The adventures of V

Here’s a story relating to G’s friend V (for Vicodin). We three went to a concert at the Roseland year before last. The two guys, always interested in cheating the system, decided they were going to scope out someone who had a hand stamp and get us all in for free. The plan was that we would all be ushered through the security line, then mill about in the restrooms until we got a good look at the stamp for that concert. V brought a dozen black and blue pens of various ink types for this purpose, which I thought was overkill, but soon proved to be quite entertaining:

When he first went through the security line, V was told that he couldn’t bring the pens in, due to a problem they were having with graffiti. Rather than admit defeat, leave the pens, and buy a ticket, V threw a little hissy and stalked outside with pens in tow. G and I just looked at each other, shrugged, and went to buy tickets.

But soon, V was back, with a very pronounced limp. Quite, and I mean quite suspiciously, he hobbled back through the security line, brushing past the guards who had just moments before told him to lose the pens, with nary a word said to him. Once he was fifteen feet past the gate, he slipped his foot out of his shoe and withdrew six of the pens. V for Victory! They must have known what he was doing, it was soooo obvious, but perhaps they were as entertained as I was.

Quickly he procured someone’s hand for a view, announced that he’d got it, and ushered us into the bar for a quick drink and some pirating. The next hilarity ensued: one out of the six pens actually worked, and this one barely. V took it to do my stamp, proclaiming himself “really good at this.” Maybe it was the bad pen, because I saw no evidence of his skill. Instead, it looked like a five-year-old had scribbled “Hey Stamp Out of It” on the back of my hand.

I decided I was going to decline the whole thing and go buy a twenty dollar ticket, and rubbed some spit on my hand to get rid of the evidence while V set to work on G’s hand. Almost absent-mindedly, Vicodin withdrew from his pocket an intact ticket. “I found this on the floor, you can use it.”

I’m not sure if he did find it on the floor or what, but it appeared to be the real thing, so pacified, I sat back down.

G and V breezed through the entrance with their “hand stamps” but I, with my legitimate (if possibly stolen) ticket in hand, got noticed for the botched stamp job on my hand. “Looks like someone already got you,” the usher said as he went to stamp my hand. I could only nod in shame and say stoutly “yes, unfortunately.”

Sigh.