The Wolf of Broadway: Two Years Selling Theater Tickets for The Best/Worst Boss Ever

“Phones down, everybody. PHONES. DOWN.”
“Look at this board!” Vincent (not his real name) spat, pointing to the white board where we—the telesales callers—would mark our victories each night. By this late hour it should have been covered with “H”s—each vertical line representing a package sold with the connecting dash making a pair. Sometimes there’d be single lines. Sometimes you’d strike gold and get four, two couples from Westchester or the 908 part of Jersey. But tonight, nobody had anything. And Vincent was furious.

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