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My editor told me all I had to do to cover Lou Reed, Laurie Anderson, James Franco and Parker Posey, all performing at the Cabaret of PEN World Voices Festival of International Literature this year, was to show up at the French Institute/Florence Gould Hall to pick up the ticket. The WORD, he said, would pick up the tab for the festival that also featured Carrie Brownstein, Horacio Castellanos Moya, Steve Connell, David Conrad, Mark Z. Danielewski, James Franco, Peter Hirsch, Nick Laird, Walter Mosley, Sekou, and Sean Wilsey.
PEN’s denouement featured performances by two of my musical idols, the sexiest cast member of my favorite TV Show (Freaks and Geeks) and a galaxy of renowned poets and novelists. Unfortunately, he delayed registering for the event and by the time I tried to purchase a ticket the star-studded pièce de résistance had sold out.
I was not ready to give up so easily.
My first step was to contact the press coordinator of the festival, Kimberly Burns. I emailed her about getting a press pass and found a response in my email inbox within hours. But although Burns was super sweet, I was disappointed by the news.
“The Cabaret media comps are long gone,” she wrote.
My subsequent attempt at press access also failed. That is, I dropped by the PEN office on Broadway, but the folks representing the PEN Festival were … well, at the PEN festival for other events. However, when I emailed Burns a second time to request a pass to the Neil Gaiman event earlier in the day, I also asked if I could show up at the Cabaret in hopes of an empty seat.
I was “certainly welcome to try,” she wrote.
On Friday, I strolled into Florence Gould Hall on 59th Street over an hour before show time, with high hopes that were immediately crushed by the will-call-woman. “We gave out too many press comps,” she said. “Even if people don’t show up, we’ll be full.”
“So is there any …“ I started.
“There are no open seats,” she said.
“Can I wait around and …”
“There’s absolutely no way you will get in.”
Disheartened. And most likely resembling a sad cartoon puppy dog or Eeyore (because I am horrible at hiding my disheartenment), I headed for the exit. But when I reached the doorway, I froze, not quite ready to give up and go home. The door-opener-dude (yes, PEN hires staff to act as doormen for their guests – how classy) looked at me like I was an ALF (that’s Alien LIfe Form).
“I have no ticket,” I said, “but I’m hoping for a miracle.”
He laughed. “You’re welcome to hang out here and see if a ticket opens up,” he said.
So, I waited in the doorway, watching the guests file into the theater – older couples in gowns and suits, art school students in skinny jeans and heels. I overheard bits and pieces of conversation (“I would totally leave my husband for James Franco”) and generally felt very awkward. Finally, at 45 minutes to show time, when my doorman source was called to duty elsewhere, I decided to try my luck downstairs at the press table.
Caro Llewellyn, director of the PEN World Voices Festival, happened to be standing by, overlooking the situation. She told me I could wait to the side. “If someone with a press comp doesn’t show, we may release the tickets,” she said. A glimmer of hope. Up against a wall, I was soon joined by two other journalists in the same situation – a kind looking, elderly gentleman whom I spoke to about the WORD, and a middle aged woman who engaged me in small talk, but also had this urgency in her eyes: Like she would stab me in the back at any given moment to get a seat.
Five minutes later, I felt that knife (sometimes the book can be judged by its cover). An attractive British gentleman approached the press table. “My date couldn’t make it,” he said, speaking to Llewellyn, but momentarily locking eye contact with me. “I have an extra ticket if …”
“I’ll take it!” I said immediately, but then came the blade, so-to-speak: The ready-to-pounce, middle-aged woman was agile and lunge, beating me to the chase, stepping over my feet to enter the theater with Mr. British. He shot me a sympathetic smile as they disappeared into darkness.
Welcome to the jungle, I thought as two more members of the press joined me on the waiting line. Outside the theater, I could hear the low buzz of a microphone followed by a cacophony of applause. The Cabaret had begun. All seemed lost. At five minutes to 8, almost a half an hour into the show, A PEN staff member approached Llewellyn, whispering in her ear.
Recalling my past mistake, I didn’t hesitate. I lunged. Llewellyn led me back to the booth to receive my ticket from the very staff member who originally said it was impossible – much to my smug satisfaction. Llewellyn then escorted me into the theater where I was told to stand in the back until the act ended, at which point an usher would bring me to my seat.
And so it happened. I was nestled between Salman Rushdie and Llewellyn and two staff members from the New Yorker.