I Missed The Connection

Saturday. Working at the theater. A woman calls. The woman orders tickets, four tickets, for her husband and their three grandchildren.

We have an exciting discussion about where her grandchildren would like to sit: she asks me where they would like to sit. I suggest that, inasmuch as they are her grandchildren, she probably knows them better than I do and would have a better idea of their preferences in such matters. She says they are 13-year olds. I am tempted to say that the restraining order prevents me from being too close to 13-year olds anymore, but instead suggest that inasmuch as they are her grandchildren, she probably knows them better than I do.

She want to know where her husband and the gaggle of grandkids should go for dinner. I note that there are literally a hundred restaurants within walking distance of the theatre; what kind of food do they like? She says they are 13-year olds. (Apparently -- in her world -- every last 13-year old likes the exact same foods, and only a theater box office employee knows what they are.) When I tell her that the last 13-year old I dined with fancied Ethiopian food, she suddenly realizes her grandkids like pizza.

The woman wants the tickets mailed....

The me: Tickets are held at the box office for pick up.
The woman: No. I am not driving all the way into the city just to pick up.
TM: No problem; what is the last name of the person who will be here to pick them up.
TW: [exasperated sigh] That won't work.
TM: I'm sorry?
TW: He doesn't drive.
TM: I'm sorry?
TW: My husband doesn't drive. We're retired.
TM: I'm sorry, I'm not sure I'm understanding the connection between driving and picking up tickets?
TW: He's retired. He doesn't drive.
TM: He is coming to the show, correct?
TW: Well, yes.
TM: Once he arrives at the theater, he just needs to stop at the box office to pick up the tickets.
TW: You are not listening. He doesn't DRIVE.

Eventually, she came to understand that her husband did not need to know how to drive to pick up tickets.