Poor sketchy man outside the Gothic Theatre last night, yours was a complication born of marquee ineptitude. For you see, the Gothic lists several shows at a time there, a column of upcoming shows on the left, and a column as well on the right. Last night, the top line of said marquee read like so: "NOV 28 SUICIDAL TENDENCIES DEC 29, 30, 31 FLOBOTS," with several other shows listed beneath. And so said sketchy Broadway man stumbled up to the window and requested, "One for Suicidal Tendencies."
"Um, that show took place a month ago," replied the girl in the window, her copy of Death on the Installment Plan sitting on the counter.
"It says right up there: Suicidal Tendencies December 29th. Isn't today December 29th?," he asked in his most blatant fuck-you-duh voice.
"Today is December 29th," she said patiently. "But Suicidal Tendencies aren't playing tonight. The Flobots are. Suicidal Tendencies played in November."
There was a moment of complete and total silence as the man internalized this diagnosis and formulated a new plan of attack.
"Well, how much is a ticket for the Flobots?" he rolled with the punches, deftly shifting his desire for Suicidal Tendencies toward a band whose tendencies are anything but.
"The show is sold out," the girl informed him.
"Yes but how much is a ticket?"
"The tickets are $20, but the show is sold out, sir," she sighed, death surely seeming one payment closer.
"Okay, give me a ticket to the next show," he barked, aggravated.
"Sir, the next three shows here are sold out," she explained.
"So you're telling me I can't see a show here until next year?" he asked incredulously, as though 2009 were miles across the ocean instead of just a few days away.
"That's right, sir."
If you like this story, consider signing up for our email newsletters.
SHOW ME HOW
You have successfully signed up for your selected newsletter(s) - please keep an eye on your mailbox, we're movin' in!
Blink, blink. Silence. Defeat.
And that was that. The man backed away from Will Call slowly, longing for some music, any music, but instead having to console himself with the sounds of the Englewood night. Poor sketchy Broadway man, all you wanted was to rock, and last night was simply not your night. I watched him shuffle off down the block, and as I approached the ticket window, the girl there let out an audible sigh. I gave her my I.D. with practiced confidence and spoke to her.
"It's all good," I said. "I'm on the list."