An Essay- The Great Southwest Airlines Meltdown Christmas 2022 - A personal View - Lee Anians-Mueller
It was something by Mozart. The canned variety. Muzak style. A delicate harp and flute swirling above everyone’s head in the terminal at Gate C (something or other). Only in the sparse waves when the ambient airport sound became quiet could I hear the harp plink and the flute lilt. Defiantly Mozart. One of his flute concertos maybe. It was the second movement that was slow and contemplative. The flute was puffing a few notes as if it didn’t quite know what it wanted to do and the harp was also unsure. I’d recently listened to a playlist of music and this particular tune moved me to check who it was by; and I’m certain I read Mozart. Now, the composition was on an airport playlist with about 7 other peaceful classical selections to subliminally soothe the weary traveler.
My weary
brother and I had been sitting in the rigid vinyl seats of Gate C (something or
other) and watched our departure time move farther and farther away.
Occasionally, parting the gentleness of the subliminal soothing were announcements:
Flight
825 to Baltimore will now be boarding at Gate C-37 instead of C-35.
(A Season by Vivaldi)
Hello, I’m Mayor Andre Dickens and
I’d like to welcome you to Hartfield Jackson Airport. The busiest and most
efficient airport in the nation…
(A Nutcracker from Tchaikovsky)
We are
asking you to do your part in combating human trafficking. Be on the lookout
for suspicious activity. If you see something, please report it to the
authorities.
(A Brandenburg by Bach)
Please
maintain control of your personal belongings at all times. Unattended baggage
is subject to search, inspection, damage, and removal. Any unattended baggage
will be confiscated.
(A harp and flute from Mozart)
Attention,
please. CDC is working to keep travelers and communities safe. The CDC advises
that masks should be worn at all times…
However
well the muzak worked to calm the lizard brains, the announcements would jolt
the limbic system back into a state of dread and despair, even though it was
Christmas day. What were we doing in the Atlanta airport on Christmas day?
(Back story)
We had
spent a few days in South Carolina with our sister and older brother for the
holidays. We decided it would behoove us to fly back home on Christmas day, who
travels on Christmas day? There should be no crowds, no hassles, and no issues.
Unless a few weather conditions to the East, West, and North, combined with an
outdated system, and a few pandemic-related personnel potholes could trigger a
meltdown of a major airline, but hey, what are the odds? We would take that
chance.
(Further back story)
December
21st. It started smoothly. If smoothly
can be used to describe two individuals being dropped off at the airport then,
I will use it. The smoothness acquired the first splinter as my brother and I
walked into the terminal in St. Louis and beheld an expanse of holiday
travelers as far as the eye could see.
The TSA
line wrapped and folded around itself like a dizzy parade bottlenecked in a cul
de sac. The enormity of the situation brought a string of colorful expletives
from my brother. When he finished his observation, he noted, I need to check my bag.
It’s small, I said. Same size as
mine. Why don’t you just take it as a
carry-on?
But I got my stuff in it. My medicine and
toothpaste and stuff. I better check it.
So -
I waited
at the fringes while he waited in line. I used my time to judge if I should go
to the bathroom before we entered the TSA line, or wait until we graduated into
the terminal. A math word problem - If a
passenger enters a line of 125 people, moving at two feet every 10 seconds, and
the maximum bladder capacity is 24 to 27 ounces, which might be held with some
mild discomfort for 20 minutes…
what course of action should be taken beforehand? Solve for why. Why don’t
you go now? Why don’t you wait? I waited. Why not?
The flight to South Carolina had a few hiccups and by hiccups, I mean delays. The distance between the scheduled departure time and the based-in-reality departure time was around 5 hours. Scheduled departure time is theoretical, not factual. During our layover in Atlanta, I maintained a series of text updates to our expectant family on the other end of this sojourn. They expected us at eight-something in the evening, and we arrived at one-something in the morning.
While my
brother collected his checked bag, I looked for our welcoming committee. The
Greenville-Spartanburg International airport is not a sprawling complex, so the
chance of spotting a familiar face is excellent in the wee small hours. In under
two minutes, I spotted the familiar faces of my oldest brother and my
brother-in-law.
How was your flight? My brother-in-law asked with a hint of sarcasm buried in his
South Carolina drawl. Did y’all
have a nice time?
I’m staying home next year, my brother responded with a hint of expletives.
The family holiday respite was pleasant. Stories and food were shared. Memories were made. Gifts were exchanged. Photos were taken. While nieces and nephews unwrapped presents, my brother and I packed our suitcases and anticipated a soft and sedate flight home with a short layover in Atlanta. Where I began this story. And so dear reader, that brings us back to the rigid vinyl seats of Gate C (something or other).
Hello, I’m Mayor Andre Dickens and I’d like to welcome you to Hartfield Jackson Airport. The busiest and most efficient airport in the nation…
My brother and I claimed seats in the middle of a row of seats at the gate. On the other side of my brother, sat Timmy J Tulliver[1], an air filter salesman from Ames, Iowa. Timmy couldn’t have been more than 25 years old, but it was apparent he learned his social skills from the senior vendors, seasoned merchants, and blue highway bible salesmen that patrolled the Midwest. He had a Hi-how-are-you personality.
