A few holidays ago, Judy and I decided to stop exchanging Christmas presents. We already had so much stuff and if we really wanted something, we would just go ahead and buy it. And if it was close to Christmas, we would then say it was a Christmas gift.
Today, when I checked our calendars, I saw that there was a discrepancy. One listed a 7:30 p.m. start, and the other an 8 p.m curtain rising. I decided to look at the tickets to see which time was correct. But when I pulled out the file folder where we keep tickets, there were none there for Billy Elliot. No problem. I would just go to the email folder where I keep my internet purchases and reprint the tickets. However, when I clicked there, there was no email from The Kennedy Center. OK. Maybe, Judy had put the tickets somewhere else.
"Hey, Hon," I asked. "What did you do with the Billy Elliot tickets?"
"What tickets," she responded. "I never saw any Billy Elliot tickets. You took care of that."
Uh-oh. Problem.
As Judy approached, I clicked on my account with The Kennedy Center. It showed that I had, indeed, purchased 2 $100 tickets for today. However, it also showed that the tickets were for a 1:30 matinee. And since it was now 1:26 p.m., my minor missing ticket problem had suddenly turned massive..
With Judy standing over my shoulder, I sheepishly tried to explain. "I don't know what happened," I said. "Look, we'll just go to The Kennedy Center and get tickets for tonight."
"No, I don't want to go now. I don't want to pay twice for tickets," Judy said, giving off that "I figured something like this would happen since I know you really didn't want to go in the first place" look.
"I'm sure they'll make it right. I'll just explain that I messed up. Look, there's tickets for tonight." I said, as if my pointing at the computer would somehow assure that those tickets would be ours at no extra cost despite a clearly stated no refund, no exchange policy.
So we headed by Metro to The Kennedy Center. There, at the ticket window, I explained my situation. The agent graciously listened. She nodded in all the right places. And then she said she was sorry, but there was nothing she could do. I tried more pleading. "Well, we can find out how you got the tickets," she said. I gave her my password. She checked her computer. It showed that I was to have printed them out from an email. "Really, I never received an email," I said as Judy watched skeptically. The agent said she could print out the tickets, but I had to understand that they now had "no monetary value whatever." She did, however, attach a phone number to call in the event something could be done to rectify my mistake.
I immediately called the number. Linda was even nicer than the ticket agent. "I can't do anything without the approval of our manager, but if you hold, I'll ask him now," she said. In less than a minute, Linda came back on the line and said she hadn't been able to reach the manager. "But someone will call you back before 5," she promised.
At exactly 4:51 (when the state of your relationship for a whole holiday season in on the line you remember these kinds of details exactly) Linda called. "Mr. Price. Bring your tickets and be at the rope line at 7:15. Ask for Mr. Richard Kidwell, our manager. He will take care of you."
After thanking Linda profusely, I told Judy the news. She managed to control her excitement, realizing that this adventure wouldn't actually be over until we were seated in the theater.
I made sure we got to The Kennedy Center early. We strolled around for 45 minutes, then approached one of the red-jacketed volunteer ushers at exactly 7:14:59. She directed us to the center entrance. I must have given off some kind of please-help-me vibe because as I approached, a distinguished looking gentleman broke off the conversation he was having and asked "Mr. Price?" I nodded. I produced the now worthless tickets and he handed me a piece of paper with 2 seats numbers for Row U on it. "Enjoy the show," my new holiday hero Richard Kidwell said.
And so, extending my arm, I prepared to escort Judy to her seat for her Christmas present. "See, no problem. It's a season for faith,"I said. As we sat down, Judy indicated that while faith was fine, when it came to a next time she would prefer to order her own tickets. I still have no idea why she wanted to be such a humbug.
Tales, Tidbits, and Tips
So what about Billy Elliot? Judy really liked it. As for me, I was there. And sometimes, that alone is enough.
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