Part One – New York City
In the autumn of 1989 I was living in New York City, where I’d moved from Toronto in 1986. At the time I’d heard that a Tennessee Williams play that I’d never had the chance to see, “Orpheus Descending,” was opening at the Neil Simon Theatre on West 52nd Street. That theatre was originally the Alvin but in 1983, after a successful run of, “Brighton Beach Memoirs,” it was renamed after the prolific American playwright, Neil Simon.
I had always been a hard core Tennessee Williams fan but the fact that Vanessa Redgrave was starring in the production made this play impossible for me to avoid. So on a Saturday morning, my partner, Jim, and I decided to go directly to the theatre and try to buy tickets for the production. Just before we reached the box office we encountered a well dressed older gentleman with a top hat and walking stick who smiled at us in a kind and friendly manner. Now if I were a director, I'd cast this refined gentleman in the part of Professor Higgins in George Bernard Shaw's play, "Pygmalion." He had that kind of sophistication. “Are you looking for tickets for this evening’s performance?,” he asked with a trained actor’s elocution. “Yes,” we said simultaneously. The man explained that his wife had become suddenly ill and was not able to attend the play that evening and, as such, he simply didn’t have the desire to see it all alone. So Jim and I paid him cash for the two orchestra seats. We just couldn’t believe our good luck. We thought we’d succeed in getting tickets for sometime during the run of the play but never dreamed we’d have them for that Saturday evening.
Jim and I did our Saturday food shopping routine and returned to our Greenwich Village apartment to prepare ourselves an early dinner. That evening, we returned to the theatre by subway by about twenty minutes before curtain time. When we entered the theatre and the usher showed us our seats we were grinning from ear to ear. We were on the aisle of the center section of the orchestra and only 10 or 12 rows back from the stage. “What amazing luck," we thought. As we were reading through the playbill, a man approached our seats who was clearly more than an usher. He asked us for our tickets. We showed them to him. He then said dryly, “The police have notified us that these tickets are stolen. Please vacate these seats immediately. Behind him was the young couple whose tickets had been stolen and he directed them into the two seats previously occupied by Jim and me. I said to this man, whom I thought to be the theatre’s manager, “We bought these two tickets just outside this theatre this morning. We paid well over a hundred dollars cash for them.” He looked at me with a deadpan gaze and replied, “This is not a rare occurrence. Just stand at the back of the theatre until the second act and then you can move into any two unoccupied seats that are available.”
The play was wonderful because Tennessee Williams is a brilliant playwright whose works are loaded with friction and tension. That being said, Vanessa Redgrave as Lady Torrance, a middle-aged Italian immigrant and owner of a dry goods store in the Deep South, performed with such passion and edge. Her love affair with the drifter named Val, represented a flight from a loveless marriage with a terminally ill older man. This romance resonates as the gift that we all dream of receiving, that spices up our monotonous life and sets our sensuality ablaze. Apparently, Tennessee Williams had Elis Presley in mind as he wrote the character of Val.
Though I was deeply marked by the play, the tinge remained from the shock I’d felt in being removed from our seats because our tickets were stolen. It was embarrassing and it made me ask the question, “Why did this happen to me?”
Part Two – Montreal, Canada, October 2009
It was my neighbour to the west, Enid, who first mentioned to me that the Dalai Lama would do a speaking engagement at the Bell Centre in Montreal the weekend of the 2nd of October. The Bell Centre is the home of the Montreal Canadiens hockey team and the venue where stars like Celine Dion do concerts. It has a seating capacity of over 21,000 people. My problem was, that I didn’t know about the Dalai Lama’s speech until the day before it was to occur. So on the day, Sunday, the 3rd of October, 2009, I left my apartment and walked, in about fifteen minutes, over to the Bell Centre in downtown Montreal, so that I’d arrive about an hour before the 2:00 p.m. starting time. A line containing thousands of people wound its way around the huge complex. There was another huge line, which I joined, for people who wanted to buy tickets. The word was that the event was sold out and, in fact, there were no tickets available.
Suddenly, I saw a petite brunette, probably in her late forties, walk alongside the line I was waiting in. As she reached the spot in the line where I stood, she looked at me and said, “Are you looking for a ticket? I just got a call from my daughter and she can’t make it. I bought these two tickets from two ladies just ten minutes ago. You know that the box office is sold out, don’t you?” With some hesitation I asked her, “How much is the ticket.” She answered, “Seventy dollars with the taxes. I’ll give it to you for sixty.” She held up the ticket for me to see and it was just something printed off the internet on standard white letter sized paper. It didn't resemble a real looking box office ticket at all. I said to her, “Are you sure the ticket is good. I’ve had an experience where I bought tickets from someone outside a theatre and it turned out the tickets were stolen.” She looked right at me and said, “Listen, the two sweet ladies that sold me these two tickets were as honest as the day is long. I have absolutely not a worry about these tickets. Besides, you’ll be sitting right beside me. This is an honest transaction, so don’t you worry yourself about that.” I stammered and then said to her, “OK, I’ll take it,” and passed her three twenty dollar bills as she handed me the ticket. “See you inside,” she said and darted off into the crowd.
I changed lines to the one for people entering the building. A bit nervous, I thought it best to stay positive. If everything worked out I’d soon be hearing the Dalai Lama speak live for the first and perhaps the only time in my life. I got through the admission point and was instructed how to get to my section and then my seat. As I got settled in my seat, I noticed the stadium was rapidly filling up. A few minutes later the woman who’d sold me the ticket arrived and sat down next to me then asked me what I thought of the seats. I told her I thought they were really good, but to myself I thought, “They’re a bit too far up and back.” She said to me, “They’re perfect! You hardly have to look up to see the giant monitors and you don’t have to look down too much to see the stage.” I acknowledged that she made a good point.
When the Dalai Lama began to speak I became transfixed. Never had I had such an experience. His sincerity, spirituality and humility all melded into one powerful presence. I felt so connected to his essence and his words. I remember at one point the collective feeling of confusion and frustration in the audience led to a question that was something like, “There’s so much going on in the world today: wars, corruption, poverty, famine – how should we begin to respond to the huge mess?” Without missing a beat, the Dali Lama answered, “With clear intention. This should be based upon two points: 1) we must end all human suffering in the world, and 2) all people on earth must be rendered absolutely equal.” His ability to break things down so that everyone could grasp the point was so impressive, so moving.
When the talk was over, I said to the woman sitting beside me who’d sold me the ticket, “Thank you. This experience will be with me for the rest of my life.” She touched my arm and said, “I know you were meant to be here so that you could witness this.” We glanced into each other’s eyes as kindred spirits. There was no exchange of names or contact information. I got up and left, fully trusting that I would encounter this woman again sometime in the future and that moment would be determined by a power other than me.
A penny for your thoughts? Should we or should we not buy tickets on the street from total strangers? Going 'round and around in my head is the classic Joni Mitchell song for which I find myself generating additional lyrics:
I've looked at trust
From both sides now
From hit and miss
And still somehow
It's just illusions I recall
I don't know who to trust
At all