“What a situation, huh?” Timmy announced
to whoever would respond. If anyone did respond that’s who he would talk
to. Unfortunately, my brother took the
bait. “Yea, it sucks.”
“Where you guys headed? Where you coming
from? Yea? Is that right? I’m trying to get back to Ames. Ames Iowa. (nervous laugh)[2] Ever been there? No? Well, I don’t recommend it. Especially now. Hey,
did you see the weather?” He held up his iPhone Pro Max with its 6.7-inch OLED
screen. “Take a look. (nervous laugh) See
that green blob? That’s
the east coast. Buffalo is under there somewhere. For sure. You know, I talked
to a guy who’s trying to get back east, it’s a no-go. No can do. Same story,
out west. Check out Denver. See that? Another nasty green thing? Yea, talked to
a guy in the gift shop who flew in from there. On his way to Newark. Said he
saw it coming in from the mountains. (nervous laugh)
A big dark horizon of doom. Storms to the left of us, storms to the right. For
sure.”
While Timmy droned on, I called my wife to let her know I wouldn’t be home at the scheduled time. Don’t wait up. We’ll grab a Taxi. I looked at the departure time on the monitor and it jumped from 9:30 to 9:50. I blinked at it now way 10:20. I thought it best to stop looking at it. My gaze must be causing it to move.
And this… Timmy continued, here in the middle, this is straight up above us. See that blob? (nervous laugh) That’s some sort of clipper coming down through Minnesota. Big green blobs. All nasty business. (nervous laugh) I talked to a guy who heard from someone that said no flights are getting out of here tonight. For sure. You might try Delta, maybe American, or even Jet Blue. (nervous laugh) Not on this airline. Lemme see what it says on my app. Oh, look! They show flight 212 going out at 6:30 am. I bet they’re going to cancel this one. (nervous laugh) For sure. I know but it still has 212 going out at 12:30 am. Right. It was supposed to be 7:20 but it’s been bumped 5 times now. I know a guy who has a friend in baggage claim. After midnight is when they start canceling everything.
Please maintain control of your personal belongings at all times. Unattended baggage is subject to search, inspection, damage, and removal. Any unattended baggage will be confiscated.
My brother leaned toward me and said, This guy… just won’t shut up.
What a mess this is, huh? Timmy said.
I know, right? A girl in the row behind us responded. Timmy pivoted. Where are you guys headed? Where are you
coming from? (nervous laugh) I’m trying to get to Ames.
Ames, Iowa. Did you see the weather? You’ve got to see this. Take a look.
I’m gonna go stretch my legs, my brother said.
I nodded
and continued eye contact with my phone, in case Timmy had some Medusian power
that compelled people into a conversation merely by looking at him. I kept my eyes down and focused on my phone.
I scrolled through my music playlists. There it was, Mozart’s harp and flute concerto
in C major. It was the allegro section that was
stuffed into the musical redundancy. A think-tank at the Piped-in Music Corporation thought the sound of the harp would be
nice. People love the sound. An ethereal association with angels, heaven, and
water. Harps are the soundtrack for people swimming and angels in the clouds.
Airplanes travel in the clouds and carry folks to destinations that have
beaches and oceans. Oceans where they can swim and float like angels in
heaven. This Mozart harp music will
remind them of all that crap. Soothe their anxieties. Calm their hostilities.
It’s good.
Let’s use it.
Attention passengers, flight 212 to St. Louis going on to Tulsa will now be departing from Gate 21. If we could have everyone quickly move to Gate 21. Flight 212 to St. Louis with continuing service to Tulsa, please make your way to Gate 21.
What’s happening? What’re we doing? my brother asked fresh from his leg stretch.
We’re going
to a different gate.
What’s wrong
with this gate?
They have 1275 to Toledo going out of here at
11:50, Timmy told us. I just talked to a guy who knows someone who said they’re
moving us to gate C-21 because the flight there to Cleveland was canceled. (nervous laugh) Detroit
was canceled too but there’s no plane at that gate…
but there’s one at C-21. They canceled Cleveland. For sure. A guy told me the
one that is at the gate was diverted here from Chicago. It was originally
scheduled for Austin at 12:05 but they didn’t have enough staff short for that
one. A lot of flight staff is stranded in Baltimore. And Buffalo. Not to
mention Denver. Have you seen the radar? (nervous laugh)
“We are asking you to do your part in combating human trafficking…”
I started to understand the wisdom of checking your luggage as we migrated to our new gate. I had a 20-pound dead weight on wheels to navigate everywhere I went, and my brother had nothing. Occasionally a 20 fluid ounce of bottled water, but that was the end of his material responsibility. He was free to move about, stretch his legs, do a soft shoe routine, or perform a modern interpretive dance while I was free to be Mother Courage pulling her cart down the road.
