The Grind - Part 1

I got no beef with Cadillac Frank.  He was in the wrong and, given time, he'll cop to it.  "My vic" means "My vic."  This is a fact that is not open to interpretation.  'Nuff said on that topic.'

Insofar as his nickname is concerned, there is (as always) no shortage of geniuses claiming to know why this or that scalper is called by such and such name on the street.  "Duh, he drives a 'Caddy!" or  "He's from Cadillac, Michigan." or, my personal favorite, brought to you by Wrong Allan:  "He's the penultimate scalper, you know, the Cadillac of scalpers."  Allan really outdid himself, there.  I'm not really sure where to begin.  An astounding amount of fuckups in one sentence, even for Allan.  The best part is that, for emphasis, Allan writes the word Cadillac in the air, like he's writing it in cursive with a pen, just like the actual Cadillac logo.  Pretty sure he missed an "L".

Cadillac Frank, who sliced me when I was in the middle of a sale, was born Francis Patrick Leahey.  He drives a twenty year old Cutlas which he does not own, but is owned by his partner, Chris Mulrooney, a scalper to be nicknamed later.  He grew up in Stoneham and I have no idea exactly where his parents are from, but I would lay odds on Dorchester or Roxbury.  I base this call on my keen ear for Bostonian accents and the fact that Frank's mom needs a friggin' translator when she leaves the New England area.

Anyway, Frank's dad, Frank Sr., is deceased and the story goes that he, not Frank, drove a Cadillac.  An early '70's limited edition El Dorado called the El Deora, favored by mob guys and pimps mostly.  When Frank was 3-years-old, his old man missed his birthday party.  It wasn't a huge deal to anyone but Frank Sr. who was always looking for an excuse to go on a bender, and go he went.  He skipped work and went right to Kelly's.  By noon he was legless and by four-thirty he and the driver he hit head on (a guy who actually went to work that day) were both taking their last ambulance ride.

A veteran cop on the scene knew Frank senior and was telling a bright-eyed rookie the sad tale of Frank's now widowed wife and orphaned 3-year-old son.  The rookie was pretty shaken up by the scene and wanted to do something for the kid who would not remember his dad when he grew up.  He looked at his feet and saw the Caddy's hood ornament on the pavement.  It doesn't look like a regular Cadillac ornament and if you didn't know your shit, you'd have no clue that it came from a Cadillac.  Anyway, the rookie cop pockets it and when he went to inform the family, he gave the ornament to Frank Junior, who has cherished it ever since.  Since then, Frank has been obsessed about all things Cadillac - Cadillac posters on his wall, Cadillac screen-saver, the whole nine yards.  He swears he's gonna put enough cash together one day to buy a mint condition 1973 Cadillac El Deora just like his old man had.  But Cadillac Frank, like so many in our business, is a degenerate gambler and him ever owning a vehicle of his own, let alone a cherry vintage Caddy...c'mon.  Please.

Great story, huh?  Only one problem.  Frank Senior never owned or even drove a Cadillac.

I know, I know.  What I actually said was  "...the story goes..." or words to that effect.  The Cadillac in question was, in fact, driven by the guy Frank Senior hit.  No one wore seat belts in those days and both drivers were ejected from their vehicles which were both barely recognizable as cars - forget about make and model!  It was a real friggin' mess, blood, glass and metal.  The rookie made an honest mistake and Frank's widow's whole world had just gone to shit so I don't think she knew her own name, let alone what the hell the officer was talking about when he gave Frank Junior a hood ornament from someone else's car.  By the time she came to her senses, Mrs. Leahey saw how much little Frank loved the thing; she didn't have the heart to tell him what was what, not that it mattered much in the grand scheme of things.  Anyway, I have it on good authority that Frank's old man drove a Buick Riviera, the kind with the bubble-back window.  It was a piece of shit that never would have passed inspection if Frank didn't throw his mechanic ten bucks every year.  It all worked out.  "Riviera Frank" is a bit pretentious for the street; it'd make him sound like a homo.

Grateful Dead - MSG Onsale - 199?

It was the SOMETIME IN THE EARLY 1990'S.  The Grateful Dead was still one of the top-grossing acts in the United States; this, despite the fact that they had only had only one top-ten hit in decades (Touch Of Grey - 1987 Arista) and their policy of allowing fans to record all their concerts - in effect, giving there music away.  This was a band that simply had to be seen live, and their fans did so in record numbers over and over again.

