The Grand Old Opera
By Steve Martin
 

"Now, the opera gets a subsidy from the National Endowment for the Arts, but by and large, Willie Nelson and Garth Brooks don't. Those of us that drive our pickups to those concerts don't get a subsidy; but the people who drive their Mercedes to the opera get a subsidy."  -- John Ashcroft, nominee for Attorney General of the United States, September 17, 1997.

“We have a problem.” The chief troubleshooter for the Metropolitan Opera stood before the company’s director as he had done many times before. They had managed crises together — the diva temper tantrums, the occasional sound problem or ticket mixup — but this time the director could read a deeper concern on his colleague’s face.

“What is it? ‘You’re such a worry-wart.” The director rolled back in his chair and closed his hand into a fist, feeling a delicate layer of sweat coating his palm. His other hand toyed with a pencil.

‘We got some people coming to the opera tonight in a Ford Taurus.”

The director swivelled around and faced the window. His hand snapped the pencil in half with one unconscious squeeze.

“Where will they park?’ As he spoke, his eyes scanned the entire complex of Lincoln Center.

“Our intelligence says they will come early, and I quote, ‘to get a good parking space.’ ”

“So out in front then, where everyone will see?” Phrased not so much as a question as an implication.

“That’s what it looks like. And there’s something else.”

“What’s that?” the director asked.

“They have a sofa strapped to the top of their car.”

There was a pause.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked the chief troubleshooter.

“Maybe. What exactly are you thinking?” said the director.

“Well, I’m thinking, How could someone who drives a Ford Taurus possibly be interested in opera?”

“Exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Kind of non-p.c. to think that -- don’t you agree?”

“Maybe, but let’s be realistic.”

“You think that these people, whoever they are, at one time drove a Mercedes?”

“Sounds like it, doesn’t it? Then maybe they had some kind of reversal.”

“What if we found what route they were taking, then put up a phony billboard advertising a Garth Brooks concert -- wouldn’t that Taurus just automatically go there?”

“Could be a problem. Thousands might show up.”

“Yeah, but it would clear the highway for all the Mercedeses to get to the opera,” said the director.

“Hey, that’s right. . . . Wait a minute. I just thought of something. What does Garth Brooks drive?”

“I think a Mercedes. Whoa, I see what you mean: what if Garth Brooks is on the highway in his Mercedes and it takes him to our production of ‘Rigoletto?”

“Exactly. Then we’ve got the Taurus people at a phony Garth Brooks concert and Garth Brooks at the opera.”

“Yikes. O.K., here’s what we do. We put up the phony Garth Brooks billboard. We say he’s appearing in an open field somewhere. When all the Ford Tauruses get there, we put on ‘Rigoletto.’ When Garth Brooks shows up at the opera, we hand him a mike and gget him to sing. We then go to the open field and take pictures of all the people in their R.V.s and pickups watching ‘Rigoletto,’ and send the pictures to Congress.”

“What does that get us?” the troubleshooter asked.

The director smiled. “Funding,” he said.

 * From The New Yorker, v. 76, n. 42, p. 47, Jan. 15, 2002.