Radio City Hallelujah

It was August, Radio City Music Hall, downtown New York. The thick, bluish cast of late summer covered every skyscraper, tree cluster, passing bus and car with a dirty-sky-tinged mink of pollution and restlessness.

“OK, It’s your turn,” I told Pat as we approached yet another tall, tie-dyed hippy with tickets to move. We pushed the pot-stained air with our bodies, gliding closer to the rainbow ticket hawk with dreams to sell.

“Any tickets for tonight?” Pat shouted, as wide white pavement met listless trees to undulate in the late afternoon sun.

“Welcome ladies!” he exclaimed, face bent on pleasant conniving. It was early enough in the day that he was still committed to a raft of lies and exaggeration to hoodwink the under-18 crowd. In his mind, he was well on his way to a small-time fortune. He felt safe, exalted even. Who would remember his late afternoon scam? 80 percent of the kids were already rocketing to the moon with undependable options to return. Like taking candy from a baby.

It was close to show time, and we were on our 6th try to buy our way in to see the Grateful Dead's 25th Anniversary show in this historic and extraordinary venue. This wasn't want, this was need. Anxious, hopeful, I said,

“We’re looking for two tickets to the show tonight?” A question and a weak plead fought in my voice as rainbow hawk man barked at us over the rising crowd noise.

“You came to the right place, girls. Hang on a sec,” and promptly turned his back. Patty looked at me, raised one eyebrow in silent commentary.

Our possible savior rummaged through two dirty backpacks stacked behind him. I noticed an extra strap attached to his ankle. No scalping this scalper! This was his Ticketmaster, his concert window, his condensed future retirement fund. The top pack was well-worn. It might have been a pale blue once, but the silver duct tape was now in control. Boy Scout badges, Dead stickers, zippers and other strategic attachments poked out from the silver facade. Any discernible part of the original blue canvas had been roughly sewn and looked like a test run at needlepoint with a fishing knife.

When he turned back to us, his fingers were fanning two pairs of tickets. He raised his left and waved the long, printed strips of paper with a street thespian’s dramatic flair.

“Behind door number one, we have a pair of up close and personal. Row C, seats 8 and 9 put you at Bobby’s feet and in a direct line with Jerry’s main amp. The drum solos will rattle your ribcage, and a swivel-turn to your left will blow your mind.”

He leaned in closer, sharing, “You’d have some very famous company just a few seats away.” His green-blue eyes sparkled to accompany a mischievous grin. I started to ask, but he smugly cut me off with, “Can’t tell you, it’s a secret.” He stood up straighter, that right hand now raised to display two pairs of tickets as he continued his pitch.

“Behind door number two, a free radical pair of sonic sweetness in the form of side seats about a quarter of the way back. It’s perfectly safe and out of the crush of the surging crowd near the stage, with an unobstructed view of the entire band: Bob, Jerry and the boys at eye level, ready to take you on a free ride to whatever heaven you believe in.”

This guy! A sales boy-wonder, I thought to myself. “Options are good,” I shouted over the din. “How much?”

“For you? The deal of the day for you two ladies with the sunshine hair! I can let the 3rd row go for.... let's say $200 apiece, and the side unobstructed for $295 a pair.”

Our jaws and our hopes fell. Another scalper with sky-high prices we couldn’t meet. I walked up and stood two feet from him and said,

“We have $187 between us, drove all the way up here from Wilmington. We HAVE to see this show,” I said, leaning closer. “Please…”

“I’m sorry girls, I have bills to pay”, he replied with a shrug, making a full turn toward a group of equally tie-died seekers on the road to find legal entry to the Dead show of all Dead shows. He was our last chance Texaco.

I was crushed.

Patty and I shared a seat on a nearby bench to assess our options. “We could try and sneak in”, I began, her head already shaking no. “Don’t you think every broke deadhead in 3 states is thinking the same thing? Look at all the security around the building.” I followed her head nod in the direction of Radio City and noted that, yep, badges and boys in blue stood out like square pegs in a sea of round holes. I stood up.

“I believe in miracles,” I stated. Pat looked at me. “I believe you and I are going to be at this show, somehow. That we are meant to be at this show!” I turned, pivoting on my heel with Tinkerbell's magic dust in mind, and walked toward Radio City knowing that my friend and I were going to be in that beautiful space tonight. Period.

