a non-event

I am meeting Jill at 1:30 to see My Son The Waiter, A Jewish Tragedy. Reviews are good; I like one-man shows; it’s 90 minutes and the tickets, which I bought through Play-by-Play, are only $4 each.

I get to the theater early.  The man collecting tickets is snippy and officious.  He certainly did not get this job based on personality.  The theater would be better served if he managed the lighting, far away from human interaction. 

I overhear a sweet little old(ish) lady explaining that when she bought her tickets, through some promotion, there was no mention of a two-drink minimum.  I see Snippy Officious Man (SOM) scrutinize the promotional card the lady hands him.  And sure enough, nowhere on the card does it say anything about the 2-drink minimum.

“I’m sorry, it should have.”  That’s SOM’s explanation.  “So, do I have to buy two drinks?” the lady asks with some trepidation.  “Yes, or I can’t let you in.”  

I had no idea there was a two-drink minimum, but unlike the lady before me, my ticket says right on it, 2-beverage minimum per person.

I ask SOM what the price is for soft drinks.  “Six dollars and up,” he snaps.  I can tell he hates me for asking.

I would have seen the play for $4, but now I’d be adding another $16 or so, factoring in tip.  I’m not that interested in this Jewish tragedy.

I text Jill.  She is on the subway, but texts back in agreement.  Neither of us goes.

Instead, I walk up Columbus and stop by a flea market.  I meet a vendor who sells vintage college pennants. I contemplate buying a small, framed 1940’s Cornell pennant for Alexander’s birthday, but I doubt that’s what he’d like. Then I stroll over to a sidewalk farmer’s market.  Homemade jams. Fresh duck. Seafood. Cider. Apples. Lots of apples. Breads. Mini pies. Bins of fresh spices.

There’s a lot to see on a beautiful Sunday in autumn on New York’s Upper Westside.  Just not a play about one man’s struggle trying to make it in New York.

Hmmm.  Maybe that’s a good thing.