Where my friend and I are somehow mistaken for prostitutes.

So, background-- the past few months I've been working on and off at a small off-Broadway theater near Times Square. I got the gig because a good friend hired me on as her assistant. It's an excuse to hang out, do something in the evenings, and get paid... in peanuts, but paid nonetheless.

The routine is easy; we come in, set up, maybe stuff programs, and then seat everyone. Once that's over, we get some downtime. Downtime consists of sitting on the stairs and talking, quietly; shushing people who come in off the street and speak too loudly in the lobby, and occasionally seating a latecomer.

The last night of the show, we're sitting on the stairs at about six thirty in the evening. My friend is wearing what I imagine is the most businessy thing that she owns (which isn't very businessy) and I'm wearing ill-fitting khaki jeans, an ill-fitting black t-shirt which I stole from my brother, and sneakers-- not exactly dressed to impress.

A guy comes in off the street, apparently mistaking the lobby of the theater for the lobby of the Econolodge hotel, which is next door, and asks us loudly if we're working. After we shush him, we say wait, what? He asks again, are you working. When he realizes he's in an off-Broadway theater and that we are not in fact working girls, he gets embarassed and and runs out the door.

Now I ask you... between trolling for prostitutes before dinnertime, doing it in a theater, and apparently having no idea what a prostitute looks like, how much concentrated stupidity do we have here?