Thirty seconds down the sidewalk, I bumped into a multi-colored clown with spiraling eyes. He looked directly into mine and said,

“You look like you could use a little good luck!” He reached out and tapped my third eye, a kind of pointy-fingered “bap” between my eyebrows, then shook my hand. “Done!” he said.

I blinked. He blinked in exaggerated pantomime. We both laughed.

“Thank you, kind sir!”, I sang in his general direction.

Turning back toward the venue and the quickly doubling crowd, I took two strides and stepped on something. My foot said “book”, my eyes said Moleskine. My favorite type of pocket journal in classic black was now decorated with my dusty footprint. I picked up the little journal, noted the pattern of my sole on the cover and thought it a perfect sign. Flipping through the pages, there was no identifying info. This, one of the smallest of the Moleskine journals, was peppered with inspirational sayings and quotes by famous writers, thinkers, poets. Rumi was followed by Yogi Berra. Blake was scribbled over top of a sketch of clouds, mountains and a beautiful dark-haired woman. The beginning of a melody in Braille had been poked up from the back of a page without breaking through. I sang it in my mind. It was pretty.

Turning back to the front page, I remembered the wonderful little pockets a Moleskine hides between its covers. There was a bulge. My heart started to beat faster as I slipped a finger into the folds of stiff, firm paper, pulling out a slim wad of bills. At this point, I moved into the grass between sidewalks and leaned against a tree, blocking the view of anyone who might be curious about the sudden green in my hands. $10, 20, 40, 90, 100 and 5, 6, 7, 8. My God, $108 dollars! I immediately turned and ran back to Patty. She was still on the bench looking dejected and slightly sunburnt.

“Pat!” I said, sliding into the seat at her side and fanning the newly found bills. “I just found $108 dollars in a journal on the ground.” I laughed out loud, continuing, “Do you know how much $108 plus $187 equals?!”

“You FOUND it?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes! And guess what? Putting the 108 with our 187 adds up to EXACTLY WHAT THAT GUY WAS ASKING for the second pair of tickets! Like, exactly Pat!”

She continued to look at me like I had just landed from Venus. I spun in circles around the bench, elated.

“Let’s go!” I chortled, “before he sells them to someone else!”

I grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. We ran the short track back to Two Pack Jack to buy our way in. I was giddy, smiling like the kids around me who had already dropped or smoked or swallowed their version of a magic carpet. Pat and I were stone cold sober. From the outside, no one would know the difference.

One thing about our ticket hawk with the rainbow aura: his flowery location descriptions were dead-on. The seats were a quarter of the way back with a clear view of the stage. The sound was incredible - especially the acoustic set. I was more contented than a kitty on a favored lap. Jerry was in rare form, taking to the unusual acoustic versions of their most beloved songs with a passion I hadn’t seen or heard from him in years. Bob’s voice was lilting, easy on the ears and both drummers were so in sync I swore they were the same person in two bodies. What a night.

At half time, we headed out to the gorgeous Art Deco lobby to get something to drink. I left Patty in line and went in search of a bathroom, clutching the Moleskine in my right hand. It was tucked under my jacket, fingers curious to explore more. When I found the restrooms, the potty line was too long for the cross-legged like me, so I slipped over to the men’s room. No lines and no one waiting for a stall. I finished my business, snapped my jeans and reached over to grab the gift book from it’s perch on top of the TP rolls. Somehow I missed, knocking it to the floor. “Ugh,” I thought as I reached down to grab the wee journal. I carefully picked it up by the front cover, not touching the floor.

I stopped. Gawked. In its three feet of travel to the tiles, something had shifted in the back of the journal. More money was peaking out at me. A LOT of money! Blinking, I picked it up, grateful for no added stains. I gently pulled out the biggest wad of greenbacks I had ever seen in one place. Turns out the last 25 pages of the book had been cut and removed to make space for the beautifully unexpected wonder of $20,000 in large bills. I counted it three times to be sure, sat back down and laughed.

Having bounded up the stairs two at a time, I was still laughing when I reached the food line, joining my friend at the front of the line.

“You are not going to believe what just happened…”