As soon as we stepped on the swirly carpet pattern of C-21, the Agent made an announcement. “Thank you for your patience ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delays. We like to ask you all a favor. We need to get everyone to board the plane as quickly and safely as possible. We only have this gate for a very short time. So, having said that, if we could get you all to line up based on your position number. Let’s get you all on your way.”
If there’s not a certified land
speed record for people boarding an airplane, we would’ve come very close to
setting it. Luggage made it into the overhead bins and passengers made it into
their seats with an efficiency one only finds in some military operations.
I secured
my seatbelt, adjusted my airflow nozzle, and sent a text to my wife letting her
know there after a four-hour delay, we were on a plane destined for home. See
you soon.
There was
a kind of hush on the plane, similar to the one that the Carpenters and Herman’s
Hermits sang about but this wasn’t the sound of lovers in
love, it was the sound of collective relief being encouraged by the
low-frequency brown noise of the 737 engines. Heads moved from the upright to
the laid-back position and eyes began to close. A few rows down, Timmy held up
his phone to display the green weather blobs to someone across the aisle. The
stress of time delays, repetitive announcements, canceled flights, and musical
gates would remain behind. The misery and muddle would stay in the building at
the other end of that Jetway.
“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the crew here on flight 212, I want to thank you all so very much for your patience. I must say you all did a great job boarding this plane as quickly as you did. You were wonderful. That’s the good news. The bad news is… this flight is canceled. I’m sorry. If you could gather your things and return to the gate. Please see the gate agents for arrangements.”
What happened? my brother asked.
They canceled us.
That sucks.
We all
traipsed down the Jetway to rejoin the misery and muddle that we had left
inside the building. It was not a joyful reunion. Many people brought confusion
and hostility with them as gifts and they spilled out as questions; Why?
Why did they have us board? Why did they make us return to the gate?
What are we supposed to do now? Why did they cancel the flight?
Timmy J
Tolliver claimed to have an answer. He talked to a guy who heard from a Gate
Agent who said our flight was canceled because the pilot would be over his duty
time. They can’t
go over 14 hours. So, this flight would’ve put him over.
Didn’t they
know that? Someone asked.
Yea, that’s
probably why they rushed us. He was right at the threshold. It’s not only the
time in the air that counts, but the time he’s sitting and waiting, someone else answered.
A mob
formed around Timmy. They had more questions. He seemed to have more answers.
He held up his phone and showed them the radar with a nervous laugh. For sure.
Hello, I’m Mayor Andre Dickens and I’d like to welcome you to Hartfield Jackson Airport. I want to welcome all branches of our armed forces…
My brother and I sat back down in the rigid vinyl seats of Gate C something or other and contemplated our next move.
What’s our
next move?
We’re
supposed to see a gate agent.
As far as
our eyes could see, every gate counter was infested with discontented souls
from a dozen canceled travels. Had we known better, we should have joined one
of the swarms as soon as they formed, but the early stages of exhaustion was a
fog. A fog that rolled in on monster truck tires. No disrespect to Carl
Sandburg and his cat[3].
The display on my phone read 1:45 am. If
memory still had service hours, I woke up the previous morning at 3:30 am. I
figured, in an hour and some change, I will have been awake 24 hours, and
almost half of that time was spent in an airport. I didn’t calculate how many
times I heard Mozart’s harp and flute
concerto, but I could see that the line for
the Gate Agents was multiplying.
I guess we should stand in one of those lines, I said.
Please maintain control of your personal belongings at all times. Unattended baggage is subject to search…
As it approached the been-awake-for-24-hour threshold, the fog in my mind was replaced by panic. Not an overwhelming panic mind you, but an unbearable feeling that I should have a better handle on the situation. This is when assertive types shine and get results by being a squeaky wheel. People with power and influence make phone calls that move mountains, align the planets, and parts the seas. Flight canceled? No problem, I know people. Let me set up a private charter. Need a place to stay in the meantime? No problem, I know a delightful old couple who run a quaint B&B, not too far away. I know a guy who runs a car service, I’ll call him and he’ll send a fleet to pick us up. Sit back and relax. I got this.
Or the
people-pleasing Salesman types like Timmy J Tulliver can wear people down with
their smarmy persistence and their determined countenance.
My
brother and I were not those people. We were not wheeler-dealers who had a
mental spreadsheet of favors we could call in. We did not have the appearance of control. We had the appearance
of Walking Dead extras waiting for
makeup and wardrobe. I did not feel
confident or dynamic, I felt like some schmo from St. Louis with a
white-knuckle grip on the handle of his luggage waiting in a line that had not
moved in 30 minutes.
Who did I
know? What could I do? What if there
were no flights available tonight, tomorrow, or the next day, what were our
options? We needed options. Time to step up to the plate.
Maybe we could rent a car, I said.
Rent a car?
Yea, why not? I've made the drive before. It’s
not that bad. I’d been awake all night, what was 8 more
hours behind a wheel? I looked at the time on my phone. It was 2:07 am. When do
car rentals close? Maybe… we could get a
hotel, get some sleep, and then start fresh.
