Freestyle
Published December 27th, 2006
Bad Airline Ticket Counter Guy
When life is beautiful, airline flights are on time. Boarding passes are snugly tucked into carry-on pockets. The sun shines over puffy white clouds. You sail through reservations with your home or office computer. Any natty loose ends are neatly terminated at one of those "It's as easy as 1 - 2 - 3!" airport kiosks.
When life is not beautiful, flights are delayed. The weather goes south while you do not. The Gods of Online won't download the page or recognize your frequent flyer membership. The goddamn kiosk thingie won't change your seat assignment.
Off to see the airline ticket counter guy!
The vast majority of ticket counter agents are competent men and women who are sympathetic to the cataclysmic results of your absence at the 10 a.m. meeting in Chicago. They magically apply your frequent flyer miles, manage your oversized bag and solidify the dream seat upgrade. Then they smile and assure that "You're all set," as they hand you your boarding pass and tap the gleaming Formica counter with a smart knuckle.
That was You're All Set Airline Ticket Counter Guy.
If I've waited in line long enough, my bag is on the floor where I am kicking it along. I am wearing the jacket that I need either for the climate I am leaving or the climate to which I am traveling (between which there is always a massive discrepancy). Whatever the case, the jacket is inappropriate for the airport climate I am in and there is no room for it in my carry-on. Hence, I am sticky and sweaty and hot. Add that to whatever travel snafu has me in the line to begin with and that brings the baseline of the whole operation to Utility Level Pissy.
My turn. I hand the ticket agent my voluminous sheaf of dog-eared travel documents (paperless world my ass). His eyes shift from screen to bundle. After a lip-pursed moment of hesitation, he takes my papers wordlessly, sniffs, and silently places them next to his keyboard. He raises one eyebrow and indifferently presses four or five keys.
This is Bad Airline Ticket Counter Guy and there are a couple of classic orchestrations I can expect during my stay with him, none of which include an affable, "You're all set."
The dissatisfaction movement: This follows a single purposeful tap of the keyboard or click of the mouse. BATCG regards the resulting screen (that I cannot effing see). His brow collapses as he emits a slightly exaggerated exhalation. BATCG's weight shifts from one foot to the other.
If I can get over the spell of intimidation that BATCG has cast upon me (I am a ticket counter guy and I will communicate with you as needed!), and garner enough courage to ask, "Gee, is there some sort of problem?" the response will be two arched eyebrows (feigning interest) accompanied by a "Pardon?"
"Is there a problem?" I repeat, belying my irritation. "With my reservation?"
"No," he says with the inflection that implies, I am the ticket counter guy and I would have spoken to you had there been a problem!
Droplets of perspiration form on my back. I want to yell, "Then why the eff were you scrunching up your face like you were about to drop a goddamn calf if there wasn't a problem?" But instead I turn to the guy behind me, who smells like the aftermath of a $7 airport beer, and roll my eyes. He nods in empathy; after all, he's next.
The slightly amused movement: This difficult movement is a confluence of evil and control. BATCG pulls this baby out just after each ETD entry on the flight status board has blipped from ON TIME to CANCELLED or after a solemn crew of mechanics, laden with tool belts, shows up at the gate and disappears down the entrance ramp.
BATCG knows that I know the situation is bad. He taps a key, waits a measured moment or two while regarding the screen that holds the hallowed secret answer to the question of whether or not I will ever get home. His face softens into something that isn't quite a smile.
Then BATCG emits a barely audible laugh, a single note that is gone in an instant. I slowly redirect my gaze from the swirling blizzard outside to BATCG. "Excuse me?" I say incredulously. He regards me with polite confusion.
It is pointless to interrogate him regarding whatever aspect of my doomed flight plans amused him, so I simply ask, "What's the next available?" My right foot itches.
"You're on the 8:30," he says without looking up from his screen. He dismissively hands me my bundle of papers. "Next?" he says as $7 airport beer guy steps up to the counter. I offer him a look of sympathetic exasperation. With four and a half hours to kill between now and "the 8:30," I will undoubtedly get to know a few $7 beers myself.
I stumble off, worrying about whether or not my IUD will set off some alarm and which Homeland Security Boy Wonder will be sent in to investigate that.
