Confessions of a Box Office Manager: The Christmas party
Ugh. I am feeling far from fresh, and I am staring down the barrel of an 11-hour shift. It is the day after the company Christmas party and, in common with the rest of the theatre's personnel or at least those that I have seen so far, I imbibed well but not wisely.
As invariably happens, the festive bash was planned by some bright spark in the admin offices who organised it for a Friday night, which works fine for the nine-to-five-ers who have two days to recover, but is tough on those of us who have to work a two show day on the Saturday.
"Well, you could have exercised some restraint" I hear you cry (and can you keep it down please), which is fair enough. Alas, the lure of cheap Pinot Grigio and some toxic punch the colour of swamp water, proved too great. I think we were mainly drinking to obliterate the fact that we were in one of the tackiest joints in the West End, the kind of venue that one wouldn't be seen dead in from January to November but gains a sort of post-ironic festive glow during the last month of the year, and when one's completely hammered. Having said that, when I called my cab to go home, I arranged to be picked up three blocks away as I didn't want that address forever on my account. Not that I fooled the driver as I staggered classily into the back seat still wearing a pair of flashing reindeer antlers and a tinsel necklace.
My beloved senior clerk Maureen had the right idea: she kept herself to a two drink maximum, made sure she chatted with everyone, performed an electrifying one woman interpretive dance to a Spice Girls track, then swept out with the words "Right, that's me done. My old man hates it when I roll in pissed." Just before leaving she cornered me and said that she was available to come in to work today (her scheduled day off) "in case anything happens", bless her. I thanked her and assured her all would be well, before going back to the profound conversation I'd been having with the deputy stage manager about which members of the current cast we would snog, marry or avoid.
So yes, this is a grim morning and I am spending the first hour of it alone having, in a moment of grape-fuelled magnanimity last night, agreed to let the clerks come in a little late. Thinking ahead, and going on past experience, I had done all my morning prep in advance and both shows are sold out, so there is nothing to do but sit here telling potential customers what time the returns queue starts, selling theatre gift tokens (always a pleasure, no really) and thinking about going on a detox.
My coffee is super-strong, which is helping, although getting it was an effort:
"Mate, there's already two shots in here", yelled the barista when I asked for an extra jolt of caffeine.
"I don't need you to question my life choices", I muttered, picking tinsel off my overcoat and wincing as I caught unexpected sight of myself in the glass of the cake display case.
My phone beeps: it's a text from Sam, due in shortly and last seen seven hours ago enthusiastically slurping vodka from the nether regions of a male ice sculpture (did I mention how classy my team are?).
SAM (by text): am so sorry to do this to you but i cant move without puking not gonna make it in am sorry again will take it as holliday [sic] if u like lotsa love 🙁 x x x
ME (by text): Sorry to hear that, Sam. Hope you feel better soon. I wonder if the vodka had anything to do with it?! See you on Monday.
No kisses for Sam, please note. Also I'm going to look like the Grinch that stole Christmas on Monday when I have to "have a little word". To be fair, I was almost the same colour as said Grinch when I got up this morning… Oy, the joys of people management.
I'm just thinking that if my other scheduled clerk bails on me I may have to take Maureen up on her kind offer, when the phone rings.
"Hello?" I squeak, suddenly aware that I haven't actually spoken to another human being in over an hour. I clear my throat and have another go: "Helloooo?" (Much more manly).
"Hiya", croaks the voice at the other end of the line (it's the second clerk… here we go). "Can you hear me?"
"Yes, I can. What's up?"
"I'm not well."
"I see."
"I think it's something I ate."
"Oh dear. Would this be something you ate AT THE PARTY? Would it? AT THE PARTY?"
(Long pause)
"Um…..yeah."
"I see. So… are you calling in sick?"
"Um… yes. I haven't been able to get out of the bathroom for over an hour. Which is where I am ringing you from." (It does sound echoey at the other end, to be fair. So this is either genuine or at least top marks for dramatic verisimilitude.) "I'm sorry, I just can't move."
"Okay, well, if you're sick, you're sick" I say, stating the blindingly obvious. "Rest up, feel better and see you next week. Sam isn't well either."
"Ohhhhh…"
"Yes. I blame that ice sculpture. Clearly the cold doesn't kill off all germs."
I laugh mirthlessly and the voice on the phone joins in but that swiftly turns into the sound of gagging, then full blown heaving and finally vomiting. I am actually starting to feel sorry for her… plus the sound of her getting rid of her stomach lining is making me feel none too great.
"I'm sorry", she gasps finally, "I really am."
"Okay" I say, softening a bit, "you take it easy and I'll see you on Monday. Look after yourself, and drink plenty. Of WATER!"
She mumbles something unintelligible and rings off, and I'm checking my phone book to find Maureen's number. She answers after three rings.
"Do you need me, bubba?" she says, not bothering with a more traditional opening greeting like, say, 'hello'.
"If you can, that'd be so great."
"On my way, darling. Honestly, kids these days!"
Thank goodness Maureen is able to fill in: taking the house in on one's own is not impossible but the moment anything goes wrong, such as a double booking or a tricky customer, it gets immensely stressful and the work starts backing up, the waiting patrons get understandably shirty, the duty manager gets slappably antsy, and so on and so forth…
So, there we go, two staff members down following the Christmas bash. Stern words will be had next week, which absolutely nobody will enjoy, including me. But hey, nobody died.
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