What about my suitcase? my brother asked.
Ah yes.
The disadvantage of checking your luggage; you now have an errant child in the
care of strangers that follows you behind the scenes. You have a certain
obligation to meet them at the end of the journey. One can’t just wander off and
leave them to fend for themselves. It would be like leaving a child at the bus
stop and assuming they will figure out what to do.
My suitcase has my medicine in it, my brother said. I would
need that. My asthma.
A checked
bag can also be like an anchor that holds you in place so that you don’t drift very far.
Sure. You need that. I was just coming up with
some options.”
Attention, please. CDC is working to keep travelers and communities safe. The CDC advises that masks should be worn at all times…
The rows of people who sought answers, resolutions, updates, or any tidbit of intelligence from an airline representative, had lost confidence in the simple structure of a line. The C-17 formation spilled down the concourse and blended with the queue waiting at gate C-21. What should have resembled multiple single-file arrangements of people, looked like a cross-over collision or poorly formed mosh pit. Some individuals were still standing while others sat on the floor. A few curled up with their luggage as a pillow and studied their phones. Vivaldi’s Summer concerto did not pacify the anxiety. There was discontent and profanity in the air.
My
brother and I stood in the neutral zone where the gate 17 group intersected
with the gate 21 group. Whichever line moved an inch, is the one we would
follow.
My brother said he needed to sit down for a
while, since I was younger, it went without saying that I should maintain my
position. I negotiated an agreement; I’d go forth on a hunting and gathering
mission, to possibly secure a snack and a caffeinated beverage to sustain me
for the mission while my brother would stand guard until my return.
It was pleasant to walk around. I had been standing stationary for hours like a member of the King’s guard. Muscles came out of hibernation, ligaments rejoiced, and joints popped and cracked, but as pleasant as the experience of movement turned out to be; it was an exercise in futility. Everything was closed. The chicken place. The taco place. The Varsity. Even the overpriced News and Souvenir shops were shut down.
Many
gates away, I found an unattended kiosk with semi-refrigerated refreshments;
bottled water, vitamin water, sugar-free Red Bull, and a few plastic containers
labeled chicken salad. It was a simple honor system. You chose what you wanted,
scanned the codes, and paid the amount shown.
Could you take what you wanted and walk away? Maybe. Would a
closed-circuit photo of your mug appear at airport security? Maybe. I was
tired, but not senseless enough to test the theft precautions in place at the
unattended snack kiosk.
We are asking you to do your part in combating human trafficking. Be on the lookout for suspicious activity.
I handed off the baton to my brother in the form of bottled water. He blinked twice and sauntered away. The sugar-free caffeine cleared some of the cobwebs. I felt more alert and free of sugar.
My
brother found a row of open seats on the other side of the terminal. I spotted
Timmy J Tulliver waiting in a group at another Gate. His line seemed smaller. I
checked my phone for the time and saw a text from my wife:
Are you still in the ground? (I knew she meant “on”. It was an auto-correct error, not a
Freudian slip)
Yes. They canceled the flight. - I replied.
Oh no! What are you going to do?
When is the new flight?
Not sure, I typed. Waiting in a
line now at the gate.
Rent a car?
I suggested it. Problem with luggage.
Oh no did they lose it?
No. Worse than that. He checked
it.
Oh. I imagine you’re tired.
Beyond. Just short of
hallucinations.
Is there anywhere you can put your
head back? Get some rest?
I glanced
around. There were plenty of people who had put their heads back. Some had even
put their bodies down on the floor. Suitcases served as barriers around them.
Tiny fortresses of Samsonite, American Tourister, and Calvin Klein.
Yes, I replied. Checking on the flight first. Maybe a whale. (She knew it should read while
but I probably meant whale. I was
hunting the behemoth they called a good solution. Call me Ishmael.)
Maybe you could get a hotel, she typed.
I suggested it.
Let me know.
I will.
Heart emojis. Etc.
Hello, I’m Mayor Andre Dickens and I’d like to welcome you to Hartfield Jackson Airport. The busiest and most efficient…
By 3 something in the morning, the line had moved four feet. That was the good news. Not so good news was the artificial stimulation of my central nervous system had ended and now had turned its attention to my digestive system. I needed to go to the restroom. I needed someone to spot me. My brother was sound asleep in his rigid vinyl seat at a gate across the terminal. Could I hurl something and stir him from his slumber? What could I throw? How far was it? Maybe similar to a throw from center field to 2nd base? I played 3rd base in little league baseball and made some long throws, but I was 10 years old then. Plus little league dimensions are different, these are airport dimensions. What am I thinking? I had done decades of theatre. I had a stage voice, I had projection. I stepped out of line, walked halfway across the terminal, and called his name like Stanley Kowalski beckoning Stella. His eyes opened.
Can you take my spot in line? I have to go to
the bathroom.
