Free Front of House: Observations from a Decade on the Aisle by Denise Reich Page A

devices for the hearing impaired, which are free upon presentation of a credit card or ID.
    There were some things I couldn’t do for disabled patrons. I was not allowed to physically assist them in transferring from their wheelchair to a seat, for instance. If someone asked me to take their arm and lead them up the aisle or down the stairs, I couldn’t do it. I could only walk in front of them to give them confidence and tell them how many steps they had left. That was for everyone’s safety. I also couldn’t obtain or return someone’s assisted listening device; they had to do that themselves.
    The other thing I couldn’t do was to shield disabled guests from jerks who happened to be sharing space with them. And actually, this wasn’t always restricted to patrons; on rare occasions I ran across intolerant staff members. I don’t think I will ever forget the night at a certain show where the playwright, who was standing in the back of the orchestra, flatly refused to move out of our way so we could lead a blind woman to her seat.
    One evening I was subbing at the Booth. It was a small, wood-paneled jewel box of a theater with a deceptively large façade and a lush downstairs lobby. It usually hosted serious plays with small casts, and as a result, the audiences tended to be older and more austere. Unfortunately, that didn’t guarantee that they had any manners, much less compassion for others.
    A physically disabled woman had come in. She’d been able to transfer from her wheelchair to a regular seat in the back of the orchestra. A few minutes after she was settled, I was called to the other end of her row by a group of elderly women.
    “This is the handicapped section?!”
    ”We don’t want to sit here.”
    ”We don’t want to sit with the wheelchair.”
    ”What if we need to get up? How will we get past her?”
    “Can’t you move us?”
    To use an old phrase, to go with the old Booth Theatre, I was vexed. I silently reminded myself that if I didn’t want to get fired, suspended or reprimanded, I couldn’t say what was on my mind. Instead, I smiled pleasantly, told the women that I couldn’t move them, and went back to ushering.
    They didn’t give up. Toward curtain time, one of them stood up and leaned over the railing to talk to me. She was only two feet away from the disabled patron.
    “Can’t you move us? This is the handicapped section.” She lowered her voice. “I’ll give you a tip.” I glanced down. The disabled woman had clearly heard this exchange, and she was gazing at the carpet, frowning.
    “I’m sorry but I can’t move you, as I said before,” I replied. I was again struggling mightily to bite my tongue. “If you want to move, you can talk to the house manager.” She did; the response was a predictable no.
    I turned to the disabled woman, who was still staring at the carpet. She’d come out for a nice night of theater, and she hadn’t even made it to curtain time without being insulted. I hated that. I wished that I could move her so she wouldn’t have to spend two hours stuck near such miserable people. All I could do was apologize and wish her a pleasant show. I knew that it wasn’t enough, and that it wouldn’t even begin to undo the damage that had been wrought by the obnoxious women. She wasn’t going to remember the performance; she was going to remember that she had once again been ostracized and treated poorly by those around her.
    Sometimes I really wished that I had all the powers that audience members thought I had. And in hindsight, even with my job on the line, I wish I’d told those women off.

Uncle Rigby

    There are Broadway ushers everyone knows. Some are notorious for very negative reasons, but whether they have a good or bad rep, every face lights up with recognition when they check in with the head usher or someone mentions their names. They’ve been around the block for so many years that it’s impossible not to have worked with them.
    There was a