(no subject)

Some of you may remember our favourite patron, who adores our theatre and always attends with his husband, who is his caretaker now that he's had a somewhat severe stroke. He's lucid most of the time and speaks very well, but he is wheelchair-bound and...well...he's stuck in a bit of a mental loop.

He calls us frequently to say he's lost his tickets and ask us to send him new ones. We all know his name, so we don't bother sending them because his husband has asked us not to. We hold his tickets at the box office will-call instead.

Now that he's seen all the performances we offer this year, his focus has switched to calling to see that his season tickets have been renewed. They have, of course. This leads him to ask, every time, what he'll be seeing and when his tickets will arrive. Normally we hear from him about once every two weeks.

Because the tickets have been moved to his husband's name, he is no longer listed as a season-ticket holder. Thus, Marketing considers him fair game. Marketing has not got much of a clue.

Today he got a letter in the mail asking him to purchase season tickets! So of course he called us to be sure he had purchased the tickets. We told him yes, he had, and not to worry.

The problem is, apparently, that he doesn't throw the letter away after he calls us about it. Because then he called again. And again. And then he called me, twice, within the space of ten minutes. And then when I went on break he called again...

In all, he has called us nine times today. Every single time he is funny and endearing -- we don't care that he calls a lot, 'cause we know he can't help it. We're just united in the desire to help him break free of his obsession.

I'm thinking gold-plated tickets we can attach to his wheelchair on a chain. People who've been season-ticket holders as long as he has deserve some kind of trinket for loyalty anyway.

(no subject)

Home again...

I talk a lot about the bad patrons, the stupid patrons, and the angry patrons we get, but despite all the stress of the job there are still moments when I really like it. This evening there were at least a dozen people who asked me "Are you Sam?" and thanked me for helping them get tickets. That's unusual, but once in a while you do get this cluster of people who all remember you for whatever reason.

This morning a woman called to admit that she had left her tickets in another state and was already halfway to Chicago and couldn't turn around. People flip out, like it's not ten seconds' worth of work to reprint their tickets. I told her no problem, she could give me her name and pick them up when she arrived. I didn't think anything more about it, until a middle-aged man stopped in front of my window, asked my name, and shook my hand for helping his wife earlier that day, because she was coming from out of state and was really upset at the idea she wouldn't get to see the play. It's nice to know that you can give someone full service like that -- print their tickets, talk to them at the window, give them the new tickets and tell them where to go.

I talked to another man who not only bought his tickets from me but got me again when he called to see if he could get closer seats (I got him seats with better legroom, if not closer), so literally I am the only person from our theatre he had encountered until he took the tickets to the usher to be seated. That's very satisfying. I didn't work on the production but I made these peoples' lives a little bit nicer anyway.

Part of working in the arts is the idea that you are providing an intangible moment of pleasure for someone in the process of expressing your views and feelings. I still get a taste of that now and again when someone comes up to the window and asks, "Are you Sam?"