One Saturday evening, I went to watch the blockbuster dance drama "Wing Chun" at the Esplanade Theatre. The performance intertwined martial arts with modern dance to present the legacy of Chinese kungfu. As the story unfolded, the fight scene between Yip Man and four other kungfu masters pushed the show to the climax. I was completely amazed by the breathtaking moves and spectacular stage settings. Suddenly, a bicker from behind caught my attention.
It was the theatre usher who was arguing with a lady wearing a headphone. From their obscure conversation, I strained to pick out only a few words, namely "ticket", "out" and "director". Just before the argument could escalate, the two both headed towards the exit door, seemingly to prevent any disruption to the rest of the audience. My curiosity was piqued and I left my seat quietly, groped my way to the exit sign and followed them out of the auditorium.
In the foyer, just outside the exit door, the tension between the lady and the usher broke into a more fierce clash. "I'm the executive director of this performance. You have to let me in to manage the stage. Otherwise, it would become a disaster!" the lady urgently implored. The usher kept shaking her head, reiterating with determination, "You don't have a ticket or a valid pass. I can't let you in." As the argument continued, the "director" grew increasingly agitated, and her body language became more fervent. She started stomping the floor and waving her arms up and down. But the usher maintained a stern expression, unwavering in her decision not to allow the "director" to enter. I, hiding behind a pillar, began to understand what was happening and a sense of inquietude gripped me regarding the fate of the performance. As my heart beat quickened, the venue manager scurried over, accompanied by a young lady who appeared to be the assistant to the director.
The manager, gasping, handed an orange-coloured wristband to the director, "This is for your temporary access." His tone was thick with a hint of apology. The manager then turned to the usher with a tightened face and chided, "How could you block the director out of the show?" He was obviously trying to hold down his temper, but his eyes narrowed to slits, nostrils flaring and a noticeable twitch across the cheeks betraying his fury. The usher bowed her head down and her visage was suffused with a deep crimson, but her voice was undeterred, "No one is allowed to enter the theatre without a ticket or a valid pass, not even the President. This is my duty!" Just before the manager could answer back, the director stepped up, patted on the shoulder of the usher and said aloud, "You are doing the right thing. It's my fault that I didn't prepare the pass beforehand." Then the director faced to the venue manager and added, "You should feel proud to have such a responsible employee." She turned back to the usher again, pointed at the wristband and asked with a smile, "Can I get in now?" The usher immediately pulled the door open and the director hurriedly strode in without any delay. Seeing this, I sneaked back to my own seat from the side door, filled with a sense of ease.
Much to my relief, the brief absence of the director had no discernible impact on the rest of the performance. The show went on smoothly with its exceptional quality and finally concluded in the thunderous standing ovations of the audience. I was glad that this show was indeed worth the price because it not only offered me a chance to relive the legend story of Grandmaster Yip Man on the stage, but also allowed me to witness a snapshot of the ordinary but meaningful life of a responsible theatre usher off the stage.
