For those who actually read my column (thank you!), you know I devote it to progressive politics. Well, you won’t be hearing about that today.
You may be surprised to learn that I do indeed have many other interests, one of which is dancing my ass off at of Montreal shows. So I’m going to tell you a little story.
After a miserable weekend of being sick and then not being sick and then getting sick again and hating myself for getting behind in my coursework and feeling like an incompetent idiot, I allowed myself to be excited at the prospect of seeing one of my favorite bands at the Reitz Union for free — the one and only of Montreal.
If you’ve never listened to of Montreal, imagine dancing on the surface of the sun while tripping on acid.
I arrived for an afternoon class on Tuesday and decided to stop by the University Box Office to ask what time I should line up later that evening for the show.
Before I had the chance to close the door behind me, I saw four words that crushed my mood further than I thought it could get: of Montreal — SOLD OUT.
I had no idea they gave out tickets on Friday!
I went out of town over the weekend and thought you only had to show up and line up for the concert. Needless to say, I was wrong.
Despite an enjoyable class, I couldn’t get over the disheartening thought in the back of my mind that I missed out on seeing one of my all-time favorite bands for free. I had seen them once before, but it was without a doubt one of the most fun shows I’d ever been to. At one point, the frontman, Kevin Barnes, emerged from a papier-mâché coffin covered head to toe in shaving cream. Enough said.
After leaving class, I called my very good friend Summer on the phone to vent my frustration.
Being the amazing person she is, she encouraged me to go to the Reitz and try to get in anyway.
She simply told me, “You’ll get in.”
Unlike her, I’m not optimistic. I also gave my friend David an earful. I considered trying to buy a ticket from someone in line, but I realized I left most of my cash in my car.
I had two one-dollar bills in my wallet.
By this time, I’ve given up all hope.
David suggested the same thing as Summer: “Just go and try.” He offered to let me borrow $20 to buy a ticket off of someone in line. I hesitated, but he convinced me.
Outside the Rion Ballroom, a large crowd and line had already formed for the show. I waved the $20 around and repeatedly asked aloud, “Anyone want to sell their ticket?”
No hope.
Most of them had already gotten their tickets punched and wristbands secured. No one responded. Most everyone looked at me like I was a martian.
I was giving up hope again. Why would anyone want to sell their ticket? I was just going to leave.
But then a girl walked up to me and presented her ticket.
“You need it?” I lit up: “Yeah!”
I was about to give her the $20. She said, “Just take it for free.”
I was confused: “Why? No, I can’t do that.”
She told me she’s a member of RUB. Someone randomly gave her the ticket, and she didn’t need it. I couldn’t believe my luck — there was no way this was happening. She handed me the ticket, marked it with her hole puncher and another RUB member put a wristband around my wrist. I was in! I asked the girl for her name, and it’s Alyssa. I gave her a hug and thanked her.
Thank you, Summer, for your optimism. Thank you, David, for your encouragement.
And thank you, Alyssa, for your generosity.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know I love you, and I will never in my life forget you.
Now you can understand why I took a brief departure from my usual politics during these columns; with a little optimism and positivity, the world goes ‘round.
Moisés Reyes is a graduate student in journalism at UF. His column appears on Fridays. You can contact him at opinions@alligator.org.
