Front Row Seats, No Ticket Required
The stadium is packed, the show’s been sold out for months, and everyone is lined up with overpriced tickets clutched in hand. Not me. I march right to the front gate.
The ticket scanner asks, “Sir, can I see your ticket?”
I grin. “You’re looking at it.”
She stares. “What do you mean?”
“I mean me. My presence is the ticket. The band should be thanking me for showing up. If anything, I should be charging them for boosting the crowd’s energy.”
Security gets involved. They tell me the show is at capacity. I tell them capacity is a myth—when Hot Josh arrives, the universe makes room. Sure enough, after ten minutes of arguing, they shove me through just to get me out of the way.
Now I’m in the front row, holding a drink I didn’t pay for, waving like the star I was always meant to be.
Because when Hot Josh wants a seat, the world rearranges itself.
