Confessions of a Box Office Manager: Kids say the darndest things
It really helps in this job if you like, or can at least get on with, pretty much everybody. Unfortunately, in front of me right now is an example of the kind of customer I just can't stand: demanding, dismissive, entitled, disrespectful and rude to his female companion… a particularly unappealing example of white, middle class, male privilege.
Of course, I am internalising all of the above. In reality, I am standing here nodding understandingly, my hands clasped in front of me, a rictus-like grin plastered across my weary face. Being a consummate professional – and a regular person with rent to pay – I would never actually smack a patron however ghastly and unreasonable they were, although I have, over the years, come pretty close to lunging through the window at one or two of them in blind fury (remind me to tell you about those some time).
And anyway, I firmly believe that beating children is wrong. Oh yeah, that's right: this little tyke can't be any more than twelve years old, but he's like a nasty amalgam of Boris Johnson and Chucky. And the female companion he is being so vile to is his mother (admittedly she is a bit irritating, but even so, some basic respect on his part wouldn't go amiss).
It was fine, initially. She was asking about seats on a couple of dates while he stood guard over the Selfridges bags, playing with what looks suspiciously like the new iPhone (at his age! I'm only jealous…). She had made her decision and was just getting her purse out of her handbag when he stopped texting, carelessly hurled his phone into one of the bags (all I could think at this point was "do you even KNOW how much that thing costs?!") and saunters over to the box office.
"OK, where's he putting us?" he pipes up with the authoritative air of somebody who may end up running the country one day.
"Oh some lovely seats" simpers his mother, "just here, look!" and she points at the plan. He barely glances at where she's indicating.
"No. I'm not sitting there." ('There' is front dress circle, by the way.)
"Oh darling, why not? I thought they would be good…"
"Too far away" he snaps, "I wanna go heeeeere" (and at this he runs his hands over the entire front stalls section on the plan. I must get the disinfectant onto that later).
"Well, ask the nice man if he has anything there then, sweetie" (I'm starting not to fee very nice, to be honest).
He glares up at me "Well?!"
Deep breath. "Same date?"
"I dunno."
Oh, God. I look askance over his sweet little head at his mother who just grins inanely. I check the stalls on that date. It's very busy, nothing further forward than row T.
"The best stalls for that date would be back here, I'm afraid."
"Those are crap."
"Darling! Don't say that!" she smiles at me and does a cute little shrug as if to say 'Kids! What can ya do?!' I grin back with as much joie de vivre as I can muster (which isn't very much).
"OK, so let's look for another date when I have got seats that aren't crap then, shall we? Any specific days?"
He stares at me as though I have just spoken to them in Swahili, and she just smiles. I get the impression that she smiles a lot in life because if she doesn't she may start screaming, and never actually stop.
Two days after the initial date requested I find some locations at the front, albeit towards the side. This is clearly a source of great irritation to Little Lord Fauntleroy. He sighs, rolls his eyes and starts bashing the seating plan rhythmically, as though auditioning for a junior version of Stomp.
"No no no!" he shrieks, pointing to the middle and probably stamping his feet if I could but see them, "I wanna go heeeeere! Not theeeeeere!! HEEEEEEERE!" Kill me now.
His mother has by now discovered something absolutely fascinating on her phone and is standing well back, typing away on it like a maniac. I want to cry "don't leave me on my own with him!" Actually, I just want to cry, period. But instead I struggle on through the plans. Damn, this show is busy.
Finally, late November, great seats, dead centre, third row. Ta-dah!
"But… but… that's ages away!" he stares pitifully up to me as though I had just stolen his puppy. "Mummy! Mummyyyyy!"
Her shoulders visibly tense up, she sighs, puts her phone away and comes over.
"What is it, my angel?"
"HE" (he points up at me and I can't help but give him credit for managing to pack so much venom into a single syllable, two-letter word: amazing in one so young) "says we can't come until November!"
"Well, I'm sure…"
"No. I wanna go and see Wicked instead."
"But, baby, we've already seen…"
"Wicked!"
Good grief.
"Very well darling" she looks sheepishly at me "I am so sorry to waste your time."
"Ah, that's no problem at all. Enjoy the rest of your day." I need a lie-down.
"Say goodbye to the nice man." He ignores her and goes to the shopping bag to retrieve his phone, while she gives me the helpless look again. I wave at her. They leave. Look out Victoria.
So…no sale there then. I hope they manage to find him some front stalls for Wicked, I hope his mum manages not to have a nervous breakdown until they've packed him off to boarding school, and I hope that if they do book for our show at a later date that it's by phone or on my day off. But hey, nobody died.
