Confessions of a Box Office Manager: It doesn't hurt to be nice
First customer of the day. Lovely.
"Good morning! How are you? It's beautiful out there today isn't it?" I say, suddenly aware that my double espresso is kicking in. Nice.
In return? A blank stare. Not so nice. But hey maybe English isn't his first language, and I do have a tendency to garble when highly caffeinated.
"Good morning," I offer again, taking it slightly slower, "How may I he-"
"I want two front row circle any night next month. And they must be right in the middle." Oh OK, he can speak English, he's just rude.
"Right, I'll have a look at what we have." (I always love it when they give you a whole month to look through) "Any particular night of the week that works best for you?"
"Nope" (another blank stare).
"OK, I'll start at the beginning of the month, shall I, and just work through?" (Lord, take me now.)
The first ten days yield nothing, and all the while I can feel his eyes boring into the top of my head while his fingers drum on the counter, then bingo, Tuesday 11 July, dead centre front row circle.
"Here we are, I've got these two. 11 July. Great seats."
"Wait." This guy is charm in a designer suit. He smacks his briefcase down on the counter, removes his diary and starts leafing through it. This takes about an hour, during which time I wonder if I can nip out for another espresso… or apply for another job.
Finally… "No. Can't make that. Keep looking." This always happens: they tell you any night is fine but what they really mean is 'any night except the one you've got'. They're usually a bit more gracious about it though. Maybe it's not an espresso that I need, maybe it's a Bloody Mary.
"Right, on we plough…" I offer jokily, attempting to catch his eye and also to distract myself from the grinding of my own teeth. Zero reaction from him. Never mind, I live to serve…
Those elusive front row seats don't come up again until the last week of the month, and my (apparently entirely unhelpful) suggestion that the second or third row is pretty much the same view was met with a rolling of the eyes and a snort of derision. Imagine what working for this man on a daily basis must be like. The mind boggles.
Turns out he's busy on the first night I offer him in that final week (well, he would be, wouldn't he) but the Thursday is a go. Thank goodness.
"Superb, well that will be one hundred and fifty pounds for the two then, please."
"No."
"I'm sorry?"
"I've got this" – and he's back rummaging in that briefcase again. Finally he produces a sheet of paper apparently ripped from a magazine and shoves it in my face with a look of triumph. (Nice to see that he has another facial expression apart from the supercilious sneer I've been looking at for the last fifteen minutes.)
I take it off him and peer at it. It appears to be a special offer – best available seats for our show at 50 per cent discount – and I have never seen it before in my life.
"Problem?" the sneer is back. Actually, he really is starting to get up my nose now.
"Yes, I'm not aware of this offer." I keep reading and then find the magic words on the cutting… sorry to admit it, but I'm going to rather enjoy this.
"Ah yes, here you see," I point at the advert "this discount is only available online, and through this ticket agency. Their web address is right there. Look. Look!" I am aware that a combination of caffeine and pent up fury is making me jab at the piece of paper with my forefinger like a crazy person. Not that he is fazed by my slightly manic pointing.
"I can't book here?" he smirks with the incredulous superiority of somebody about to implement a full complaints procedure.
"I'm afraid not, no. Just through this agency. I'm terribly sorry." (I'm not.)
"That is absolute crap."
"As I said…"
"I'm a busy man." (Another expressionless stare, but this time it's from me.)
Without any further scintillating chat, he grabs the piece of paper out of my hand, screws it up into a ball and throws it on the foyer floor. We both stare at it for a second, then he turns on his heel and walks out. I resist calling "have a good rest of the day" to his exiting double breasted suit covered back. I also resist flipping the bird. Because I am a professional.
I am about to go round to retrieve the ball of paper when the front door swings open and an elderly lady enters. She approaches the box office with a sweet smile.
"Hello there" she says, "I'm so sorry to bother you."
"Not at all" I reply, already liking her at least 200 per cent more than my last visitor. "How can I help?"
"Well…I would like to buy some tickets for the matinee this Thursday please, just the two, and I've got this…" and she starts rifling through her handbag, punctuating her search with cried of "Oh dear, what have I done with it?" and "Where is it? Is that it? Oh no, that's not it!"
I think I know what's coming. After a few seconds she produces an envelope and withdraws from it a meticulously cut-out copy of the very same advertisement that Suit-Man had.
"Is it at all possible please to use this lovely offer?" she beams.
"Ah…well…"
Officially – as we have learnt – it is not possible to use this offer here but, you know what, she is being so damn pleasant that I am going to put her seats through at our disabled rate, which is effectively the same discount as this offer: it's a sale, she seems lovely, and she used the magic word 'please'.
"You're really supposed to book that through a ticket agency but it just so happens I can match this price for you, just don't tell anyone, OK?!"
She beams even brighter: "Oh aren't you wonderful".
A few minutes later she's back out in the sunshine, with a pair of great seats at the price she wanted. Never underestimate the power of just being a bit nice to the person behind the box office glass. As for Suit-Man…well, really, who cares? But hey, nobody died.
