The change in him was shocking.
On a recent Sunday, I had started a joke with my husband about knocking on wood so that I would not mess something up when he yelled. “No! No!" He pointed a finger at me. I froze. I stared at him. His fist was balled up. His jaw was clenched tight. Nearly silent for a full beat, I thought I had angered him. “What?” I asked hesitantly.
“Our Paul McCartney tickets were stolen,” he said.
His words didn’t make sense. Stolen? When? By whom? I wanted to scream but I just sat frozen. The record of it was still sitting in the Ticketmaster site. On April 9th, someone accessed my husband’s account and transferred the tickets to another account where they were (I can only assume) gladly accepted. My husband frantically tried to find a way to retrieve them. He frantically searched for recourse. Almost immediately, we started to find barriers.
It was 10 p.m. on Sunday April 24. The clock was ticking. As of today, we have roughly three weeks to get the tickets back.
This is not a story of loss. Not yet anyway. But we’re terrified, or more specifically, I’m terrified that possibly our last chance to see this great musician and poet perform has been ripped out of our hands. We spent more than we could afford to see Sir Paul; Nearly $1,000 between the price for the three tickets and added fees, including parking at SoFi in Inglwood. But we were so excited.
This was not going to be an ordinary concert for us. Like so many fans of great music, my husband Bill idolizes the Beatles. He has as much Beatle music as we’ve been able to afford. The Beatles channel is programmed into our Sirius XM. When he is stressed or struggling, he opens his phone to play “Hey Jude.” When he purchased the tickets, he turned to me and said, “Let’s just be clear that I will probably be sobbing through ‘Hey Jude’ … and maybe through the whole concert.’”
It was the most joyous feeling for him, for us. He would finally see one of his musical idols perform after all these years and despite all the poverty that prevented us from going in years past. We have slowly crept back toward financial security, but it’s been a hard and turbulent journey to now.
We were print journalists for many years and thus not very well paid. My husband and I moved out together as 20-year-olds, living hand to mouth, just happy to be in the business. Surely, we thought, we would pay our dues and move up the ladder. We’d earn better pay and build a life.
In many ways, we achieved our goals. We earned positions we were aiming for. My husband became an editor while I held a reporting position. Yet somehow, we began to slide backwards. We saw rents rising faster while our incomes began to stagnate. I realized one day that many of us were no longer getting annual reviews. Those came with pay raises.
Bill and I held off having a wedding for many years because we could not afford it. When the opportunity came to be married in a beautiful, memorable wedding, it was offered free through Knott’s Berry Farm, who was promoting the newly opened Ghost Rider. We married on a roller coaster. Our wedding was free and memorable.
Then we held off having children. Journalism was beginning to sputter. We feared for our jobs. Finally, when I became older, I realized it was almost too late and we decided to have a child. Soon after that, my birthing days were over. We’re blessed to have our son.
Soon, however, the shrinking of the newsrooms began to accelerate. First, I lost my job. Then I found another one far away. Then I found another closer to home. Bill’s job held steady, until it didn’t. He was laid off as technology took his job. I was then earning well but working at a startup. My husband began to freelance as he struggled to find permanent work.
He applied everywhere. I continued working, until one day, the startups' owners announced they were selling the company. I, and 95 percent of the company, was let go. Bills and I were out of work. We prepared to lose the apartment until Bill’s parents stepped in.
This all took place over much of my son’s young life. While we indulge him more now, he grew used to hearing, “We have money but not for that …” All in an effort not to scare him about our situation. We slowly rebuilt.
It’s not like we haven’t ever had an opportunity to enjoy a concert or music despite our struggles. When you’re that broke you get creative. We borrowed money from a co-worker to see John Fogerty at the House of Blues in Hollywood. We literally bled for tickets to Tom Petty. The local blood bank was giving out lawn tickets at Irvine Meadows. And we won tickets for a large Alt Band music festival featuring Korn at Glen Helen through KROQ.
Bill volunteered to review and write about several concerts including Lenny Kravitz, The Offspring, Vince Gill and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy (the latter at the Los Angeles County Fair.) Working for the privilege. I was also fortunate enough to have briefly been an usherette at Anaheim Stadium when U2 performed there for their Zooropa Tour.
Over the years, as our paychecks faded to zero, the price of concert tickets skyrocketed. And I watched musicians I’ve waited for years to see slowly disappear or stop performing.
I never got to see Tina Turner. We lost a chance to see Queen. And Nirvana … don’t get me started. I had longed to see Foo Fighters for many years only to mourn the recent loss of the band’s beloved drummer Taylor Hawkins. Will they ever perform again?
What are the chances we will see Paul McCartney play? When you face the chance of losing your concert tickets you begin to believe that you won't unless he lives forever and tours just as long.
These days we are both finally working at jobs that pay decently. My husband has stable work. I am a substitute teacher working toward full-time employment. We are finally in recovery. But now this?
My husband has reached out to Ticketmaster in an attempt to get the tickets back. The only way to contact Ticketmaster is through email in a system that sadly makes the user feel like they are being told, “Don’t call us. We’ll call you.” They responded with a link to their FAQ. If that did not answer our question, we were to get in touch with them within a day or two. Bill responded immediately. Monday afternoon, he called Ticketmaster’s fraud unit. They encourage people to leave a voice message. But we are frantic. He hung on. After 90 minutes on hold, the system forced him to leave a message anyway. Will they get in touch with us in time?
We’ve since learned it can take days or more than a week. Do we have that time? What is happening to our seats in the meantime? Our tickets?
Sunday night into Monday morning, I dreamt horrible dreams about us being scammed. The dream turned violent. I don’t know why. I don’t remember the whole dream, thankfully. But I woke up puffy eyed and with a wet pillow.
Why did these people make victims out of us? How can people be so cruel?
