Do the hustle

A few months ago, B and I bought tickets to see last night's symphony performance. I feel terribly posh and a bit snooty just writing those words--lest you start thinking that I have developed an appreciation for fine arts, I wanted to go simply because they were going to play the new Indiana Jones score.

But then a few weeks ago, B had to schedule a 6 AM flight for this morning. Had we stayed for the entire show, we probably wouldn't have got home till after midnight, making for a difficult day for the traveler.

We decided that we would stay for an hour of the show, but after we meandered through town for a couple hours, we were tired and weren't sure that we even wanted to stay until the 8:30 start time, let alone another hour. And then it started to rain.

I proposed that we attempt to sell our covered seats to someone who didn't want to sit on the uncovered lawn, and B was game. And then he put on his hustlin' face and went to work outside the box office.

The event wasn't sold out--a factor that did not work in our favor--and we had no idea what we could get for the tickets. We decided to try selling them for what we payed.

B stood with the tickets, saying, "Two for the shed, two for the shed," to anyone who passed. He adopted a Boston accent that made for a more authentic experience. Standing in the crowd, trying to sell tickets, felt a little like those Apprentice episodes where people are forced to hawk hot dogs and theater tickets to indifferent New Yorkers. We almost had a sale within the first few minutes, but we weren't willing to go low enough, and they passed.

And then competition arrived, other hawkers. One man had a stack of tickets that he sold within 20 minutes--because he was selling them for half the price that people could get from the box office. By this time, the rain had stopped, so people were less scared of sitting outdoors.

B proposed that we split up and each make an effort to sell the tickets. My facial expression convinced him that I was not mentally prepared for the hustling scene, and the onus for selling the tickets was on his shoulders.

After 20 minutes of little to know interest, we decided that a price cut and a new marketing strategy was in order. We decided that we were willing to accept a loss as long as it wasn't a total loss, and we just wanted to get out of there and get home. "Shed for 20, shed for 20," he offered to those who walked by. I knew that this tactic was going to work--the lawn seats were selling for $19, and for $2 more, people could have indoor seats. It was just a matter of time before someone grabbed up the tickets.

Sure enough, a couple happened by and recognized the value in our proposition and purchased the seats immediately. They looked like us--yuppies, unwilling to risk getting wet outside and unused to buying from someone "on the streets," but willing to go along for a good deal. The deal was a net loss for us, and we didn't see any of the show, but we were willing to make both sacrifices so B wouldn't be exhausted during his travels today.