Chapter Five: Part 2, Theatre Gigs

Maria Schell: Photo from Flickr

I did not know what to tell people who called when I worked the box office to ask if they could bring their kids. When I was about nine or ten, my mom worked as an usher at the Orpheum Theatre (which now stages live musicals). If she couldn’t get my aunt or a neighbor to baby-sit or my dad had to work, she’d take me, my 12 year old sister and 7 year old brother with her and plunk us down in the loges (a costly prestigious raised area behind the last row of “orchestra” seats) where she could keep an eye on us. The movies were either sexy film noir (“Mildred Pierce”) or war (“For Whom the Bell Tolls”). We saw everything (“Bambi”). So I hemmed and hawed on the phone, trying to make change and getting it wrong, and irritating people standing in line. Then I remembered what Norman from the toy store told me: the most important people were the customers in the store, not the ones on the phone. So I’d apologize and hang up.

I hated doing the box office: “Gervaise” was a popular film for the avant garde, foreign film buffs lined up in front of me, impatiently waiting while I took money and struggled with counting back change. I was relieved when Linda came back from break, but that meant I had to replace Ella in concessions, which, like I said, also involved money. People grabbed up boxes of JuJubes, Milk Duds, Hershey bars, Black Crows, peanuts, and Big Hunks - - sometimes all at once and all with different prices. Fifteen minutes were like an eternity and sometimes Ella would be late coming back. I didn’t mind ushering, for obvious reasons. One night, Ed got a baby-sitter and came to the show. I'd told Rita he was coming, expecting that he wouldn't have to pay; like an angry crow, she fluffed up her black fringed bolero, glared at me, and warned, “Just this once!”

On Sunday, at the end of my first week, everyone was seated and there was no one in the lobby; Tom was at his post inside; Ella was in the bathroom; Linda was in the glass box, counting out the money; and Rita was in her office (I thought). The strains of the waltz over the opening credits filtered through the doors into the lobby; I took the carpet sweeper from its alcove, began pushing it around on the burgundy carpet. Back and forth, round and round the lobby, I waltzed - - swept away as it were - -with the sweeper. Head thrown back, dizzy, I caught something out of the corner of my eye, something black flitting past me, rippling the air, like the witch from “The Wizard of Oz.” I stopped in mid twirl. Rita flew into her office, giving me the look of death, and closed her door. I put the carpet sweeper back in its nook and started for the box office to relieve Linda and set it up for the next show. Rita stopped me before I got out the door. “Come into my office, please.” I followed her. She sat down at her desk, scribbled on a rectangular piece of paper, picked it up and handed it to me. "It's a week’s pay. I cannot tolerate your outrageous behavior in this theatre. I have to think of our patrons!" I was dumbfounded. What on earth was wrong with waltzing? Maybe she objected to my partner. Later, there were days I’d see her walking up the street to her car as I was taking the kids to the playground. I’d turn around and walk the other way. “Mommy, Mommy," my oldest would protest, "I thought we were going to the playground!"

Determined to try working in a movie theatre again - -I mean, how hard can it be? - - I brazenly walked into the Bridge Theatre, asked the dude at the ticket/concessions counter for the manager and was directed up a short flight of carpeted stairs. I knocked on a door marked "Manager" heard a gruff voice say, "Come in." I opened the door on a harried looking man behind a desk. I started selling myself as an experienced theatre worker, crossing my fingers, figuratively, telling him of my stint at the Presidio hoping he wouldn’t check. I started that night. Seems my new boss was not only harried but desperate because the counter dude had just quit.

Said dude gave me a brief overview of the job: you ran the concessions while you sold tickets, and you had to keep the money separate. If you need change for the concessions, you can take it from the ticket sales, but you have to put it back, and, oh, the phone, see all these buttons? Well, they're linked to the company that runs all the other theatres the Bridge is a part of. So, someone might call and ask to speak to someone at one of the other theatres, so you press this button here, and then press this one and say, "Blah blah blah . . ." then press this button - - my head was spinning. And he was gone. I tried. I didn’t even know what movie was playing.

Patrons were lining up by the thousands; I jumped like the proverbial flea on a hot griddle from concessions, to the ticket counter, to the phone, my hands full of bills I’d shove in the concessions drawer that probably should have been for tickets. The phone rang and rang. I did okay for a while on the phone, until I cut off a honcho from one of the other theatres who wanted to speak to the Bridge manager. He phoned back and called me a dumb bitch. I left my post, abandoned the line of patrons, walked up the stairs to Mr. What’ssisname’s office, opened the door and said, “I quit.” Turned around, grabbed my coat and purse, and pushed my way through the crowd of confused, complaining people and heard the manager behind me apologizing, calmly saying, “It’s all right folks, we’ll have this all straightened out in no time . . .” Passing the window, I caught a glimpse of him behind the counter, moving deftly from tickets to concessions, and picking up the phone. Whattaguy! What did me in this time was not the waltz, but these newfangled phones with all those buttons! Oh, and keeping the money straight. Truly, I do admire people who can do this kind of work.

The Bridge Theatre on Geary and Blake, at night, still open with first run films and midnight specials.

After these short-lived gigs and three kids, Ed and I separate. We - - the kids and I - - move to Los Angeles where my brother lived and I begin my rocky "career" in the insurance business.



Next up: Chapter Six: A Brief Intro into Insurance and the Move to Echo Park in Smoggy Los Angeles.