CHEAP KICKS; THE HOUSE OF USHERS.

Byline: DOUGLAS FAIRFIELD

Oscar, the usher, will forever be etched in my memory, for better or worse. He was the Capt. Bligh of the Our Theater in West Michigan (where I was born and raised) -- and like Charles Laughton in Mutiny on the Bounty, he loomed large over his domain. Oscar ruled the high aisles of Saturday matinees with a firm hand and an air of authority that could make your Milk Duds melt before their time. He was a walking mandate for proper moviegoing conduct.

Oscar had his hands full with a theater full of preteens without parental supervision. M&Ms were flung every which way, and the sounds of imploding 10-cent bags of popcorn created a gunfire soundtrack to whatever was showing on the screen. When you were unruly -- and we all were from time to time -- Oscar reacted with his three-strikes system. First was the look, accompanied with an accusatory finger; then came the in-your-face verbal warning; and finally, there was the silent but effective Vulcan death grip which lifted you out of your seat and toward the exit escorted by the man himself.

The Our Theater is long gone, and Oscar died some years ago. I don't remember his full name, and I never knew anything about him outside of the red-carpeted and littered aisles. I'm sure he was a pleasant enough fellow, and in retrospect, I think he had the patience of a saint. I've sometimes wondered what it would be like to be an usher and had a recent opportunity to observe a regiment of them during a Saturday-morning simulcast of the New York Metropolitan Opera's performance of Massenet's Thais at the Lensic Performing Arts Center.

Attired in basic black, with green sashes across their chests and sporting name tags, a crew of 140 "ambassadors" make up the voluntary team that greets, seats, and answers patrons' questions for every event --

typically 250 per year -- according to Connie Schaekel, community-

relations manager for the Lensic. All 140 ambassadors aren't there at one time, but they rotate assignments in smaller groups. Initiates go through a training period that lasts less than a day, in which they "learn the entire layout of the house, how to escort a patron from their ticket to their seat, and how to evacuate the theater in case of an emergency," said Schaekel. And key to the Ambassador Association's mission statement is "to set the highest standard of professionalism in both safety and service." Second-year ambassador Ann Rowe, who volunteers with her husband, Richard, affirmed that the Lensic is "very serious about training procedures." Oscar would have been proud.

Barbara and Jim McBride, ambassadors since the Lensic reopened in 2001, believe it's a good thing to do. "It's good community service," Barbara said during a momentary exchange, between seating patrons. Having worked the aisles for seven years has its perks: a seniority system allows the ambassadors to select which events they prefer to work.

During my rounds, I quickly learned the whereabouts of the theater's three climate zones: cold, temperate, and warm. In the outer lobby, ticket takers need to be well layered during the cold months, as entry doors are constantly left open. Greeting every patron with a smile -- plus the obligatory nicety about the weather, their attire, or the event -- can be draining. Add to that a lot of upper-body gesturing, not unlike a traffic cop. Restroom? "That way," said with a raised right arm, closed fist, and an extended thumb. Balcony? "Take the left stairway," said with another gesture of an extended arm. The repeated directives of "this way" and "that way" became like mantras as I stood in the front line of ambassadorship.

The temperate zone, and the most comfortable part of the theater, is the main floor -- but given that that's where most of the seating exists, there are considerable responsibilities: greeting patrons, handing them a program, looking at their ticket stubs, and seating them. And bottlenecks do occur. I saw this happen during a wife-and-husband exchange that went something like this: "I gave you the tickets." "No, I thought you had the tickets." Pause and deep breath -- "OK, let me check my purse." Tickets were, indeed, found, and the flow of guests resumed.

"The hardest thing is when a person insists they know where they are going only to find they were wrong and have to be redirected elsewhere," said Ann Rowe. In fact, while yours truly was standing before a

row of seats, taking a few notes, an elderly patron unabashedly said to

me, "Well, are you going in?" I apologized for blocking her way, stepped aside, and then saw her exit the other end and sit down four rows away --

bless her heart. In general, I saw my share of patrons determinedly pass by ambassadors with little or no acknowledgement. One guest seemed put out by an usher asking "Do you know where you're going?" "Excuse me, but we have regular seats here," was the response.

Since hot air rises -- especially with replies like that one -- the balcony can get warm and stuffy. I felt sorry for the ambassadors working the upper deck, and yet they seemed to have more independence. So each to their own.

When the houselights went down and the simulcast kicked in, it was clear that this was a full house -- all 800-plus seats were sold two months in advance, according to Rowe. But what was particularly interesting was that, when the maestro was introduced in New York, there was applause in the Lensic. Keep in mind that the folks were watching a live performance --

not in person but on the big screen. That took me back to a time when I, too, applauded at the close of a movie. Such a reaction seems dated by decades, if not quaint by today's mores; but it happened again at the close of Act II, after soprano Renee Fleming took center stage.

Hats off to the ambassadors of the Lensic, whose courtesy and stamina during this event impressed me, and I appreciated their willingness to be observed in their element. Interested in becoming a Lensic ambassador? Call 988-7050, Ext. 210 -- but Schaekel says that her current team is full. <