Hey there, it’s me again. Just following up on my letter from earlier this week. I know this is a bad time, but I’d like a refund for the April 14 performance of Our American Cousin.
I’m aware the Ford’s Theatre team has been rather busy the past few days. I understand you have so many more things to worry about, but I’d really appreciate a refund. I had a seventy-five-cent balcony ticket.
Not to be a stickler, but I read the theater’s posted policy on refunds. Well, I read part of it before federal agents rushed in and escorted the whole audience out of the building. From what I gathered, though, I’m entitled to a refund. Cash would be preferable. I don’t want a voucher or anything.
In the grand scheme of things, it’s no big deal. The nation is in mourning. The killer is on the loose. I get that. Technically, though, I paid for a full show and only saw part of it. When I spend my hard-earned money on a three-act play, I expect to see every scene, interruptions be damned.
So sorry to bother you about this, but I’m not going to stop pestering you until I get my seventy-five cents. It’s not like I had a cheap upper-level ticket. I splurged for decent seats. The whole theater is blocked off indefinitely by law enforcement, but I bet you can pop in and snag my ticket money from the register.
This is a rough PR situation for the theater, I’m sure. It’s hard to bounce back from this kind of press. But I’m also sure that refusing refunds to paying customers won’t do your reputation any favors. Word travels fast.
Imagine if something similar happened to you. You go out to a nice dinner, maybe you have a cute date, and right as you’re enjoying the third course, a crazy guy comes in and assassinates the president of the United States. Bam. Your whole dinner is ruined. The waiter doesn’t even offer a doggy bag. No money back, no apologies for the inconvenience, just get your coat and leave.
That was me the night of April 14. Imagine my shock. Imagine my pain.
When you think about it, more than one injustice occurred that fateful evening. But in my case, justice can be restored. All I’m asking for is a fair shake. Enclose seventy-five cents into this envelope, and you’ll make this gloomy chapter of American history a little bit brighter.
If not, can I speak to your manager?