When I was 17, for reasons I can’t remember I borrowed a movie discount card from a high school classmate named Bruce Kleinberg. This became memorable because of a night in April 1971 when I was trying to sell two Knick playoff tickets at a profit and having a tough time of it using the mumble common to the art of scalping, and so raised my voice a few decibels.
This quickly produced a customer, a tall well-dressed man in a tan trenchcoat. When I told him I wanted $35 for the two tickets with a face value of $15, he didn’t flinch, just reaching for his wallet and asking whether I had change for a fifty.
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