'What's a nice girl like you doing in a big city like this?'

Be nice. Play nice. Nice shoes . . . For years, "nice" has been the battle cry of mothers everywhere. Everything from the first day of school ("Can't you just be nice?") to the family reunion ("If you can't say something nice . . . ") seems to mandate "being nice." But, can "being nice" ever be wrong?

Just before Christmas, a pack of girlfriends and I attacked the city for our routine attempt to find the holiday spirit before heading home. Usually there's ice skating in central park, dancing on the giant piano keys, and eating food long after everyone's blood sugar has plummeted. This year, we decided that perhaps holiday cheer could be found in other places, like Saks Fifth Avenue.

We perused Saks, eyeing the clothes with an equal mixture of envy and bafflement. Soon enough, we remembered our status as college students and crossed the street to H&M where the sweaters are consistently half off, be it in price or lack of fabric. An hour later, we regrouped after being spread throughout the three level maze of clothing, each holding at least one significantly sized bag. Still one short, we waited fifteen minutes for our final friend to make her way to the front. When she did, she was beaming.

Apparently, she'd waited patiently for the man to ring up half a dozen very tired and very vocal women. By the time she reached the front of the line and spread out her heaping pile of clothing ("It's Christmas presents!"), he was obviously losing his own sense of holiday cheer. She reached over and began taking things off the hangers and folding them herself while he rung them up. They chatted throughout the transaction but when he handed her the receipt, she stopped, "You only charged me for one sweater and a pair of pants. I bought three tops, at least, and a couple other skirts." He smiled at her, "It pays to be nice. Merry Christmas."

Invigorated by the encounter, and almost certain that we'd found the hub of holiday cheer, the five of us left the store and began our next adventure: a lottery for Broadway play tickets.

If you've never attempted the lottery, it's a basic free-for-all disguised as an orderly registration of your name. Then you wait around for an hour or so for two understudies to draw 20 names from a hat. Each name drawn can then purchase two tickets. While we waited, we decided to talk to the man at the ticket counter, a nice-enough, friendly guy most likely in his mid-to-late sixties. Truth be told, we'd kidded about hitting on the understudies organizing the lottery or just sitting outside but some other girls had already moved in and it was reaching the low 30s. Ticket man seemed our best option.

We'd talked for a few minutes when he said, "You're from Alabama." I stood there, confused and scanning myself for any of my various crimson regalia or sign that might tip him off. Since I knew I had on shoes, I asked him how he knew. He lowered his throat and divulged that his day job was voice recognition for the Central Intelligence Agency. My friend and I looked at each other and quickly did the math. Since he was about our fathers' age, and it's fairly obvious to anyone I've met that my background hails from someplace other than a thriving metropolis, we decided to play along. Winking and smilingly, we asked all about his CIA position, as well as his daily commute, schedule, past relationships, and food allergies. Time passed quickly and the lottery came.

And the lottery went. And we remained ticketless. Out of 35 people, our five names were left out of the 20 possible ticket slots. We returned inside to chat up our favorite undercover agent sitting behind the stack of playbills and shared our ill fate with him. Maybe because it was two hours before show time — or because my friends aren't exactly hard on the eyes — but either way we found ourselves with five orchestra level tickets, located in the back on the right side for almost half of the original price. He winked as he ran my credit card through the machine.

Clutching our tickets, the five of us ran to dinner then came back an hour later amidst the heard of fur and denim that is only acceptable on Broadway. As we walked in, we noticed our favorite ticket man waving us over, asking for our tickets. We handed them over and watched as he moved things around, winked again, and slid the tickets back underneath the window. Walking into the theatre, we handed our tickets to the usher and found ourselves seated in the third row, center five seats. Another girl who was with us leaned up, "What did you two DO with that guy?"

Simple, be nice. The same mantra that's been ingrained into our minds since birth resurfaced at the right time, with the right guy who was probably starved for a little conversation. Though it's doubtful that he was an actual CIA agent, what did it hurt to have a few girls be a little impressed with his background? Sure, now there's the pressing issue of the morality of "nice," but if you aren't expecting, yet happen to receive, is anyone actually complaining? Perhaps it's in the intentions, and we'd hardly intended to be sharing breaths of air with the actors. We're happy, he's happy, even the headquarters of H&M is happy because we'll definitely be returning customers. In fact, the only girls who didn't appear to be sharing the holiday spirit were the two who bought tickets right in front of us, got a similar deal, then watched as we passed them on the way to the third row. And as for the looks they gave us, let's just say they weren't very nice.

Ashley Johnson is an English major from Florence, Ala.