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I place great value on the collective social contract that is the line -- the queue that forms when a group of individuals are awaiting admittance into a public event.
It stands alone as an impeccably equitable system, rewarding individuals in descending degree, each according to his specific deserts. Aside from the sort of unavoidable delays that can sometimes crop up-- car trouble, for instance, or a significant other who finds it physically impossible to get dressed in less than three-quarters of an hour -- the line affords each in attendance precisely the choice of seating he or she deserves.
Devote the time and take the trouble necessary to be first in line, and you shall, as is only fair, see spread before you, as you enter the venue, row after row of unoccupied seats, any one of which is yours for the taking (providing the event's seating is not previously assigned and designated upon each ticket).
Arrive late, and you're left scrambling for an acceptable spot, one that provides satisfactory sightlines and limited likelihood of a stiff neck.
What could be fairer?
And because I hold this unbiased and objective system dear, I take especial affront when attempts are made, as they almost always are, to skirt it.
One who knowingly attempts to jump a line is of the basest stuff. We all have our moments of selfcenteredness, but few are so clearly defined as when we strive to secure something other than our rightful place in a queue.
In doing so, one is, in effect, saying, "I am more important than these commoners. They may have arrived on the premises before me, but I nonetheless deserve to be admitted before them. My entitlement to comfort and convenience outweighs theirs."
Express those sentiments to me -- whether in so many words or by the act of cutting in line -- as I stand awaiting admittance to an evening's entertainment and you will, rest assured, be called on the carpet.
I am a fairly easygoing fellow, but amiability must have its limits.
I'm a patron of Film Forum, a three-screened non-profit theatre in New York City that features classic pictures, independent features, documentaries, foreign films, and the like. So frequently do I find myself at Film Forum that I now indulge in an annual membership there, at a level that affords me "priority" seating -- which means I don't have to stand in line, even for sold-out show -- I am allowed to enter in advance of non-members and those who have ponied up less dough for their annual memberships than have I.
When I first signed on for this rarefied level of membership, I felt terribly guilty at taking advantage of this perquisite, but those days are long past. I now revel in it (but only inwardly -- I have no desire to flaunt my privilege before those who are unable or unwilling to match my level of support for Film Forum).
Last night, I was standing in a short priority-seating line in the lobby, awaiting entrance to a sold-out double bill of F.W. Murnau silents, when I noticed a writer of some prominence at the concession counter (he will go unnamed here, as the tale I have to tell is not flattering to him). As it happened, I'd had a brief conversation with this scribe just a few days prior, and it occurred passingly to me that I might approach him and say hello.
But, really, I had nothing to say to him and, as I'd gotten a slightly odd vibe from him during our brief weekend encounter, I decided instead to keep my nose buried in the novel I was reading.
There was a lengthy line outside of non-priority attendees outside waiting for admittance, but, popcorn in hand, this scribe joined the queue behind me. He didn't appear to have the envelope the box office gives out to designate a priority membership, so I suspected he should really have been in the line outside. But it was not my job to tell him (and, as I've stated, I had no desire to speak to him), so I kept reading my book. A theatre employee would surely make an announcement, I presumed -- they always do -- that would let him know the line he belonged in was outside.
And, sure enough, that's just what happened. No more than five minutes went by before a young woman announced, "The ticketholders line for the Murnau films is outside."
"Hey," our scribe calls out, in a confrontational tone, "what if you've been standing here in this line for fifteen or twenty minutes?"
It was an interesting question, but given the he'd been standing there no more than five minutes, it was a purely hypothetical one.
"This line is for priority members," the young employee explained.
"You didn't announce that; I've been standing here for fifteen minutes," the author prevaricated
"There's a sign outside that explains that that line is for the Murnau movies."
"I came from the other direction; I didn't walk by that sign."
"I'm sorry, sir, but this line is for priority members."
The exchange continued for a bit, but the young woman, bless her heart, remained politely resolute.
So did the author, now duly informed that he was in the wrong queue, join the line outside? No, he remained in the priority line behind me. I don't know if he felt at all ashamed at having caused something of a clamor in addressing the young woman, but I was embarrassed for him.
Ten more minutes went by, the theatre was cleared after the earlier screening, and finally the priority members were allowed in. I was curious to know if the hissy fit I felt certain the author intended to throw was going to work, so, just before I entered the theatre, I looked back toward the lobby to see if he was there right behind me or if, perhaps, he was still arguing with the theatre employee, trying to gain the early admittance he coveted.
He was nowhere in sight. He had, by all appearances, been banished to the end of the line outside, where he, I found myself dearly hoping, was now positioned behind a dozen or more patrons who had arrived in the interim between his taking up of arms with the theatre employee and her final vanquishing of him.
I went on to thoroughly enjoy my evening of cinema, awash in the warm glow of justice served.
Posted by brett at 05:26 PM | TrackBack