If Dante were alive and imagined a 10th circle of hell, it might have been the Hartsfield Jackson men’s room on C Concourse at 3:00 am. Every stall door stood open to reveal a view of the horror within. How can I describe it to you, dear readers without inducing nausea? Imagine a group of traveling Shriners[4] who ate at some third-rate diner. Perhaps they all had 4-day-old chili. Ultimately, the consequences of those actions were resolved inside the Concourse restroom and unfortunately, at that moment, the plumbing failed—-or was canceled by the airlines. Or it might have been a No Flush Flash mob. These were a few scenarios I considered as I tried to find an acceptable accommodation that had not been overwhelmed. Note: based on the evidence in one unit, I would suggest that the individual visit a doctor soon.
Attention, please. CDC is working to keep travelers and communities safe.
Back in line, we were three people away from a service representative. What we needed to ask or say remained to be seen or said. After many hours of eavesdropped complaints, pleas, profanities, meltdowns, and a few poxes placed on houses, I gleaned a fair idea of how the dialogue should flow. The airline had an obligation to make things right—according to the theory I heard time and again. The theory is this: you paid money for a seat on a plane that would take you somewhere - that was the promise. Now, since the flight, was canceled, it was your payment and promise that was up in the air not the plane. They were obligated to provide another promise. (In theory)
We had
not discussed trying a good cop/bad cop tactic with the gate agent, but when it
was our turn, I told the agent our St.
Louis flight had been canceled and asked if there was anything available.
The agent
verified our information, clicked his fingers over his keyboard, squinted at
his monitor, and said there was nothing until the following day.
The following day?
My
brother attempted the bad cop routine and let forth an attitude of malediction
peppered with adjectives and adverbs that any sailor would applaud. Nothing
changed. There were still no flights until the next day.
Playing
the assertive card against an airline customer service representative was like
an ant trying to move a rubber tree. My assumption is most airline employees
were vaccinated against verbal aggression. The sympathy card was next.
What about my suitcase? My medicine is in my
suitcase. I need my medicine.
Still
nothing. Sympathy shots were up to
date.
Your luggage will continue to your destination.
This is
where I could have pointed out the disadvantage of checking your bag; it owned
your sense of responsibility. We were both exhausted, frustrated, and one
misplaced word away from a psychotic episode, so I remained silent. I’d heard stories of
disgruntled passengers who tore off their clothes, ran around screaming in
made-up languages, and even relieved themselves (of liquids and/or solids) in
protest. I did not want to nudge anyone over the edge.
I went
into introspective mode. What were we going to do now? How did we get into this
situation and how do we get out of it?
Rent a car and hope that my brother’s bag finds a ride. Should my wife and I move out of the suburbs
and buy a farmhouse that has acres? Should I have gotten a degree in medicine
or law instead of communications? Should we book tickets on the flight that was
available the next day? Was that Mozart’s harp and flute concerto
playing again?
Update - the next available flight is tomorrow, I texted my wife.
Holy
crap, she responded. What to do? Go get a hotel?
I tried
to push the idea into the rational gears that were still working in my brain,
but they kept getting caught in the checked-bag dilemma. I didn’t want to have to
explain. I didn’t have to - she sent another text: Did
you at least book the next available flight?
I typed No.
My finger
hovered over send as I
rationalized why I didn’t
book it. I plucked a few reasons from the ether; there was cost. Did the
airline reimburse the canceled flight to cover the new one? The Christmas day
flight was cheap, what if the new flight was more? Did I have to pay the
difference? Would my brother’s luggage get transferred over? I pressed send.
A text
reply came back immediately; The longer you don’t book a return flight, the longer you
will be stuck there. They are filling up.
Stuck
here longer? How much longer could I bear this music? These announcements?
Hello, I’m Mayor Andre Dickens and
I’d like to welcome you…
I conjured up scenarios; my sister and brother-in-law were only 2 hours away. If we explained the dilemma, they might pick us up. We could get some rest in the same beds in the same guest rooms we recently vacated. Or maybe, I could get in touch with an old friend of mine who lives in this area. I’m not sure where, but I think it’s on a lake. It might be the lake they use for the TV series, Ozark. The series is supposed to take place in Missouri (where I take place), but it’s made in Georgia instead. I’m in Georgia instead. I don’t have my friend’s phone number. I could send him a message on Facebook. An email. It was half past 3 am. Wonder what time he got up?
My wife texted a link with hotel search results and car rental information.
Why
don’t
you contact your family? She asked. Maybe they will come and get you?
I
will.
I sat
down across from my brother at the empty gate and looked at the hotel listings.
Every room from Marietta to Athens was booked. Same story with car rentals.
Every stranded traveler needed a room and needed a car. I believe the idiom is;
You snooze, you lose. If only I had
been asleep while the opportunities had their clearance sale that would fit,
but I was wide awake.
When I
was a kid and had stamina and curiosity, I stayed awake all night just to see
what it would be like. The next morning I had the feeling that everyone was one
up on me as if I was still on the same day, and they were all on the next. I
had that feeling again as I sat there with my brother. Not only were people a
day ahead of me, but they also had a hotel room and rental car. I did not
snooze and I still lost. Time to start throwing hail Marys and see what sticks
to the wall.