They were a great band.  But behind that great band and their loyal fan base, was a business which generated hundreds of millions of dollars.  And though the hippies who followed the tour with their vision of a giant commune where love, alone, was the coin of the realm, the fact was that this was a giant, capitalist machine which churned out stacks of cash for everyone from the promoters, agents, accountants, bankers and venue-owners and operators at the top of the food chain all the way down to the Deadheads down on "Shakedown Street" selling tour shirts, glass pipes, LSD and grilled cheese.  They were even more loathe to admit that the greatest beneficiaries of this model of Capitalism was The Grateful Dead, themselves.  But, in fairness, though the members of The Dead were all multi-millionaires, The Music drove the profits, not the other way around.  Their love of their music and the fans who inspired and worshipped them was always evident.  When the Grateful Dead performed, they never phoned it in.

Back to the cash.  Where there is a successful act, there are scalpers, and Dead concerts were no exception.  Working a Grateful Dead concert would have been just another day at the office for me if it weren't for one simple fact:  

Deadheads hate ticket scalpers.

This fact cannot be overstated.  While peace and love may not have been all there was, they most certainly served as a backdrop, the tapestry on which the whole Scene (and it was a Scene) was painted.  Kindness in the form of brotherly and sisterly love was thick in the air.  But derision was not absent.  It was kept hidden and allowed to foment until one came across a ticket scalper.  Only a confidential, police informant would be viewed with more disdain, and not by much.  Shirts bearing the words "Die, Scalper Scum!" were only seen at Dead shows.  These haters represented a minority, but a VERY vocal and aggressive minority.

I often tried to engage these scalper-haters.  I have a disarming personality and as a result, have very few enemies.  I am a hard person to hate and I tend to get along with nearly everyone I meet.  A typical argument  would go something like this:

I would be walking between rows of cars, announcing, "Tickets, tickets, tickets!  Buying, selling.  Tickets!" over and over, as I walked, when I would be accosted by a Deadhead, selling tour shirts with the band's name and/or image on it.

"Why don't you just leave, scalper?  No one wants you here!"

Someone else would come up and buy a couple of tickets from me and the Scalperhater would harass them...

"Don't buy tickets from scalpers!  Find a fan who has an extra, bro!"

"You're ripping off the band, man!"

 At this point, I would introduce myself and engage in a sort of debate where I would state my case -

"You are selling shirts with the band's logo on it.  They are not making any money off this.  You are literally stealing money from the band you claim to love.  This ticket I am selling was initially purchased through legitimate channels, so every member of the band as well as the promoter and venue operator have already received their cut.  The Grateful Dead already got paid for the ticket I am selling.  Also, every ticket I sell ends up in the hands of a happy fan.  Why do you hate me and what I do?"

The responses ranged from the inane:

 "Because you represent Babylon, bro!"

 ...to justification: "I use all this money to get to the next show.  For me it's about the music.  You're all about the money.  I bet you don't know one Grateful Dead song.  And the band doesn't care that we sell these shirts."

This latter point was not true.  The band spent hundreds of thousand of dollars protecting their trademarks.  That being said, they were also pragmatic.  Band members often wore bootleg shirts on stage.

The best I would get from a scalper-hater would be an acknowledgement that I seemed like an alright guy, as far as scalpers went.

So, on to the part where scalpers really do suck:  The "Onsale", the initial offering of tickets to the general public.

 Back then, there was no internet, so the only way to buy tickets from an outlet like Tickemaster or Ticketron.  There were only two ways to buy from these outlets:  by phone or by standing in line in front of a store that sold hard tickets.

In 199?, the Capital Theatre was one of only a few outlets selling tickets for the upcoming Grateful Dead's Madison Square Garden shows.  This is was where I chose to make my move.  I brought half-a-dozen kids with me.  This was my "crew", who would stand in line with me, use cash I had provided them with to but tickets, then give me those tickets.  In return, I would pay them anywhere from $30 to $100 each, depending on how many seats they got.  There are two reasons I was successful at onsales:

1.  I put together a great crew.  I would choose someone with initiative and ambition as a sort of foreperson who would then, in turn, recruit their best friends - people they trusted implicitly.  I only really had to trust the one in charge, who in this case was Sandi.  Sandi was and is still a cool fucking chic with a bunch of friends who she brought into my scene.  Loyalty was rewarded.  There were bonuses for bringing in more tickets or better seats.  I ran crews for ten years and never once got ripped off by anyone on my crew.  Well, almost never, but that is a tale for another day.

2.  I was always first.  Or nearly so.  I would do everything in my power to be first in line.  When people were lining up the night before an onsale, I would drop my crew off two nights before.  This was the least defensible part of my business.  I can justify my actions by stating that anyone could have gotten in line ahead of me (which happened from time to time) and though i was not without compassion for "real" fans, ultimately greed was my motivator.  And the fact remained that tickets were limited and the front of the line was the smartest place to be.

