Oh, New York *shake of head*

So Ellen and I were on our way to NYC, right? And how can you go to New York without seeing a show? It just isn't possible - or at the very least, respectable. So, she and Art decided that as a goodbye-thank you-Christmas present, she would take me to see South Pacific on Broadway. (Last time we went, we saw a play, but a play off-Broadway and a musical on Broadway proper are completely different experiences.) But there was a catch - the online discount ticket joint that we were looking only gave us the option of mailing the tickets to the house - rather than leaving them at the box office. Weird, right? I thought so. But, that seems to the be the way of it (a highly inconvenient way if there is no time for mailing). Distraught and exhausted, Ellen gave up the search for the evening and hoped that the next day while we were at the airport, we would have more luck. Perhaps we would have more options! And as it so happened, we did! (Sometimes last-minute purchases are better!) Instead of doing the purchase online, we called the number to make sure that they actually would be able to hold the tickets for us.
"Why, yes- yes we can!" Enthused the lady on the other end of the line. "The tickets are under your name, and I will have a representative call you and give you the details of pick-up in the next few hours!" After bidding us a good flight, she hung up and we boarded the plane.
When we landed in NYC and were allowed to turn the cell phones back on, there was a message waiting for us on Ellen's phone. She put the cell to her ear, seemingly paying more attention to the line waiting to disembark the plane than the message she was now hearing. Suddenly, her expression changed from that of boredom and apathy to amusement and disbelief. Laughing, she turned to me, and said, "You've gotta hear this!"
What I had to hear was the call from the promised representative of the discount tickets. The voice that met me was dripping with a pure, stereotypical New Yorker accent - an Italian New Yorker. You know, like one of the cronies for the GodFather or Mickey Blue Eyes. He was saying something about, "Yeah, well - I got ya message, and I wanna let ya know that the tickets are waiting for you. So, gimme a call back and I'll give ya the lowdown on where to pick up the package."
The package?!? Two tickets now makes a package?!? I had to laugh as well. It seemed too much like a movie for belief. But, true to his word, when we called him back, he did indeed give us the "lowdown". He sent us to the eighth floor of a building sandwiched between a bar and alley - the floor occupied by Americana tickets. However, the building had no name, and the first two people we asked claimed no knowledge whatsoever of Americana tickets. Uh-oh.
But, find the building we did. At the front door, we were met by a older man with a dark complexion and a surprisingly soft voice - thick with accent though.
"Sgnmfhn ennnhh."
"What?" Both Ellen and I leaned forward to try and decipher what the man just said. He didn't look like he was too thrilled that this was his job.
"Sign in."
"Oh! Of course!" Ellen hurried to do so, and then started handing me the pen.
"Only one of you."
And so, we hurried to the elevator, both wide-eyed and giggling as we whispered the most mafia-sounding lines that we could think of to each other.
When we reached the eighth floor, we found ourselves in a grey concrete room deplete of all furnishings except a metal bench. That's right - like the kind you sit on at park. And we were the only ones. Wide-eyed and fighting another fit of giggles, we moved toward the glass window very much like a bank teller's at the end of the room and rang the doorbell. (That's right - they had a doorbell rather than a traditional, cute and comforting bellhop bell.) A woman in a black velvet suit came forward and said in a deep, velvety voice - "Can I help youuuu?"
Ellen cleared her voice and asked for the tickets. I looked away, pretending to survey my surroundings instead of laughing at the pure ridiculousness of the whole situation. The lady in black disappeared from our sight in search of the tickets with a "One moment, pleassse." She returned a moment later with our tickets, thanked us, and then disappeared around the corner again. We made it to the elevator before we bust out laughing, repeating the line, "I'm heeah to peeck up the peeahckage" over and over in the most Italian mafia-New York accent we could muster. (That was written as phonetically as possible...you may have to read it out loud to get the full glory of it.)
Oh, New York - I have never met anyone like you. *shake of head*