I sent a
text to my brother-in-law;
Sorry
to bother you but we are still in Atlanta our flight was canceled nothing til
Tuesday -all hotels around are booked.
I told my
brother that I had sent out some flares, stuck a message in a bottle, and cast
it out into the ocean. I’m
not sure he understood my analogies, but he nodded and closed his eyes. I
needed to stay awake to prepare for the volley of activity that may rise with
the morning sun. I dug the charger out of my suitcase, plugged in my phone, and walked out to the
concourse for a bit of invigoration. The lines had not gotten any smaller. I
glanced down the gate where I had last spotted Timmy J Tullivar and noticed Flight 212 to St. Louis
Departs at 6:30 am. on the flight board.
Wait, what? Flight 212? St. Louis? Isn’t
that our flight? Did they reschedule it? Did Timmy J work a miracle with his
phone? Did I pass out and this was all a dream?
I woke my
brother and told him we needed to move to a different gate.
Why?
Because our flight is now at another gate. The
212 to St. Louis. I know we did this before, but this is different. Maybe it’s
different, I don’t know. Let’s go find out.
Attention, please. CDC is working to keep travelers…
Two agents were working and the line was shorter. Things were moving. It seemed promising until the news drifted back that the 6:30 flight was full. I was close enough to read the agent’s lips when she repeated flight is full. Snooze-lose once again.
A text
came in. My brother-in-law? No, it was my wife. I
have a flight pulled up leaving at 6:15 tomorrow. I can pay for
yours and get reimbursed from the airline later. Get your brother’s credit card info for his
ticket.
We
shouldn’t
snooze on this one. I explained it to my brother, got his card, and gave her
the information. Finally. There was a tangible solution that would be a light
at the end of this tunnel. Sure, it would be the following day, and who knows
where and how we will spend the next 24 hours, but the door opened and I had a
foot inside just like a salesman from Ames Iowa. It was something. I sighed and
in the calm just above Vivaldi’s lute concerto, I heard someone at the front of
the line say; So, there are seats available?
I leaned
in. I may have even taken a few steps forward.
Yes, just opened, the desk agent replied. People
cancel all the time. They go rent cars or hotels. They just leave. Seats become
available.
Seats
became available? This was a thing?
The agent
printed out tickets, and boarding passes, and the line moved forward. It was a
thing. New word problem; do we stay in this line with great expectations for
seats to open, or go with the sure thing; tickets purchased for the next day?
The two scenarios lined up in my mind and lingered there. My brain felt like an
old computer with too many programs open; a spinning circle around an
hourglass. Not responding.
We were
almost there. I could ask about the reimbursement and my brother could ask
about his luggage again. Play his cards once more if he wanted to. Logic said
the best course of action was to stay in line and find out what we needed to
know.
What I
found out came in a text from my wife. She could only get one ticket before it
sold out.
I’m freaking out, she texted. I’m trying again.
I
responded with a thumbs-up emoji and praying hands. (I think it’s prayer, maybe it’s
applause.)
I
considered sharing the bad news but waited. She was trying again. In the meantime, my brother began a
commentary about how slow it was all moving.
The desk agent looked as weary as the defeated travelers she was
helping. We only had to deal with our particular issues, while she had to
listen and deal with everyone’s
problems. We were all running on fumes at this point.
Please maintain control of your personal belongings …
Two more seats opened for a group going to
Chicago. They would take the St. Louis layover. It was closer. Our line moved
forward. Closer.
It was
after 5 am. It would be dawn soon and I realized that I could still do it—-stay
awake and function for over 24 hours. I had not been studying for a test nor
some Dionysian festivity, I was simply stranded in a commercial air transport
facility. That was it. A victim of
circumstance to quote Curly Howard.
Outside
of the terminal, there was fresh morning air. The western hemisphere was
stirring. Coffee was being brewed, shower handles were being turned, and snooze
buttons were being slapped.
This is ridiculous, my brother said. I wasn’t sure if he referred to the wait, or
life in general. His proclamation didn’t bring the change he might have hoped.
The heavens didn’t open and the line did not part. Be ye removed and cast into
the sea? I tell you truly, not this morning.
Ridiculous,
my brother said louder but this time, something did happen. A new gate agent
arrived with what appeared to be a full night of sleep under his belt. He took
his position, ready to gaze into the abyss. The abyss moved forward and split
into another line. We moved up to a spot before the weary agent.
I
repeated my tale of how we were on the old flight 212 and would like to be on
this new flight 212. I thought straight and to the point was the best course of
action. The agent sighed and asked for our original reservation numbers. As she
typed them, my brother repeated his tale of his checked bag and how it
contained his asthma medicine and he needed it. The agent repeated the tale of
how all the baggage was managed and relegated by individuals in that
department. Your luggage will continue to
your assigned destination. She stopped typing and said a seat had just
opened up.
A seat?
Yes.
One?
Yes.
On this flight? To St. Louis. At 6:30?
Yes.
