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

sweet-natured usher who sang when he ran into people he knew. You usually heard him, trilling away, long before you spotted him. There was an extremely old woman who seemed to be completely dotty at first glance. When you spoke to her you learned that she had graduated from an Ivy League school. She had hip problems that made her walk slowly, but she was committed to swimming every day. There was an usher who unfortunately had hygiene problems and smelled bad. There was a Chinese woman who had gone through the Cultural Revolution and had stories to share about it; there were other intriguing faces that popped up again and again.
    Rigby was one of these local celebrities.
    I ran into him early on in my ushering career; he remained a constant presence until the mid-2000s. He had a steady house that happened to be closed on a regular basis, so he floated around as a sub most of the time.
    He frequently referred to himself as Uncle Rigby, which made sense. He really was like a mad, short-tempered, eccentric uncle. He was short and squat and always had wild beard stubble; his glasses looked as though they hadn’t been replaced since the early 1980s. His wardrobe, when he was not in his ushering uniform, consisted of Broadway t-shirts. He bought a new one from every show he saw and wore them in rotation. Rigby’s other trademark was the pair of large plastic bags he always carried. I never did find out what they contained, but they bulged to the brim.
    Rigby was a card-carrying member of Equity — properly Actors’ Equity Association, the theatrical performers’ union — but one never could pin down exactly where he’d performed. He claimed to have understudied on Broadway, but curiously, he could never be found in the Playbill, Theatre World or the Internet Broadway Database, either under his given stage name or his legal one.
    Rigby also claimed to have slept with some Hollywood and Broadway luminaries, and said that he’d sang for the USO. In addition, he told me that he had performed in a children’s theater production of Pinocchio, that story about the little wooden boy who tells lies. I believed the last of these claims, and found the choice of show to be somewhat ironic.
    Rigby and I occasionally had coffee before matinees. I was never sure if I actually wanted to go to these meetings or if I just felt guilty about saying no to Rigby. He frequently asked me personal questions; I always steered the conversation back to something safer. Rigby was a terrible gossip, and when he smiled and said, “You can trust me,” I almost wanted to laugh in his face. He also had a biting wit, and sometimes served up insults slathered in pretty words. I couldn’t decide if I enjoyed his company or if I found it a chore; the fact that I even had to debate it probably said it all.
    Even if he told a lot of falsehoods and was snappy and acerbic, Rigby was a generous soul. He frequently received free tickets to shows and he always invited someone along. Before I grew to hate going to the theater, and when we were still friendly with each other, I was frequently his guest. We saw Encores! at City Center and obscure shows off-Broadway; fascinating productions I’d never have sought out on my own.
    On numerous occasions, he showed concern for others, too. Once, when I was fighting through yet another bout of illness, he stopped me and peered into my face. “You look ghostly,” he said. “But not Alice Ghostley.” There was no way to avoid laughing at that.
    As time went on, I distanced myself from Rigby. I was tired of his veiled insults and gossiping, and I realized that I really didn’t enjoy being around him at all. When I moved and got a new phone number, I chose not to give it to him. I still saw him around, and I still wished him well, but I turned down his social invitations.
    And then one day I heard that he had died of a heart attack.
    He was in his fifties, he was a Broadway usher, and he lived in a single-room occupancy