The Ticket
This story is being published in partnership with Epic Magazine. Names have been changed throughout.
2014 World Cup - Porto Alegre, Brazil
I ducked behind a food stand, checked my burner phone, and stashed $20,000 in my money belt. The churrasco smoke made for good cover.A drunken choir of Dutchmen poured into the stadium chanting their national anthem. They howled over the shoulders of the riot policemen guarding the gates, the orange lions on their replica jerseys waving in the wind. The louder the Dutchmen sang, the tighter the Brazilian security forces gripped the muzzles of their automatic weapons.The Australian fanatics were next, draped in Southern Cross flags and kangaroo swag. Soon their own inebriated chant rang through the air: Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oy! Oy! Oy!
The fans who needed tickets stood out. We called them “straights” because they stand straight up in a crowd protecting the cash they’re unused to carrying, hands stuck in their pockets, and you could make a few thousand dollars in a couple of hours if you knew how to spot them. The game was to sell your tickets for as much cash as the straights could cough up.I had 30 tickets left with 20 minutes to kickoff. If I didn’t sell them they’d be worthless — deadwood. But with undercovers swarming the stadium, the risk of arrest swelled with every sale. Ticket scalping in Brazil carried a multi-year prison sentence, and I couldn’t speak Portuguese, so I had to be careful. Avoiding capture meant closing deals quickly and moving every five minutes. These were techniques my mentors taught me on street corners, outside the track at the Kentucky Derby, in the parking lots bordering the Masters, the hotel lobbies by the Super Bowl.I slipped behind a well-dressed straight and whispered, “Tickets? Entradas?” He answered in the affirmative. I nodded my head toward the nearest barbeque stand. I was always surprised when people followed me, a complete stranger.My clean-cut Mormon looks usually closed the deal, but there were also critical soft skills — a smile, counting money slowly, a somber nod — that eliminated doubt if the straights were hesitant.
....MUCH MOREI was down to 20 tickets when I spotted a repeat customer. I went over to him and nodded. He knew the drill. I slipped him two tickets. He passed me the money. We shook hands.Then someone grabbed my arm.“Cambista!” he hissed.The guy had jet-black hair, a leather coat, and sunglasses. I didn’t know if he was a cop, a competitor, or a disgruntled customer.“Don’t touch me,” I said calmly.He pulled me close and flashed his handgun. Behind him, the Brazilians working the barbeque stand motioned for me to run. I was in trouble. A cop.The man with a gun shoved me onto a bench and unzipped my bag of tickets. His face spread with a smile.“Cambista,” he whispered.My repeat customer slumped on the bench beside me, hanging his head. Clearly, he’d ratted me out. In plain view, the detectives in the parking lot started divvying up my tickets. Another man reached in the front pocket of my jeans and pulled out the ball of Reals from my last 10 sales. My money belt was still hidden.A tall man opened the back door of an unmarked car and shoved me inside. We drove along a river overhung with lush tropical trees. A cross hung from the rearview. I watched it bounce to the rhythm of potholes. Houses splashed with graffiti hugged the river trails. I doggedly fought the idea that an undercover would kill me over a few grand as we drove past kids between cars begging for money.As the stadium shrank in the haze behind us, I wondered about Brazilian prison conditions. I wondered about extradition treaties. But mostly, I wondered what my dad would think....
