// boroughing //
Fall 2007
Worth the Wait
Miriam Krule
As I entered Central Park, I began to sprint. I ignored the red light in front of me, dodged a speeding rollerblader, and almost tripped over a dog walker. In the distance, I saw my destination: the Delacorte Theater, or, more precisely, the shady spot under the tree in front of the theater.
Every summer for the past forty-five years, the Public Theater has staged free productions of some of Shakespeare's classics. As with all things free, the line to actually obtain your ticket is long and it starts early. Early arrival is duly rewarded—with two coveted tickets.
At the back of the line, I unfurled my sleeping bag and set up camp. In front of me, I saw my more ambitious companions who arrived even earlier than my eager 8:45 a.m., one diehard more extreme than the next. Immediately, I began to hear heroic tales of eager fans who snuck into the park early to get the first spot on line. Rumor had it, the first person got there at 4:00 a.m., nine hours before tickets were distributed.
To pass the time, people brought standard reading: The New York Times, The New Yorker, and Harry Potter. Others chose to make a day of it, bringing Scrabble and packing mini feasts replete with real plates and linen napkins. In my green Jansport, I brought my six key ingredients to a successful wait: water bottle, bagel, Macbook (with DVD), The New Yorker food issue, a current New York Times bestseller, and my iPod.
Sitting next to me, I recognized a woman from the C train. After some eavesdropping, I learned that her name was Michelle. She had one of those lawn chairs that fold up into a backpack while her two friends sat on towels. Each took out a copy of Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried. I found out they were English teachers at an Upper West Side prep school and that their respective boyfriends were supposed to join them. Unfortunately, Michelle's boyfriend was sick, leaving them with a spare ticket. I saw my in: if I could befriend the English teachers, perhaps I could acquire their coveted extra ticket. After an impromptu literary analysis my high school English teacher would have been proud of, I achieved my goal: the teachers offered me their extra ticket. I was up to three now.
Later, halfway through my DVD, I noticed a deliveryman on a bicycle yelling Michelle's name. The directions given to the deliveryman were hilarious. Michelle told him we were sitting "behind the big rock but just before the benches."
While tourists walked past us in confusion, natives took advantage of the situation. A graduate student handed out a survey, offering enticing snacks to anyone who was willing to fill it out. A flute player who comes every year solicited donations. He even took requests.
With two hours to go, a volunteer came outside. She was clearly bored. It was the end of the season and she had been making the same announcement almost every day since July. Despite pleadings from the crowd, she could not guarantee tickets, but reassured us that the day before everyone who sat in our section of the line (behind the big rock but just before the benches) received tickets. In the same breath, she espoused line etiquette. There was absolutely no cutting in line. If caught, that entire group would be moved to the back. Earlier in the day, someone was forced to go to the end of the line for violating the rule. Someone dubbed the volunteer the "Shakespeare Gestapo" for the strict rules and even stricter enforcement.
As 12:30 approached, I rolled up my sleeping bag in anticipation. With everyone standing, I was not far from the theater, but I could not see the end of the line behind me. Sooner than I realized, it was 1:00 p.m. and the line began to move.
By 1:15, I had made a new friend, seen a full-length movie, read half of the New Yorker and a bestseller, enjoyed a picnic in Central Park, and—how could I forget—acquired three free tickets to A Midsummer Night's Dream.
Every summer for the past forty-five years, the Public Theater has staged free productions of some of Shakespeare's classics. As with all things free, the line to actually obtain your ticket is long and it starts early. Early arrival is duly rewarded—with two coveted tickets.
At the back of the line, I unfurled my sleeping bag and set up camp. In front of me, I saw my more ambitious companions who arrived even earlier than my eager 8:45 a.m., one diehard more extreme than the next. Immediately, I began to hear heroic tales of eager fans who snuck into the park early to get the first spot on line. Rumor had it, the first person got there at 4:00 a.m., nine hours before tickets were distributed.
To pass the time, people brought standard reading: The New York Times, The New Yorker, and Harry Potter. Others chose to make a day of it, bringing Scrabble and packing mini feasts replete with real plates and linen napkins. In my green Jansport, I brought my six key ingredients to a successful wait: water bottle, bagel, Macbook (with DVD), The New Yorker food issue, a current New York Times bestseller, and my iPod.
Sitting next to me, I recognized a woman from the C train. After some eavesdropping, I learned that her name was Michelle. She had one of those lawn chairs that fold up into a backpack while her two friends sat on towels. Each took out a copy of Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried. I found out they were English teachers at an Upper West Side prep school and that their respective boyfriends were supposed to join them. Unfortunately, Michelle's boyfriend was sick, leaving them with a spare ticket. I saw my in: if I could befriend the English teachers, perhaps I could acquire their coveted extra ticket. After an impromptu literary analysis my high school English teacher would have been proud of, I achieved my goal: the teachers offered me their extra ticket. I was up to three now.
Later, halfway through my DVD, I noticed a deliveryman on a bicycle yelling Michelle's name. The directions given to the deliveryman were hilarious. Michelle told him we were sitting "behind the big rock but just before the benches."
While tourists walked past us in confusion, natives took advantage of the situation. A graduate student handed out a survey, offering enticing snacks to anyone who was willing to fill it out. A flute player who comes every year solicited donations. He even took requests.
With two hours to go, a volunteer came outside. She was clearly bored. It was the end of the season and she had been making the same announcement almost every day since July. Despite pleadings from the crowd, she could not guarantee tickets, but reassured us that the day before everyone who sat in our section of the line (behind the big rock but just before the benches) received tickets. In the same breath, she espoused line etiquette. There was absolutely no cutting in line. If caught, that entire group would be moved to the back. Earlier in the day, someone was forced to go to the end of the line for violating the rule. Someone dubbed the volunteer the "Shakespeare Gestapo" for the strict rules and even stricter enforcement.
As 12:30 approached, I rolled up my sleeping bag in anticipation. With everyone standing, I was not far from the theater, but I could not see the end of the line behind me. Sooner than I realized, it was 1:00 p.m. and the line began to move.
By 1:15, I had made a new friend, seen a full-length movie, read half of the New Yorker and a bestseller, enjoyed a picnic in Central Park, and—how could I forget—acquired three free tickets to A Midsummer Night's Dream.
//Miriam Krule is a Columbia College sophomore, the deputy literary editor of The Current, and an associate opinion editor of the Spectator. If she could, she would spend all her mornings in Central Park.