Found myself with little to do on my day off. Laundry is clean, house is (reasonably) orderly. I have already finished the DVD set of Heroes season 3 I purchased not too long ago. Knew I should go to the gym, haven't been since Thursday (yikes!) but didn't have the energy. $60 from J (my boyfriend) were sitting on the nightstand, above a note: "Please pick up from Ticketmaster booth at Macy's- 2 tickets to see Brand New at the Aragon Ballroom on Oct. 3. Love you." J and his dad are visiting Chicago that weekend, a retirement present to his father, and concert and baseball would provide the entertainment. Knowing how much it means to him, I pulled myself out of bed and to the car, stopping in the kitchen for a pb and j.
Macy's, in the dinky little "mall" about ten minutes from my house. Used to be busy, thriving. Now the Macy's is the only store with a commercial pulse in the wreckage that used to be a shopping mall. Shopping malls, the ghost towns of our generation.
I parked outside the Macy's, made my way to the second floor, where the directory promises me the Ticketmaster dwells. Turns out, the directory lies. The sales associate outside furniture informs me they no longer have a Ticketmaster. The booth that used to house said entertainment monopolist informs me that the Henhouse (one word or two? not sure) on Chatham has what I need. A brief consultation of a map, and I am back on the road.
At the Hen House, I stand in line at Customer Service behind a character frequent at all grocery stores, including the one at which I work: the overly chatty customer who needs nothing from you. He is not going to make a purchase, you answered her question fifteen minutes ago, and yet there he or she still stands, in your line as the customers behind him or her get more and more impatient. Which do you do: continue to indulge Chatty Cathy at the expensive of your future, actual customers' good moods, or interrupt Gossip Jim and risk ruffling his feathers? An impossible choice. So I wait patiently like I would want my customers to do until Cathy decides she has talked the cashier's ear off for just long enough and goes her merry way.
I step up to the counter, note in hand. The cashier thanks me for my patience. His name tag reads Bryan. I can't stand it when people feel the need to randomly convert is to ys, but ignore this for the moment. He thanks me for waiting, asks how he can help me. I inform him of my wishes: two tickets to see Brand New at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago on Oct. 3.
"Gee," he actually said "gee", "that show appears to be all sold out. Sorry." "You're sure?" I ask him, just in case he misread the computer screen. I know, it's dumb, but I came all the way out here!
"No luck." I thank him and leave, wondering if I should be more annoyed at having been lead on this wild goose chase, or sympathetic to J that he won't be able to go to the show with his father. I shrug. There's always the Cubs.
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