TKTS employee's 1-man show

Patricia Kitchen | Change@work

July 11, 2004

While we all might find our workplaces ripe with material for the theater of the absurd, it's only in our dreams we get to share those oddities on a grand scale, say, from the stage of an Off- Off-Broadway theater.

But not Lawrence Paone, the man from whom you may have bought your tickets if you went to see Broadway hits such as "Rent," "Cats" or "The Lion King." This theater-ticket seller has co-authored his own one-man show in which he plays that one man - a show that opens Thursday for six performances at the Where Eagles Dare Theater in Manhattan, this part of the Midtown International Theater Festival.

In honor of his profession, he and his co-writer, Matthew Aibel, have named the show after that one question that all ticket sellers know is coming - "Do You Have Anything Closer?" It gives a front-row glimpse into the day-to-day work of those cooped up in a space no bigger than a token booth, addressing their frustrations, coping skills, as well as those you-can't-make-this-stuff -up moments, such as these questions from theatergoers: Is Nathan Hale still in "The Producers"?

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Yes, humor plays a prominent role, both in his show and at work, said Paone, 44, the other day just outside his own workplace, the Theatre Development Fund's TKTS discount ticket booth in Times Square, where, along with the South Street Seaport location, 1.5 million Broadway and Off-Broadway tickets get sold each year. He's been working there since September as first assistant treasurer, which is the next level up from ticket-seller and involves more administrative duties. But that job move provided what he calls the happy ending to his show - which we'll get to right where we should, closer to the end.

A theater major in college and aspiring playwright, this former Malverne resident got into the customer service end of the theater business by first taking a survival job with an answering service for actors. That led to taking ticket orders at Telecharge and eventually to manning the booths at classy theaters such as the Vivian Beaumont at Lincoln Center.

Now, 18 years later, he described during the show's rehearsal the other evening just what it felt like one fine morning to wake up and realize that "my day job had become my career," complete with a nice union salary and home in Metuchen, N.J. All that plus a six-day workweek and so many loose-end worries such as paperwork and customer complaints that he was dreaming about them. All of which left too little time or energy for his family - he and his wife, Catherine, have two daughters - or for his writing.

Indeed, he knew he was burned out and way off track several years back when American Express' introduction of the carbonless credit card receipt brought him to a state of ecstasy. "Within the confines of my dead-end job, I had reached the top," is how he put it in the show.

But a lucky break came his way. He was recruited to his present job - yes, high-pressured, as an estimated 20,000 tourists and New Yorkers line up each week outside that booth. But his work week? Just five days. The loose ends that carry over from day to day? Next to none, as patrons can buy tickets only for that day's show. "I feel like a normal guy at a normal job," he said.

Well, OK, maybe not all that normal. You could tell earlier that day by the crowd lining up outside the TKTS windows - wearing big sunglasses, floppy hats, bright red lipstick. And there Paone was, fast as a dog running to its food dish, answering questions, grabbing tickets from a rack, spewing out prices and locations, handing out "return to line" forms for those who ran low on cash and had to visit the nearby bank machine.

"Is 'Chicago' appropriate for an 11-year-old girl?" one woman asked. "Well, it has some very sensual moments," Paone told her. "I'll take two tickets," she said.

One slightly dazed-looking woman with white hair asked for two tickets to "Golda's Balcony" - price, $88.50. As she started signing travelers checks in what could only be called the slowest motion in Manhattan, he whispered to a guest that those $20 denomination checks are "the enemy ... She's signing four of them. Now, she's just dropped the pen." This with people lined up seven deep behind.

"I'll take three tickets for 'Forbidden Dreams,'" said one young woman. "Do you mean 'Forbidden Broadway?'" he asked. "Yes," she said, giving him a reflective look. "I have nothing to do with what was on your mind," he said. "Don't go there," she replied. "Enjoy the show - and enjoy your dreams," he said, handing her the tickets.

Indeed, that brand of New York City banter is a big part of the ticket-selling culture. At neighboring windows, Paone's colleagues could be heard rattling off come-backs like "Well, no one's ever asked for the worst seats."

The goal is for customers to leave smiling, said William Castellano, the booth's head treasurer. "You have to like this work," he added, pointing to the other sellers, one a man who started 31 years ago when the booth first opened.

Sure, "sometimes tempers can run high on both sides of the window," Paone said. But over the years, he's developed some standard lines to help diffuse the touchiness of those moments. For the frazzled husband pleading for good seats because today is his 30th wedding anniversary: "I see you planned ahead," Paone might deadpan. To that demanding customer: "Did my ex-wife send you?" (He's quick to add that his one-and-only wife may be tiring of that one.)

If he were to have a heart-to-heart with others still struggling in pay-the-rent kinds of jobs - as well as those looking for perfect theater seats - he might point to his "box office Buddha" sentiment from his show: "Might I get my wish? I might. But then again, I might not. And if I don't, is that such a horrible thing?"

For his own career goals at this point, we'll borrow his final line: "I may not be as close as I would like to be," he said, "but I've discovered that for now, I'm close enough."

Please send e-mail to pkitchen@newsday.com.