Drama at the Huntington

When it comes to theater, Boston cannot compete with New York. We accept this. Though we have some quite serviceable options if one doesn't feel up to the long commute to Broadway . The Huntington Theater is among our best. It also offers the economical theater goer an option that's hard not to act on (forgive the puny pun): If you're willing to be an usher you can see the show for free.

I took advantage of this exceptional deal this weekend, ushering and then watching Tom Stoppard's "Rock N Roll." I enjoy ushering. The act of greeting folks who are anticipating something enjoyable is itself enjoyable. I worked the balcony with a man named Dan, and once the patrons were seated we found unoccupied seats and settled in for our remuneration.

The play was wonderfully staged. Live theater is a wonder. To see characters in the flesh is an experience more visceral than movies or even imagining while reading. Though I have to say that Stoppard's characters often seem emotionally removed . . . I can't quite connect at that visceral level. I was handicapped even further this time by lack of sleep on the nights preceding the play; though a strong cup of coffee at intermission helped me focus better on the nuances of the second act.

The real drama of the evening actually took place in the balcony. And I was one of the principals. I've been consoling myself ever since, with the fact that I was unprepared for what happened.

It's been a long time since I was the object of someone's possible romantic intentions. And I must emphasize possible . . . for it may have simply been that Dan was a lonely soul, seeking out some companionship. That's a role I and probably everyone can relate to having played.

That I identified Dan's overture to get coffee or a drink sometime as romantic in tone, perhaps says more about my state of mind than his. How I responded . . . by not responding . . . clearly points out a social ineptitude on my part. I've thought of a number of different ways to respond since. Any response might have been better than ignoring his suggestion as though I'd suddenly lost my ability to understand the English language.

After we'd picked up the discarded programs and candy wrappers littering the balcony at the show's conclusion, Dan walked down to the basement with me while I retrieved my jacket from the coat check room. We walked out of the theater and headed up Huntington Avenue. I tried to make some amends, by asking Dan if he lived nearby. He gave me a very specific description of where his place on Mass Ave is located.

When we got to the junction of Huntington and Massachusetts Avenues, we shook hands and I told Dan a lie, "I'm sure we'll probably see each other again volunteering." Though maybe we will . . . and maybe I'll be better prepared the next time to handle another human being's feelings with even a modest degree of sensitivity.