In New York, waiting in line is a white-linen affair

Two young New Yorkers, Tira and Elyssa, are caught in an urban conundrum: They are used to getting what they want and getting it fast, but this time, the hottest ticket in town can't be purchased with corporate cards or connections. For free tickets to the Public Theater's "The Seagull" in Central Park, you have to wait in line.

So they grab their Ferragamo totes and set out for Central Park West - at 1 a.m. Laying out their white floral sheets and pillowy comforter on the sidewalk, they wait until the box office opens, in 12 hours.

Shakespeare in Central Park, the venerable free summer series started by Joseph Papp in 1957, offers some of the finest theater in the city. This year, Mike Nichols directed Anton Chekhov's play and stocked it with a star-studded cast, including Meryl Streep.

The ritual is also a window into some of the tribal instincts that make New York New York. Virtually every city, to be sure, has its summer theater staged under the elm and maple - from "Twelfth Night" this year on the Boston Common to "Julius Caesar" in Cincinatti.

But perhaps only in New York do the patrons spend the night waiting in line, the result, no doubt, of New Yorkers' love for the theater, but also of the high cost of normal stage productions here.

Of course, the waiting is done in true New York fashion - more Prada than L.L. Bean. One person sets up a battery-operated night lamp in powder blue. Another takes out an air pump and unrolls an inflatable mattress. A third unfolds a mini-bar, filled with ice, and a cutting board. He begins slicing wedges of lime.

But unwittingly, too, the long queue is a refresher in Gotham democracy. As the sun rises and the birds begin to chirp, a cop car escorts the line (numbering around 400), to the Delacorte Theater box office. From outside, the parade of theater-goers looks like a troop about to stake its claim - a fitting image since a battle between East and West is about to erupt.

As the West Side line approaches the box office, about 40 East Siders, claiming to have formed their own overnight line on the other side of the park, confront them. West Siders, showing the territorial spirit of New York, are not about to back down.

"Look, we've got a list, you have to go to the back of the line," says one West Sider, wedging himself in front of the group.

"Please tell me, where does it say we have to wait on the West Side?" retorts the East Sider. "Yeah, yeah" his gang eggs him on. A relentless West Sider runs to the back of the five-block-long line to get the sacred list, a white legal pad numbered from one to 400, which confirms when each person arrived the night before. Under mounting pressure, the East Siders finally file to the back of the line, defeated.

Calm is fleeting though. Around mid-morning, a man offers $200 for a place in line, but the line refuses. "Cutter," says one woman. He moves behind a tree, and pulls a copy of the New York Post over his face. A cop finally forces him to leave his spot.

Despite the intimidating democratic force of the line, some New Yorkers apparently still can't understand that power won't always get them what they want. Two sleek Europeans try to sneak in as the line begins to move at 1 p.m. But those who waited for 12 hours are not about to let them get away with it. When they call the cops over, the woman, in a pricey pink dress with a pink pashmina, starts to protest.

"Money cannot buy you everything missy," the cop is shaking his finger in her face. He cuffs her and drags her to the car.

Later that night, Tira and Elyssa rush to their seats. Surely, for waiting 12 hours in line, they've scored front row seats. But they find themselves in the very back row. "This is outrageous," says Tira, loudly enough for the usher to overhear. "Excuse me sir, who is your public relations official?"