For this event, I and my crew had arrived two nights before the actual onsale.  We were the first seven in line and were joined by only one or two fans that night.  It was important for my crew to not let these "real" fans in on the fact that they were working for a ticket broker.  It would be a very uncomfortable two days if everyone behind us knew what we were about.  However, everyone would figure it out eventually, but as long as everyone got tickets, no one usually bitched.  Of course, the occasional scalperhater would rant, but if people behind us did not get tickets, they would either try to buy them from me or any one of the ticket agencies I supplied.

By the second night, we had been joined by twenty or more people on the sidewalk.  These were actual concertgoers, many of them deadheads.  The combined odor of Speed Stick,  Pantene Shampoo and Conditioner, and weed gave way to the heavier smells of clove cigarettes, Patchouli oil, and better weed.  In a short time, most of the Deadheads were on to me, so I bought a keg and made friends.  I soon fell into the "not-a-bad-guy-for-a-scalper" category.  I was on the sidewalk with them, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and codeine cough syrup (sobriety was eluding me).  It was a fun and festive night. 

One of Sandi's friends, Renee, and I hit it off.  She also hit it off with one of the local residents who was in line, a super cool guy named Jeff who let me and my crew take turns going to his nearby apartment to use his shower .  Renee came back from her shower looking amazing.  She was laying it on pretty thick with Jeff and would teasingly look over at me hoping to playfully arouse some jealousy.  This totally worked.  Jeff was better looking than me, he was so cool, I liked him, and worst of all, he had his own place only blocks from where we were.  My hopes with Renee seemed dim.

I was ready for a shower myself and Renee suggested that she and Jeff join me at the apartment so we could all get some food.  I know this sounds like she was hoping for a threesome, but I assure you that her goal was to inflame my jealousy further.  Renee was 20 and I was 27.  I was not sexually adventurous enough to consider sharing her with this Jeff guy and was sure that they would be fucking while I was  showering.

We went to Jeff's place and the two of them had some grub, while I showered.  I did the full-on "I-might-get-laid" shower, even though I felt my odds were less than 50-50.  I got out of the shower and was drying off.  I could hear Renee laughing at whatever witty shit Jeff was saying.

Sensing my hookup slipping away, I decided to search for a consolation prize...in Jeff's medicine cabinet.  As I mentioned before, sobriety was not a priority at this point in my life.  I was pretty savvy as to the effects of various prescription medications, and if i did come across a previously unknown substance (remember, this is pre-internet and I did not carry a Physician's Desk Reference), I could always look for the "Sleepy Guy" warning label.

 As soon as I opened Jeff's medicine cabinet, a smile crossed my lips.  I could not have dreamed better drugs.

I entered the kitchen with a swagger.  Renee immediately picked up on my new confidence and was confused, for up until now, she had had me totally off-balance, yet now, here I was, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.  Jeff was handsome and used to women throwing themselves at him, but he was not that bright and had no idea that Renee had been taunting me right in front of him.  He excused himself and went to the bathroom.  Renee tried to regain the upper hand.

"I think Jeff is really into me!" she teased.

 "Seems so."  I responded, coolly.

Renee furrowed her brow,  wondering  what was I up to.  I leaned in.

"Before you and Jeff swap bodily fluids, you might want to check his medicine cabinet.  See you on the sidewalk."

I walked out of Jeff's apartment and headed back to the party in front of the Capital Theatre and smiled, satisfied, as I waited for Jeff and Renee to return.

It is pretty rare for most guys to be absolutely sure that they have won one of these battles, but I was certain, because I knew two things:

1.  Renee had worked herself into such a lather, that someone was getting laid, that night.  And,
2.  I did not have a medicine cabinet, containing half-a-dozen bottles of Tetracycline.

Renee and I shared a blanket, that night.  The next morning, I was happy, Renee was sore, and Jeff was confused.

EPILOGUE
Only thirty or so tickets were sold out of the Capital Theater's Ticketmaster machine that morning. No one behind me and my crew got tickets.  We high-tailed it out of there pretty quick, before things got ugly.  The whole onsale was shady.  Ticketmaster and/or The Capital Theater released many more tickets a couple of hours later and though I have no evidence that someone within one of these organizations diverted tickets for the same purpose I had, these things were not uncommon in those days.  It was one of the things that made me justify my own actions.  While I competed with fans for thirty tickets, some unseen hand scooped up hundreds or perhaps thousands of tickets which never saw the light of day.  Not that day, anyway.