Mr. and Mrs. Rosenzweig.
I'm offending the masses, one blog post at a time. And this time, it's because of a an elderly couple to whom I eventually sold opera tickets yesterday.
The woman approached my window, doting husband in tow, and before she said a 'hello,' she flashed some coupons and uttered the following words:
"I'm a summer citizen, which means I get a two-for-one discount, right?"
I'm used to spend-savvy retired folk who bring in coupons or their discount card, but usually they use their coupons or discount card to sit somewhere more comfortable for about the same price as their regular seats. The Rosenzweigs wanted to sit in the front row of the rear balcony-- our cheapest seats, which, at $17 each are already a great deal. The theater is pretty small, so it's not like nosebleed or anything, and yet they asked if there were "disabled seats in the orchestra section for the rear balcony price."
Wait, I'm sorry, since when did someone's disability make them eligible for cheaper seats than the seats around them? Not to mention that these people weren't visibly physically disabled, at least not in a way that would justify being seated on the orchestra level on the platform specifically constructed to seat the physically disabled. They may have been older, but when they arrived at my window, they certainly were moving much more quickly than most their age and had no walkers, canes, oxygen tanks, or wheelchairs.
I agree with them that the building should probably have disability accomodations in all of the differently-priced sections, but the theater isn't even our company's-- it's the city's-- and since it's a historic landmark, its existing structure is grandfathered out of ADA regulations. There isn't even an elevator to the mezzanine or balcony levels; the best the restorers could do without hindering the building's landmark status was a ramp to replace a set of stairs.
I've witnessed a few instances in other theaters where patrons purchased tickets in the cheapest section, only to discover when they got there that they were afraid of heights, or couldn't climb stairs, or something-- the ushers and house management sympathized and offered them folding chairs in the orchestra's back platform for the disabled. I told the couple that I couldn't guarantee anything, but if they found that those seats were unsatisfactory, they could ask house management if there were any available seats or standing room elsewhere.
Then, then: "Well, that's not how they do things in Phoenix." (husband snorts, "well, we're not in Phoenix, now, are we?")
We finally go through and select seats, and while I'm reading back everything to them, Mrs. Rosenzweig interrupts me to ask why the prices are different for the two shows-- that the total on the computer is four dollars more than she had calculated in her head, and it was obviously my fault.
"Because you used $5 off coupons for these two shows, the price is now $12 per person for Il Trovatore and $8.50 per person for Most Happy Fella. Then there are $9 in fees."
Mrs. Rosenzweig does one of those double takes like in South Park, whenever Kyle's mom gets freaked out, where she says "What what whaaat?" And asks me to explain each of the fees, despite that they are clearly represented in the brochure she had been referencing when she calculated the cost of the tickets.
One of the fees is $1 per ticket that we have no control over, because the building requires us to charge it.
Another is $.50 per ticket for purchasing a single ticket rather than the series.
Then there's a $3.00 processing fee added to the whole order. Mrs. Rosenzweig objects: "What do you mean, processing fee? You get paid to process this, don't you? Why do I have to pay?" To which I gently replied, "actually, I'm an intern, so I don't get paid more than ten cents an hour. This fee is outlined here in your brochure, if you'd like me to get the manager to discuss it with you I'd be happy to. Here are your tickets; as a reminder there are no refunds, a small fee on exchanges, and no children under 6 admitted. Would you like anything else today?"
The husband started to get embarassed that his wife was essentially harassing me. It was evident I wasn't the one in charge of making the ticket prices, or building the building, or any number of things wrong with the world or this town that she felt affected the price of her tickets.
This entire exchange felt like an episode of South Park, except there was no comic explosion that revealed a greater purpose for having chuckled a little at a couple who fit the Jewish stereotype to a tee. Sure, it could have been anyone who acted the same way-- heck, there was a guy who demanded a five-dollar refund for a coupon he received the day after he bought his tickets-- but part of why the concept of a stereotype pervades is because people like the Rosenzweigs don't give anyone any reason to dispel them.
