I am a volunteer in a performing arts theater. We have plays, musicals, music artists, etc.

Like most venues, we have certain disabled spots where chairs have been removed so that they have wheelchair access and no stairs, and they’re set up so that people are able to see the show without any difficulties.

For most other seats, you need to walk up or down stairs to get to or need to walk through the aisle to get to a seat if it’s two to forty seats into the row. Logical, right?

Example #1:

A person buys a ticket for the front row center but they are in a wheelchair and can’t understand why we can’t take out non-removable seats five minutes before the show starts as they are unable to get out of their wheelchair and didn’t tell the ticket office they can’t walk.

Example #2:

A person buys their teenagers tickets to their favorite singer and gets them seats at the center of the theater, up two flights of stairs. The youngest child is in a large motorized wheelchair, and the siblings don’t know what to do as the parents dropped them off so they can have a date night.

Example #3:

A person in a walker buys the cheapest ticket in the theater near the back, up three flights of stairs, or up the elevator and down two flights of stairs, and doesn’t understand why the elevator doesn’t go to their exact seat, which is also not wheelchair accessible.

In all three of these situations, we were able to work it out, but not before a lot of confusion and three unhappy groups as they ended up in the accessible area in the back of the house as the front was already sold out.

On our website, and at the ticket office, both in person and by phone, once you say “wheelchair,” “hard of hearing,” “sight-impaired,” “ADA,” or any type of keyword, they bend over backward to give you the same great show that everyone else has. All of the above “didn’t think it mattered.”

So, please, if you or a family member have a permanent disability or a temporary one, i.e., you broke your leg after you purchased tickets, or your grandparent had a stroke and now needs a wheelchair, CALL THE TICKET OFFICE and let them try to help you.

A popular attraction based on a well-known series of sci-fi horror films travelled the UK and came to my hometown a few years ago. It was a bit like a cross between a theatre performance and an escape room. Actors dressed as marines from the franchise would rescue the audience and try to help them escape through several set-pieces as aliens attacked them.

I was very excited to go, having missed it every time it was in the city previously, so I arranged to go see it with folks from my office. There were multiple performances each night, and our tickets were booked for 20:00. When we bought them, we were told very firmly that we needed to be there at 19:50 sharp, so when the night came, we were there exactly at 19:50.

We checked in at the box office and then milled around in the bar area for a while until we were told to sit down and wait. We took our seats and waited and waited and waited…

When it was about half an hour after our show was due to start, I asked the person who checked us in when our show would start.

Employee: “Did you just get here?”

Me: “No, we’ve been here since 19:50!”

Employee: “Which group are you?”

I pointed.

Employee: “Well, the group next to you was here first, so we’re taking them in first. It’ll be about half an hour before you get seen.”

Me: “But our tickets were for 20:00, not 21:00.”

Employee: “That doesn’t matter.”

Unfortunately, I’d made plans to meet up with friends at 21:30 based on when the show was expected to end, so I told my colleagues that I couldn’t wait. We demanded the money back on our ticket, which was very reluctantly handed over.

However, as annoyed and disappointed as I was, I couldn’t help but laugh at the explanation we were given by the box office at that point: “Sorry, but one of the aliens called in sick.”

I am an actor in a drive-through scare attraction. It’s like a classic haunted house attraction except that people drive instead of walking through. Various scenes play out and the scares get bigger as they reach the climax of the story.

When they first enter, they are given clear instructions: stop at the stop sign in each zone, only proceed when the light turns green, and drive no more than three miles per hour.

Most people can follow these simple instructions. Most.

As with most scare attractions, there is a combination of pre-recorded dialogue, sound effects, and spoken dialogue/scares. It’s important to keep traffic moving but also give cars the green light when it’s safe to move forward. Otherwise, we get cars backed up which hurts everyone’s experience and makes accidents more likely.

[Guest #1] drives into my scene. The track is playing with dialogue from the main protagonist and antagonist, and I’m waiting for my cue. [Guest #1] stares at me for a moment, completely ignoring the dialogue blasting into his car, before loudly saying, “I guess she isn’t going to wave us through,” and speeds off, nearly hitting the car ahead of him.

It’s almost as though I didn’t turn on your green light for a reason!

[Guest #2] stays for the entire scene. The jump scare happens and I, in character, yell at them to “Get outta here!” and hit the green light.

[Guest #2] just sits there. And sits there. Cars are now waiting behind her. She doesn’t even look at me: the green light is right in her face and she’s staring straight ahead. After an agonizing forty-five seconds, she finally remembers that green means go.

[Guest #3] comes rolling in. He and his buddies are having a blast — and not in a good way. They’re chattering so loudly that they nearly drown out the very loud audio track. They don’t stop at the stop sign at all, so I — in character — put my hand up and tell them to stop. They laugh at me and drive off at way more than three miles per hour… missing an entire jump scare and causing a backup.

A variation of these events happens every single night.

It never ceases to amaze me how people will pay up to $100 per car and then ruin their own experience. Or how many people can’t follow simple instructions. I guess they laugh and drive forward when crossing guards tell them to stop, too?

Not to mention the catcalling and heckling. I can’t imagine spending $100 just to harass people who are being paid to entertain you. And hecklers almost always miss out on the jump scares. Their loss!

I’m in a production of “Amadeus” for a local theatre and they have decided to help promote the show by having me and the actress playing Constanze be in a car for the State Fair parade. That morning, we get to the staging area to get ready for the parade. I have my costume, but I didn’t get into it at home, not wanting to wear it more than I have to or drive in an eighteenth-century outfit of brocade. They don’t really have any sort of costume changing area, just the bathroom of one of the stores for which we are using the parking lot.

So, having met up with Constanze and gathered my things, I head off to the bathroom… only to realize I have forgotten part of the costume. I head back, get it, and go off to the bathroom again… only to realize I have forgotten yet another part of the costume. I go back to get it. I tell Constanze as I pass her to go back to my car:

Me: “I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached.”

She laughs a bit since she, too, has a huge number of pieces for her costume, but she has managed to remember everything. Since her car was closer to the bathroom, she has agreed to let me store my street clothes, wig head, etc. in her car.

The parade goes by with me doing my Mozart laugh for a few miles and we get back to the staging area. I get changed back into my regular clothes, tell Stanzi that I’ll see her that evening for the show, and start toward my car with all of my clothes.

Then, I hear her calling me.

Constanze: “[MY NAME]! YOU FORGOT YOUR HEAD!”

I turn around to see her holding up my wig head.

Me: “IT WASN’T ATTACHED!”

One summer, I am the director and choreographer for half of a musical revue. Our part is full of comic opera, so it includes several pre-teens. They are fun to work with onstage but more than a little entitled offstage.

Dress rehearsal day arrives and I set my things in the room reserved for my cast. After going to pick up a prop for one of the songs, I come back to find one of the preteens zipping up my purse.

Me: “What are you doing with my bag?”

Preteen: “I was looking for my phone.”

She’s holding her phone in one hand and has the other hand in her pocket.

Me: “It wasn’t in my bag. What else did you find?”

She pulls out a $300 iPod.

Me: “I worked hard for the money to buy that and bought it last week. Put it back and don’t ever touch my things again.”

Preteen: *Sulking* “Well, it’s not like you really wanted it.”

She and her sisters were three of the kids of a successful restaurateur and had their own iPods already. They were not invited back.