I got the scalper’s number from a neighborhood friend who worked for him. The tickets I wanted were for Rush’s 1986 “Power Windows” tour, and this scalper was the guy who could help.

When I called him, it was immediately one of these frantic and sketchy “Who are you? Why are you calling?” things. I mentioned my friend’s name, and he started to calm down a bit. Then I gave him my phone number, told him I lived nearby, wanted to buy a few Rush tickets and already had the money for the tickets.

“Okay, if you want to come over, come over like at 7:00 pm,” he said, before giving me his address.

“Great! See you then,” I responded.

I was about to hang up the phone when he said, “Jack, do me a favor if you don’t mind. Buy me a container of milk when you come. I’ll pay you back.” The milk request was odd, but I agreed and said I would see him soon.

Right after I hung up, I pulled out a map and looked at the address he gave me. He lived in the same building as a friend of mine and the apartment number was on the same floor. That seemed strange.

I told my parents I was running out and would be back soon. “Where are you going,” my dad asked. I explained that I was going to buy tickets from some guy that a friend had told me about. “Be careful,” my dad said, and with that I headed out the door and to the scalper’s place.

Buying milk was not hard. Just went to my corner place, picked up a quart and continued on my journey. But it felt weird to buy a quart of milk and then walk in a direction that wasn’t home.

A block or two before I got to the building, I pulled out the piece of paper from my pocket to check the address and apartment number. This was Brooklyn in the 1980s, and I didn’t want to seem lost. If you looked like you were lost, you were a target. I just wanted to give this guy his milk, buy the Rush tickets and head back home.

When I got to the building, I passed by the usual cadre of “security guards” that were in front of every Brighton Beach building: Old men and ladies in folding chairs. They couldn’t do much but gossip about you in Yiddish if you caught their eye. But still, to be a teenager and have to fight to leave your apartment and then — after that domestic grief — to have to deal with these fucking yentas always stressed me out. But regardless, I made it into the lobby, pressed the scalper’s buzzer and headed upstairs.

As luck would have it, my friend and his parents were just coming home at that moment. “Hey Jack! What are you doing here?” my friend said. “Heading over to your neighbor’s place,” I said. The blood seemed to run out of their faces and the pause was pregnant and awkward. “I’m just going to buy some tickets from him,” I said, and they relaxed a bit. “Well, if anything happens let us know,” my friend said as they slowly closed their apartment door, looking at me as I turned around and rang the bell of the scalper’s apartment.

“Who is it?” said the scalper as he peered at me through the peephole. “It’s Jack, and I got the milk!” I said as I held up the brown paper bag. I heard the locks unlock, the chain drop, and the door opened. “Come on in,” he said as he held the door and let me into his dark, badly lit apartment.

The only light in the place came from the kitchen which had some crappy metal table in the middle of it and a refrigerator to the left of the table. The scalper was a schlubby middle-aged, dark-haired Jewish guy with a mustache and curly hair. We walked into the kitchen, and I gave him the milk. “Thanks,” he said as he opened the fridge and put it inside. It was weird because I could see there was already a milk container in there.

But with the extra light, I got a closer look at the fridge. It was covered from top to bottom with satin cloth backstage pass stickers from tons of concerts. I recognized passes from The Police, Van Halen, The Cars and others. This guy really was into the music business it seemed. Well at least his little “ticket brokering” side of the business.

“So, you want to go see Rush?” he asked. “Yeah,” I responded. I needed four tickets and gave him $100.

“Why do you like this band? They’re a kid’s band,” he said as he counted the money, took out a zipper bag filled with tickets and pulled them out for me to check out. I picked out a decent set of floor tickets and said I was cool with them.

“Okay, all good. You know I might have to eat these extras. You know anybody who might want them?” I said that I didn’t, while looking at his refrigerator again. In addition to the backstage passes there were pictures of him with various young Asian women on the refrigerator as well.

All the pictures were set in tropical vacation locales. There were shots of him with different women at patio tables and in front of the scenery — ocean, trees, mountains, etc. But the only thing most noticeably changing in each photo were the women. Maybe it was because of their hairstyles, but they all looked different.

“Girlfriends?” I said, motioning to the pictures. “Yeah, I don’t know… They’re friends!” he said. And with that I headed out of the apartment.

Just before getting to his front door I remembered that he hadn’t paid me back for the milk I bought and mentioned it to him. “Shit! You’re right!” he said as he fumbled through his pockets and got out a dollar and change for the milk. “Thanks,” I said. And within a moment I was out of his apartment and in the hallway again.

He closed the door and locked all the locks as I stood in the hallway. I thought about knocking on the door of my friend’s apartment to tell thim and his parents that I was okay, but it sounded like they were eating dinner and I didn’t want to disturb them. Besides, I was okay and didn’t need any help. So instead, I ran down the stairs, walked out the door, past the phalanx of yentas, and headed home.

The tickets were tucked into the inside pocket of my denim jacket, and I pulled them out at one point during the walk home to admire them: Rush at the Meadowlands. My first real arena concert! I mean, my first concert was seeing Sting solo on the “Dream of the Blue Turtles” tour at Radio City Music Hall, but that was a concert hall. An arena show was something completely different.

The next day at school I gave my friends the tickets I’d scored, and a few weeks later we were at the Meadowlands to see Rush.

I was completely into the show and wearing my official “Moving Pictures” t-shirt that I’d got at Postermat on 8th Street in the Village a few months earlier. The encore was 2112 with a laser show.

As we gathered ourselves together to head back to Brooklyn, I spotted the scalper a few rows back and said hello. He told me he couldn’t sell all the tickets, so he had decided to come to the show. He looked as schlubby as before, but this time he wasn’t alone; he had two Asian women — one on each arm — hanging out with him.

Neither one looked anything like any of the other women in the pictures on his refrigerator. And all three had satin cloth backstage pass stickers stuck to their shirts.

***

Jack Szwergold is a skilled web developer who has worked for Artforum and the Guggenheim Museum. He founded the Onion’s website in 1996 and currently works for the New School.