to be a passing thunderstorm, and that in the distance the sky looked clear. He thanked me and said he'd think about; he might return.

A man in a suit asked me where my tickets were located. I told him and he said he was looking for something a little closer. I sympathized and told him that I wish I could have had better tickets as well, but the ones I bought were the best available at the time (later someone told me they bought third ring tickets on Ticketmaster that day, and I vowed to try them in addition to the Lincoln Center site in the future). I wished him luck. He asked me for a pen, and wrote on the back of a piece of paper that he was looking for tickets.

I asked him if he often went to see dance. He said no, but that he wanted to. He said he used to dance professionally, and I asked him with what company. He had danced on Broadway, and mentioned he was in Gypsy with Ethel Mermen. I told him I had seen the revival with Bernadette Peters. That sent him off on a series of recollections of her. He had met her a few times and praised her talent. The last time he saw her was in an evening of Sondheim performances. I said I wished I had seen her in Into the Woods. He mentioned she had won a Tony for that performance.

I asked him what he did now. He said he was in investing; he had been in the theater from 11 to 25, and he let that statement linger in the air without elaborating. His wife appeared and they considered what to do. A woman had appeared with third ring tickets; she was hoping to buy orchestra tickets. If she did, she'd sell him hers. He consulted with his wife and they decided to go to the movies.

As the time drew nearer to curtain, the plaza and lobby filled. More people appeared selling tickets. The woman managed to buy better tickets and sell the ones she had. Other people appeared selling single tickets in various areas of the theater. I had sold one ticket earlier to a man with what seemed to be a Southern accent. He wished me luck with the other; in the past he had tried to sell extra tickets to the opera and found it somewhat difficult.

I was about to donate my extra ticket to the theater, when a woman appeared in a red rain poncho. She asked me how much. I told her thirty dollars; she offered me twenty. I appreciated that she wanted to bargain and let them go. Then raced off to beat another deluge. Posted by eku at August 18, 2007 10:44 AM