Perhaps
it was the fog of fatigue, but this math problem left a remainder. One of us
had a seat on the flight and one had to remain. I calculated the best answer. Go ahead and take it, I said to my
brother.
What about you?
I could’ve explained why it made
sense; how there was one seat tomorrow and one seat now. My wife could only get
one ticket blah blah blah and right here, right now, you can get one ticket. It was a day after the Christmas miracle, a
blessing, a panacea, but I was too tired for a logical explanation. It’s fine.
You need your medicine and not have asthma things happening. I’ll catch a
flight tomorrow.
The agent
slid the ticket over the counter. There
you go, bro. He picked up the paper and the agent picked up her belongings,
slipped her purse over her shoulder, and slid off the chair. Either her shift
ended or she had quit, not sure how to fill in the blank. The new gate agent
asked if we had been helped. Customer service is always top-notch within the
first few interactions and then trails off as the customers suck the soul out
of the representatives. I said, Yes, but
could only get one ticket and there are two of us. I was about to say, It’s fine. I have one for tomorrow,
but the agent asked if I wanted to be put on a standby list.
Standby
list? Of course. Yes. Please. Put me on that list of which you speak. A list of
which we should’ve
taken advantage of 24 hours ago. Seasoned travelers know about lists. Travelers
like us only have hindsight.
Hello, I’m Mayor Andre…
Most of
the seats were taken; my brother and I leaned against the trash cabinets near
the back of the gate area. I called my wife, who had also been up most of the
night, and told her I was on the list.
What
list?
The standby list. Don’t
worry about the ticket for tomorrow, we got a ticket for a flight this morning.
People cancel and seats become available. It’s a thing they do. I’m on the list
now. I might get on the flight also. The flight for this morning. Not the one
for 6:30 tomorrow. I think they have to reimburse you… even though it’s
nonrefundable. Will keep you posted. Get some sleep.
My surname appeared on the standby monitor. A few names above had Cleared status. My name was still cloudy.
Settling
into another wait period, I stared
down at the floor and entered a trance-like as one may do sleeping with their
eyes open. My serenity was broken a few times when I had to give way to the
trash bin, but I was able to step back and resume my floor contemplation. My
brother also nodded off where he stood. As he drifts off, he tends to utter
various noises; sometimes it will be a hmm
as if he heard something interesting, or a chuckle as if he heard a joke.
Good
morning, we will be boarding flight 212 to St. Louis with continuing service to
Tulsa shortly, if we could have all pre-board and business-select passengers
now. The A boarding group had taken their place in line. Things were moving
forward. One more Standby name had been cleared.
Looks like they’re
getting ready, I said. You should head on over. He blinked a few times to clear his rheumy
eyes, pondered my statement, and then moved when it registered. I followed
behind to find a place to sit and begin my just-in-cases: follow up with my
sister and brother-in-law, look up my old friend who lives on the lake, and let
work know I would not be in this morning.
I glanced at the new desk agent and considered
thanking him as we walked by, a little encouragement before the life was
drained from him. I wasn’t
sure if he heard me over Mozart’s harp and flute concerto, but he looked up
from his monitor and said, This might work. Are you Clarence Magillicutty?
Apparently,
Clarence made it to cleared status. I considered saying, Yes! It sure is. But I replied,
No, it’s not. Clarence Magillicutty was probably an influential banker or
attorney with political connections. A wheeler-dealer that got his name pushed
through to this flight.
What’s your
name? I told him. Oh right. That’s it. He clicked a few keystrokes, reached down, and retrieved a
ticket and boarding pass, and set them on the counter. Here you go.
I stared
at the paper laying on the counter in the same way I had stared at the floor. A
sleep-deprived trance. Here you go. The
golden ticket. You’re off to see the Wizard. I reached out and picked up my prize. All I could think of at
the moment was that if this was some delirious dream I would be upset. Like a
bad TV episode with Bobby Ewing in the shower or a movie where I wake up in a
sepia bedroom looking at Auntie Em. I
stopped thinking of pop culture references and pulled my suitcase into the pond
of waiting people and stood by my brother.
I hope they don’t cancel
this one, he said. That would suck. I hope they put my bag on this one.
If it was
a dream, it was fairly realistic and was running on for a while. I closed my
eyes and opened them a few times and each time I was still standing there,
waiting to get on flight 212 to St. Louis.
We are asking you to do your part in combating…
The final
group was allowed to board. The momentum of passengers moving forward carried
me onto the plane. I floated down the aisle, toward the rear where the last
seats were open, tossed my carry-on into the overhead, and collapsed into a
seat.
Are
you actually ON the plane? My wife texted.
Yes
sorry - made the standby cut. On the
plane.
Your
location showed you outside the terminal not inside anymore. Both of you made
it. Yay!
I glanced
behind and my brother was sound asleep in an aisle seat one row back.
Will
pick you up when you get here. Text me.
I
will. I replied. Have to turn
off electronic devices now.
K
K
Love you see you soon.
