Read Online Front of House: Observations from a Decade on the Aisle by Denise Reich - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Denise Reich
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eleven, and we took off to enjoy nocturnal New York together.
During my last five years at Phantom, I started calling out for performances so I could see my friends more often. We were allowed to take off two shows a week, and I decided to take advantage of that flexibility. When I was rocking out at an Aerosmith concert, gazing at Van Gogh’s Starry Night at MoMA or feeling the ocean breeze as I watched a Cyclones baseball game with friends, I always thanked the stars for the opportunities I had.
Regardless, when one is marooned on a Broadway island, one inevitably begins to forge friendships at the theater. Proximity matters. Working closely, spending every weekend and holiday together and attending cast parties tend to be bonding exercises. The only problem is that the confidence is, in many cases, misguided. There are all sorts of caveats in business magazines about not confiding in your colleagues; those are unwisely ignored in Broadway theaters. Everyone tends to forget that by and large, any closeness might be as fake as the scenery flats on the stage. Nothing’s real, and once you walk through the door in the set you’ll find yourself staring at the bare brick wall at the back of the stage.
You hang onto your delusions, though. Sometimes it works out and you do find genuine friends. Other times you end up with pizza buddies with whom you can chat between shows. All too often, however, any relationships formed, and any personal information shared with colleagues, will become convoluted and may be used against you later.
Why? Broadway people love gossip. The he saids, she saids and they dids are of paramount importance. You spend two hours discussing a mishap at another theater because there’s simply nothing else to talk about that everyone can agree on. And once you fall into this quagmire of gossip, it’s hard to extricate yourself again.
When you’re having an early dinner between shows at the little diner on 9th Avenue, you need to watch what you say; everyone around you is probably connected to Broadway in some fashion. Walking down 43rd Street, stopping at the supermarket at eleven at night or coming up out of the subway at Times Square, you’re liable to run into someone you know. Hell’s Kitchen is like Mayberry, when it comes down to it. A very catty, flashy version of Mayberry, but a small town nonetheless.
And as in all small towns, the gossip flies. It soars. It travels around underground networks, and if something of note happens in one theater, everyone else will know about it the same week. More likely, the same day.
I discovered just how potent this network was when I became a regular at the Majestic Theatre, home to The Phantom of the Opera. It really wasn’t a surprise; I’d been a steady sub there for almost a year and everyone believed I would get the next open spot. When I did, it was without much ceremony; the chief turned to me, said, “You’re in,” and went back to her work. Nothing changed; I had the same locker as always and was assigned to the same aisle. It was a relief financially, since it meant that I didn’t have to worry about work from week to week. Phantom wasn’t showing any signs of closing any time soon, so uninterrupted employment on Broadway was probably guaranteed for another ten years, if I wanted to stick around that long.
A few days later, I was in the elevator at the Equity building when another usher stepped in. We exchanged pleasantries, but for some reason, the atmosphere was tense. As we arrived on his floor he suddenly turned to me. “I heard you got transferred. You always do land on your feet.” He exited the elevator without another word. I was stunned. I’d thought I was on good terms with this usher, and we’d gone out to dinner together a number of times, but he was genuinely angry that I was at the Majestic. I didn’t even need to ask how he’d found out; I knew that the Broadway grapevine had worked its horrible magic.
I ambled down
During my last five years at Phantom, I started calling out for performances so I could see my friends more often. We were allowed to take off two shows a week, and I decided to take advantage of that flexibility. When I was rocking out at an Aerosmith concert, gazing at Van Gogh’s Starry Night at MoMA or feeling the ocean breeze as I watched a Cyclones baseball game with friends, I always thanked the stars for the opportunities I had.
Regardless, when one is marooned on a Broadway island, one inevitably begins to forge friendships at the theater. Proximity matters. Working closely, spending every weekend and holiday together and attending cast parties tend to be bonding exercises. The only problem is that the confidence is, in many cases, misguided. There are all sorts of caveats in business magazines about not confiding in your colleagues; those are unwisely ignored in Broadway theaters. Everyone tends to forget that by and large, any closeness might be as fake as the scenery flats on the stage. Nothing’s real, and once you walk through the door in the set you’ll find yourself staring at the bare brick wall at the back of the stage.
You hang onto your delusions, though. Sometimes it works out and you do find genuine friends. Other times you end up with pizza buddies with whom you can chat between shows. All too often, however, any relationships formed, and any personal information shared with colleagues, will become convoluted and may be used against you later.
Why? Broadway people love gossip. The he saids, she saids and they dids are of paramount importance. You spend two hours discussing a mishap at another theater because there’s simply nothing else to talk about that everyone can agree on. And once you fall into this quagmire of gossip, it’s hard to extricate yourself again.
When you’re having an early dinner between shows at the little diner on 9th Avenue, you need to watch what you say; everyone around you is probably connected to Broadway in some fashion. Walking down 43rd Street, stopping at the supermarket at eleven at night or coming up out of the subway at Times Square, you’re liable to run into someone you know. Hell’s Kitchen is like Mayberry, when it comes down to it. A very catty, flashy version of Mayberry, but a small town nonetheless.
And as in all small towns, the gossip flies. It soars. It travels around underground networks, and if something of note happens in one theater, everyone else will know about it the same week. More likely, the same day.
I discovered just how potent this network was when I became a regular at the Majestic Theatre, home to The Phantom of the Opera. It really wasn’t a surprise; I’d been a steady sub there for almost a year and everyone believed I would get the next open spot. When I did, it was without much ceremony; the chief turned to me, said, “You’re in,” and went back to her work. Nothing changed; I had the same locker as always and was assigned to the same aisle. It was a relief financially, since it meant that I didn’t have to worry about work from week to week. Phantom wasn’t showing any signs of closing any time soon, so uninterrupted employment on Broadway was probably guaranteed for another ten years, if I wanted to stick around that long.
A few days later, I was in the elevator at the Equity building when another usher stepped in. We exchanged pleasantries, but for some reason, the atmosphere was tense. As we arrived on his floor he suddenly turned to me. “I heard you got transferred. You always do land on your feet.” He exited the elevator without another word. I was stunned. I’d thought I was on good terms with this usher, and we’d gone out to dinner together a number of times, but he was genuinely angry that I was at the Majestic. I didn’t even need to ask how he’d found out; I knew that the Broadway grapevine had worked its horrible magic.
I ambled down
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