by Nat Hrvatin

To those who leave the theatre early, kudos to you! Early exiters are innovators. Masters of time management. Fearless foragers who forego the formalities of having to wait for each actor to grace the stage for yet another round of applause. I mean, didn’t they get enough attention during the show? The ability to not fall asleep and to hold one’s bladder until intermission shows praise that far surpasses any applause. After all, what do actors need applause for? Why does their three-hour demonstration of consistent execution of rigorous choreography, set change facilitation, and flawless pitch require back and forth hand motions until the house lights go up? Please allow me to give my praise to whom it truly belongs.

To Mr. Seat 14, Row B, Left Aisle: You whispered critiques to anyone in earshot because the lead actress resembled a former cheating ex of yours. Your fellow theatregoers had paid to listen to someone else’s story, but you were like a surprise buy-one-get-one-free coupon.  Really, Christine Daaé should have applauded you for your brave tale.

To Mrs. Seat 19, Row C, Center Aisle: First, I have to express my admiration, not for the magnificent chandelier that the rude Phantom destroyed, but for the far superior product that you held in your hand. Your iPad. Wow, whenever I’m faced between a boring old prop that took hours to construct and a device that I thought no one used anymore, I always choose technology. The brightness of your screen was quite blinding, but who actually feels comfortable in a dark theatre? The Phantom should have thanked you for providing the audience a comforting nightlight. It was a shame that a greedy redcoat told you to delete your photos at intermission.

And to my favorite: Mr. Moneybags: You spent the entirety of your bonus check on these row A, orchestra, center aisle, seats 17 and 18. You even bought refreshments during intermission. Two pretzels and two glasses of wine cost nearly the amount you spent on your last tire rotation! And $15 to park your Subaru for a few hours? It’s a crime against you. Please forgive me for eavesdropping in row B, seat 15, but I was simply moved by your intermission performance of your improvisational play entitled, “Hubris.” Those actors already got your money. I agree with your theories about their trickery. They probably do have dollar bills lined in the insides of their dance shorts and ballet tights. Your applause is free. Why would they need it? They’ve already cashed your check.

Now, Mr. Moneybags, you were the most innovative with your time. You saved so much time by racing out of the theatre before the last notes were sung, before the final blackout was called, before the red curtain dropped. You used your cunning intuition to sense the precise moment to leave. The perfect moment when you put your foot down and decided that you’ve “had enough of the Phantom whining like a baby because Christine left.” At that moment, when you chose to leave your row A, orchestra, center aisle, seats 17 and 18, to cross over seats 11 through 16, you became part of the show itself! Your dramatic action paralleled, and even propelled, the tension that radiated onstage. Perhaps Andrew Lloyd Webber should relinquish some of his awards and gift it to you? You’ve seen most parts of like seven musicals. You deserve a Tony Award for Lifetime Achievement.

After all, you sparked a trend. You were not the only one to leave the theatre early. Yes, as soon as the stage lights hit the glistening, sweaty ensemble, dozens of your shrewd followers reenacted your moment of sheer brilliance. You led your followers with the determination and dedication of a younger Hal Prince, but you know, without Hal Prince’s talent.

Please allow me to get serious for a few moments, Mr. Moneybags. I warn you, this may not be pleasant, but I have faith that you can take this emotional journey with me.

Could you imagine what would have happened if you waited?

What would have happened if you had waited and watched the curtain call? You would have had to demonstrate such patience. And you’re not like a Buddhist monk, or a stage manager, so what do they really expect of you? I mean, you waited a whole thirty minutes until those row A, orchestra, center aisle, seats 17 and 18 went on sale.

Here’s the real kicker: could you imagine if the show had gotten a standing ovation?

A standing ovation for such a complex and beloved show is common, which would have meant that if you waited, you would have had to fight the sea of showtune-happy lunatics to the parking garage. Which would have meant that you would have gotten there twenty minutes later and would have had to wait five to ten minutes to escape the grimy clutches of the garage. But you, you are smarter than the rest of us.

By the time those delirious patrons exit the theatre, I imagine that you are only half a mile from the theatre. You would have been in the suburbs by now, if it weren’t for the traffic from the neighboring Progressive Field. As you slam your fists on the heated, black leather steering wheel of your Subaru, I hum Think of Me as I drive down the quiet shoreway. I know it’s bad form to wish harm on another human being, so I’ll leave it at this; I hope you never get the tune of Masquerade unstuck from that brilliant mind of yours.

The next time I enter the theatre, I’ll expect to see that Moneybags’ trend has caught fire and that my expectations for future theatregoers will have evolved. Sure, the showtime on the ticket may read, “8:00 pm,” but why not treat that time like an open invitation and arrive at, say, 8:42? Sure, the seats are assigned, but this is a free country and anyone should be able to perch their folding chair on stage right if they feel like it. Sure, they paid to see a live performance, but wouldn’t it be more exciting to multitask this theatrical experience with the latest Netflix binge? I would stay to offer more ways to enhance the entertainment experience, but now is my cue to prematurely leave.