I went to a show in Denver last weekend, a great event by the band Beats Antique (highly recommended).  I decided that I would wait to get my ticket until I got there, for absolutely no good reason whatsoever. Sara, my girlfriend, had a ticket from a friend, so we only needed one ticket total for our group of 5.  We had a great dinner, drove to the venue and parked, and made our way to the sales window.

They were sold out.

That wasn’t the worst of it.  It was about 15 degrees outside, and now I had to walk the streets with the other poor souls looking for an extra ticket.  My friends went in; Sara, dressed scantily, was kind enough to shiver with me in the cold.  I asked the groups of people who passed for an extra ticket, but there was no luck.  After a half hour, frozen, we gave up and got a beer at the Cheeky Monk just up the street.

“I really want to go dancing,” Sara said next to me at the bar, chattering, too cold to have a drink.  ”I want to dance.”

“Me too,” I said, guiltily.  ”You should just go in without me,” I offered, but she merely shook her head.

A Russian Imperial Stout warmed my belly, and I soon felt emboldened to try again to find a ticket, to join my intrepid friends inside dancing, laughing, and having the kind of fun I really, really wanted to be having, too.

Sara and I walked the two blocks back to the Fillmore Theater.  At least a dozen people were still looking for tickets, many of them the same people who had been looking when we’d left a half hour before to warm up.  Sara offered an incantation of some sort, her unbridled optimism, and an assurance we’d find a ticket.  Me?  I grumbled and cursed under my breath, sighed, and fought competing waves of anger and disappointment.  ”It’s useless,” I complained, darkly.

“We’ll get a ticket,” she countered.

“Let’s cross the street,” I mumbled, “Over there, where at least I’m not standing with another half dozen people who are all looking for tickets.”

We crossed the street, and I held up my hand with my pointer finger extended, in the universal symbol of “need one ticket, man”.  A young fellow, dressed warmly and in a vaguely hipster kind of way, approached us.

“You guys need a ticket?” he asked helpfully, his blue eyes not entirely eager to meet mine.  He had blonde stubble on his face, a red jacket, and a gentle demeanor that nevertheless seemed a little shifty.

“Didn’t I see you out here earlier,” I asked, my East Coast city skepticism immediately on guard.  Scalper.  Watch out.

“Nah,” he said casually.  ”Just got here.  I won an extra ticket earlier this week.  You seem like nice folks, thought I’d give it to you.”

Sara beamed at me and squeezed my hand.  ”See?” her smile seemed to say, “The world is beautiful and hopeful!”  My guard dropped, and effusive optimism rushed in.

“Well, she has a ticket and has been nice enough to freeze with me,” I gushed, pulling out my wallet.  ”How much?”

He pulled a ticket out.  ”40 bucks,” he said, taking the money.

“Thank you,” I said.  I offered my hand, which he reluctantly took.  ”My name is Keith, this is Sara.”  His eyes, still not wanting to meet mine, darted briefly between us.

“Travis,” he said. “Enjoy the show.”  And then he was gone, off into the crowd and not, I should note, into the line to get inside.

Sara and I, now smiling and ecstatic, waited in line, then were patted down, showed our IDs, and finally stood at the entrance of the Fillmore, promising warmth, music, and libations galore. The man taking our tickets was very short and his face hidden in a coat twice his size. He scanned Sara’s ticket.

Beeep

I handed him my ticket, and noticed as I did so that it said “Halloween Gala” on it.

It was not Halloween.

I felt my heart sink.  Sara and I exchanged a look, and I knew I’d been had.  My East Coast cynicism had tried to protect me, but I had gotten all soft and New Agey, and actually taken someone at their word.  What an ass I was.  Out forty bucks, and “Travis” was no doubt long gone, or should be if he knew what was good for him.

The man scanned my ticket, and it made the electronic equivalent of the sound of nails on a blackboard.

“No good,” he stated, holding the ticket as if I’d rubbed my ass on it.

“Look,” I pleaded.  ”I just bought that from some dude on the street.  He scammed me.”

“Please let us in,” Sara begged.  ”It’s freezing!”  The man hesitated.  She turned on her charm, and stepped fully into his view.  She smiled; a radiant, full smile that was like an invitation to someplace warm.  ”Our friends are inside.  We just needed one ticket.  Please?  Be an angel for us, please?”

The man looked at the ticket and then at us, his small face framed in a billowing hood.  He offered a kind of sigh.  ”Don’t buy tickets from scalpers,” he said, paternally, but with little enthusiasm, perhaps because he had already decided what he was going to do.

“Go ahead,” he said.  I grabbed his shoulders and squeezed.  ”Thanks, man,” I nearly shouted through chattering teeth, “You’re a life-saver.”

“You’re an angel,” Sara declared, hugging him, and a small smile cracked the stoicism of his face. We stepped inside, into warm, pulsing bodies, and music that moved like a living thing.

I was scammed, yes.  But in a way, I wasn’t. Travis, or whatever his real name was, sold me a bad ticket that was nevertheless a good one.  Kinda like he was a bottom-feeding scam-artist, and an angel.  Ain’t that something?

Oh, and the show?  Yeah, it was amazing.