Scalping the Games
by Rebecca Lawton

They’ve been at every venue, each event, all the shuttle bus stops in Salt Lake and Park City.  Without fail they’ve arrived earlier than the rest of us, knowing they must be first to the gate of an Olympic competition or they need not come at all.  Unlike the official volunteers with their designer uniforms, they wear grimy jackets, cheap knit caps, crummy shoes—their only pieces of shiny new gear the cell phones that link them to partners sitting behind rented tables under street-corner tents.   They’re not here to watch the athletes, or make international friends, or trade pins.  They’re scalping tickets to the 2002 Olympic games.

In the 20-degree evening in downtown Salt Lake City, with the temperature falling fast toward dark, I take my place among the scalpers.  I have two tickets to tonight’s men’s figure skating, and I’m here to sell them before the competition begins.  Originally I’d hoped to cheer sentimental favorite Todd Eldredge as he tried for a medal in his third Olympics.  My daughter wanted to see Russian skaters Alexei Yagudin and Evgeni Plushenko vie to be the first skater to land the quadruple toe loop–triple toe loop–triple toe loop combination in competition.   But after four days of adrenaline-pumping events, shuttle buses, security lines, and jostling crowds, we’ve changed our plans.   We’ve opted to catch a train in a few hours, and I’m here to cut my losses. 

As I pull out the flashy blue tickets, I see that, except for me, the unofficial salespeople on these street corners are all men.  They call “Who needs tickets?” and “I got tickets!” as they subtly jockey for position alongside the hordes of spectators streaming past with blankets, programs, and travel mugs.  Wearing my decades-old down jacket and pack boots, I probably appear to fit in with these shabbily dressed professionals, although in truth I have a closetful of good clothes at home, spotless credit, and a steady job. 

I stand opposite a black man holding a fistful of Luge tickets for sale.  He yells across the crowd, “What you got?”  I tell him, and he says, “Man, you’ll be lucky to give those away.” 

A tall, blowsy Australian with an ear to his cell, agrees.  “Get rid of those fast and get the hell home, mate.  It’s as cold as two bricks in the world out here.” 

The crowd muscles by, purposefully ignoring us as I’ve ignored the throngs of ticket hawkers at previous games.  Most spectators have already bought their tickets.  Others are headed to the evening medals ceremony, where tickets are free at local shops.  Minutes pass as I call, “Tickets for sale.  Figure skating tonight!  Event tickets at cost!”  Most people avoid eye contact with me, their faces chilly.  Some take time to assess me with narrow-eyed shrewdness, from my ski cap all the way to my scuffed boots.  Others ask what I’m charging and snort or shake their heads in disbelief when I quote the official price I paid to the Olympic vendors. 

The unbelievers are right, of course—prices are exorbitantly high.  Someone has to foot part of the bill for the $2.7-billion-dollar 2002 games, with their elaborate rituals, labyrinthine torch relay, and monumental new venues.   But, contrary to what the passersby think, I’m not the one who priced these tickets out of reach of everyman.  Neither have I upped the value to cover my own costs.

No takers still after fifteen minutes, half an hour, then forty-five minutes—soon figure skating is about to begin.  Luge man and the Australian were right.  I drop my price by half and in minutes sell one ticket to a family man who unsuccessfully tries to talk me down even farther.  Soon another ticket goes to a fellow who’s just driven non-stop from Toronto.  He dazedly quizzes me on where he is exactly and what has happened over the past four days.  Then he concludes that he’ll attend the skating.  “Sure, why not, eh?”  He pays me with the few American bills he has in a wallet stuffed with Canadian cash.

Feeling neither successful nor a failure, I sprint for my car four blocks away.  Before dark I parked in front of the mission on 2^nd South that provides shelter for the homeless.  By now night has snuck in, and the Jesus Saves sign is lit.  People with knapsacks and paper bags line up to go inside.  Some who’ve already settled upstairs watch the street from tiny, dimly lit balconies.  A few men hurriedly share a fast-food dinner near a trash can, and I recognize the Luge man among them.   He calls to me, “Hey, where’re you going?  Home?”  I tell him yes.  He rubs his hands, feeling the subfreezing night.  “Can I come with you?”  Knowing he’s probably not kidding, I laugh as though he is, wave goodnight, and climb into my car.

Just blocks north, merchandise and money flow like wedding champagne at the biggest party in decades, entertaining visitors from around the world.  The visitors are seeing evidence of our nation’s wealth—sponsors tossing pins and flags from moving trucks, music wired to every street corner, a different big-name band each night.  They’re feeling the warmth and welcoming attitude of the Utah people, a truly memorable aspect of the 2002 Olympic experience.  What the visitors are not seeing, I’ll wager, is life south of the event barricades.  Here there are no new streetlights, no celebrities, no throngs of well-dressed spectators.  Here it’s only business as usual, and it’s cold as two bricks in the world.

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