I set my
phone on airplane mode. I heard my brother chuckle. It wasn’t a joke or a dream, we
were pushing back from the gate. We were not canceled, we were cleared. I felt
the acceleration nudge me back. Drag and
thrust lifted the wings and we climbed upward into the morning sky. We had
escaped. Liberated from the welcome loop of Hartsfield Jackson International
airport, CDC and human trafficking warning, unattended baggage, flutes, and
harps. The what-are-we-going-do-now adrenalin rushes could be turned off.
I looked out the window and saw the sun
rising below the clouds. I relaxed for the first time in a while. Over the hum
of the engines, I could hear snoring from various areas around me. I could hear
Timmy J Tulliver’s
voice a few rows up and detected my brother’s sleeping chuckles over my
shoulder. I heard a strange moan followed by a raspy exhalation. I looked back at
my brother; his head was fully descended with his chin resting on his sternum.
My sleepless delusions wondered if something happened. Did he make that noise?
Maybe it was all too much and he hadn’t taken his medicine so the mortal coil
just popped off here in flight. That might have been his final breath. Instead
of a happy ending, it would be the final scene in Midnight Cowboy. Joe Buck realizes Ratzo Rizzo died on the bus.
Ladies and gentlemen, as we begin our final
descent in St. Louis, please ensure your trays are upright and locked position
and turn off all electronic devices.
We made it.
I heard
my brother grumble, Man, I hope my suitcase is here.
Oh good, I
thought. He’s
alive. What would I have told the
family? Well, we almost made it…
but he didn’t.
I tugged
my suitcase into the terminal and we followed the Baggage claim signs. I pulled
out my phone to switch off airplane mode. A text from my brother-in-law popped
up: Do you want me to come pick y’all up until you get a
flight out?
No
thank you, I replied. we got a flight out finally. I was relieved that was an option I did not
have to use. I sent a text to my wife to let her know we had landed and were
headed to baggage claim.
Hold up a second brother, he said. Running out of
wind. As I waited, I looked up at the television suspended at an empty
gate. The morning report was about the holiday fiasco unfolding for a
particular airline. Thousands of flights had been canceled and thousands more
were expected. Maybe upward of 10,000 canceled and millions stranded.
Wow, I
thought. Those unfortunate people. There
but for the grace…
We entered the baggage claim area and found it was some type of demilitarized suitcase graveyard. Row upon row of multicolored bags, boxes, backpacks, and parcels all corralled and cordoned off with yellow caution tape. For every canceled flight there was a lonely bag or two waiting for someone to claim it.
This sucks,
my brother said.
And I thought the men’s
room in Atlanta was bad, I replied.
Was this
the final act from the fickle finger of fate? Stranded for over 24 hours, with
no food, no sleep, and no simple solutions, but to have this be the final
scene. Would we not be allowed one tender mercy? To retrieve a checked bag with
the asthma medicine, the yoke that held us fast as hostages, the bloody
Macguffin of the trip; could it not be simple?
In
cell lot text me when yr ready.
OK, I replied. I thought if I texted anything
more it might add more adversity and spook the jinx that might be waiting to
leap out.
A small
frail man had decided to find his suitcase and wandered into the Samsonite
Guantanamo Bay. Sir? SIR! A TSA
shouted as she emerged from the land of luggage. Please stay outside the taped perimeter!
This is ridiculous, my brother said. Do you
think my bag is somewhere in all that crap?
The
question had no sooner been posed when the baggage carousel at the far end
began to rotate. The display screen changed to Flight 212 from Atlanta.
There, I said. Down at the end. Carousal three.
Thank God, he
said as we walked. Let my bag be the
first one.
What were
the odds when they have been stacked against you for almost 30 hours? I
chuckled. I would declare…
not too good. I would declare Murphy’s law if I had anything to declare.
Let
me know what doors you are coming out. I’ll pull up at curb. Text me when you are
ready.
OK,
I texted back. I heard the groan of
the conveyor come to life. Here we go. Place your bets. Will it be there? I
wonder. I wonder if this airline can
spin its way out of this blight on its record. I wondered if Timmy J Tolliver
found a connecting flight to Ames. Wonder who had to clean the restrooms at
Concourse C? Wonder how much of a logistic nightmare it will be to match up all
these suitcases with all those stranded passengers?
Told you! My
brother declared. I looked up and at
the top of the conveyor was his suitcase. The first one to slide down onto the
carousel.
I pulled
out my phone: Coming out at the end. Entry 14.
We walked outside into the cool December air. The first time we had been outside in a while. Light snow covered the grassy areas beyond the concrete and asphalt. I looked down the line of cars as they approached the pick-up points. I wondered how far back my wife was. And then I wondered if I could ever listen to Mozart’s Harp and Flute concerto again.
Never again,
my brother said. I’m
staying home next year.
[1]. Not his actual name but he
looked like it could be.
[2]. His nervous laugh could also be described as a fake forced laugh. The sort of laugh that salesmen use to dispel
tension and win clients over.
[3]. Sandburg has a poem called
“Fog” that compares fog
coming in on “little cat feet”
[4]. It could have been a
convention of insurance reps, who knows?
