A couple of years ago, I signed an online petition to bring Metallica to Halifax- the only time I ever signed a petition- no I just remembered- another time I signed a petition to give dead Jeremy Brett an OBE or something. It had plopped in my inbox very soon after I blogged about him.
Anyway, I signed the petition, and lo and behold, a few months later, Metallica was announced to come to Halifax. Such is the power of political activism and social media. So I raced to the nearest grocer store and bought a couple of Metallica tickets and tucked them in my wallet. Close to $200, in case you needed to know.
A few days later, the tickets fell out, and the Golden Boy picked one off the ground, and completely randomly tore it in half, and threw the two torn pieces back on the ground.
I picked them up, absolutely horrified.
I will spare the Gentle Reader the intense discussions about “what to do” which on went on in my household. I tried calling the ticket agency, but hung up as soon as I dialled the number, realizing the futility of my quest. We considered, and then dismissed buying another ticket- it could not be justified. We studied the line of tear, arguing to ourselves that since we had both halves, each half showing the same unique digit, then we were “good”, and the ticket is considered “valid”. Finally, I scotch-taped the two halves together, and declared that I will hand it to the mighty guardians of Metallica, holding the scotch-taped side under, so they wouldn’t notice.
But we were afraid, Gentle Reader. In the months that followed up to the concert, we looked and held and stressed about those goddamn tickets many, many times. Would they let the bearer in? Or not? My whole “looking forward to Metallica concert” was blighted by that simple of act of tearing a ticket in two.
June 2011. A wet, expectant crowd surges forward at the makeshift gates of Halifax Commons. Everybody is extremely tall- I seem to be as high as most Metallica fans’ hips. I scamper around the feet of the crowd. With a trembling hand and beating heart I offer my scotch-taped ticket to the gigantic security guard. He tears it in half, and ushers me in. The scotch-tape is unnoticed. I was allowed inside the hallowed Land of the Metallica Concert, more usually known as Halifax Commons. At the thought of those months and months of anxiety, I roll my eyes at myself.
This ridiculous memory has come back to haunt me, these past few days, as a loved one travels to another Sacred Land on a dodgy visa. The outcome has not exactly been the same as mine. But she was allowed in too, she was granted grace. And we’re happy.