Our Wistful Nineteen-Forties Heroine Secures Beyoncé Tickets

January 23, 1944

“Say, old chum, are you going to the Beyoncé bash this summer?” Mabel asked, on our way to work at the department store, bits of snow catching in her hair. “Alvin has already registered his spot in the Verified Fan BeyHive Presale—we’d best not miss it. I can’t stand when he parades about so.” I cursed Alvin—the war had made men withholding, with secret processes they did not share and secret pain buried deep in their hearts. I knew in that moment that, should I miss the Renaissance World Tour with my darling Mabel, my own heart would grow equally hard.

Sweetest Mabel! She is so enamored of the idea of attending—plotting cities, dates, and the like. “It might be our last chance to see the old gal swing that thing about, ya know?” she often remarks, and, though I say that I do not know the thing she speaks of, in truth I know. I know it in my soul.

January 29, 1944

“Skip, we’ve done it!” Mabel exclaimed. (Everyone calls me Skip, although my name is Beverly, and Mabel’s name is Marjorie, and Alvin’s is Calvin, and so on.) “We made it into the presale!” The letters arrived today—gilded with the Ticketmaster insignia, a relic of a prosperous, more aggressively marketed time few can now recall—stating that we had made it through the lottery. Now the waiting! A familiar feeling from many a treacherous blitz. I wondered: Is this a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare?

February 13, 1944

The hour arrived, and our little crew gathered to wait around the telegram device upon which we might register for the show—a grand show, larger than any motion picture or three-ring circus any of us had attended before. In jest, we would point to an area of the stadium on the little map sent to us and imagine ourselves there: Betty doing the “Single Ladies” dance in 38B; Mabel in 18C doing the Lindy Hop to “Thique”; perhaps even dreadful Alvin finding a girl who would sweeten his sour temperament for a time in 24F. Each Verified Fan BeyHive member among us basking in Beyoncé’s glow after a long, unforgiving wartime wint—

a;ledjkfa;eofjaeo;fa djsfkjasdz;lfjas dfaoe FOUR HUNDRED POUNDS???!!! ajsera dffkajds;o fajdsfkaj adskfjasdlf;dkjasfkl;ajs!!!J~!!!!!!

February 15, 1944

Ah! All is lost! It was all for nought, for as soon as we had moved through the queue and were able to see tickets, they were completely sold out! Just as well. They cost a small fortune—perhaps not dear to someone like Mabel, who recently inherited thirty thousand pounds, but to me a difficult reminder of my own treacherous finances. If only one could exchange a ration card for a ticket to see Beyoncé! No matter. We carry on.

February 25, 1944

Even the sight of the telegram machine brings violent thoughts. Blasted thing! How could one be “so quick to snatch up your Beyoncé,” as she herself once sang, gaily, full of optimism, in “Soldier,” with Destiny’s Child? Perhaps Beyoncé, too, longed for a simpler time, before the war, when a soldier was not a soldier at all. Oh, damn! Damn it all!

March 1, 1944

Humiliation upon humiliation—Alvin, with his boys, playing slap-rag and bragging about procuring seats in Club Renaissance. Slap-rag is a cruel children’s game, a bitter sport that I detest, but men will be men. “I’ll let you know if my best girl falls through,” he said to Mabel. The gall! I would rather Alvin had been blasted to smithereens by the Luftwaffe than see him at Mabel’s side, swaying to “Plastic off the Sofa.” Curse him, and curse Beyoncé!

March 4, 1944

The Collector’s Edition “Renaissance” vinyl has provided some comfort. In hard times, we often turn to merch for spiritual sustenance. Though I did previously say, “Curse Beyoncé,” it was not truly in my heart. How could I sincerely utter such a thing when Beyoncé has already provided bops upon bops to spin on the Victrola?

March 7, 1944

“Extra, extra! ’Yoncé tix, get your ’yoncé tix!” a voice could be heard calling over the din of the square. I saw a boy, not more than twelve years of age, just waving the things about. “My sister works in the ticket factory,” he explained. “Now that she’s sixteen ’n’ wot.” Horrid child, yet here’s the scoop—the youths have set up bots to intercept Ticketmaster correspondence and are selling tickets at a markup! It’s a good thing that Mabel recently came into money.

“You got ’em, miss,” the urchin said, as we forked over the cash. “Would you like to protect your purchase with Event Ticket Protector from Allianz for an additional twenty pounds? It’s the bee’s knees, and these days you never know if the venue will still be structurally sound in six months.” I told him that I would rather drop dead of smallpox.

“Miss, what about a subscription to Walmart+?” he called after us, but we paid him no mind.

July 13, 1944

Mabel has purchased a corset, and isn’t it just the thing? One could even say “I’m That Girl,” giddy with excitement, painting a line up the back of my calves to give the appearance of high-class stockings. Yes, “America Has a Problem”—our impending arrival! The boys may play slap-rag until their hearts’ content, but the girls? The girls shall have a “Summer Renaissance.” The girls shall see Beyoncé. ♦