(In which I skip to the end of the story and rant about Laguardia’s Terminal D, American Airlines, and Tanya, the customer service clerk who cares neither for customers, nor clerking.)
I was in New York to obtain certification in ITILv3, an international standard framework for deploying and operating IT service organizations. This amounted to a three-day class at The Learning Center in New York City, and culminated in a 40-question multiple choice exam. Ironically, the computers were malfunctioning and we had to mark our answers on paper. That’s right! Broken computers at the IT place – I love it! Now a week later, I still don’t know how I scored; our answers were sealed and shipped to the UK, where ITIL is headquartered. I suggested to the instructor that we just grade each other’s papers, but he was born without a sense of humor and simply looked upon me with pity.
Outside of class, set free in the city, we had an outstanding time. And I’ll get to those stories, but first, I want to talk about the only negative part of the trip — the flight home. Returning home to Chicago was a death gauntlet of gargantuan proportion. I’ve split the trauma into five incidents. Let’s dive deep into Incidentville, shall we?
Incident 1: The Three-and-a-Half Hour Delay
Our 9:00 pm EST flight eventually took off at 12:29 am, 60 seconds before the flight staff would have been federally regulated to shut down for the evening. Apparently if a pilot flies longer than 15 hours in one day, they are prone to “pilot error” and “crashing into stuff”.
Incident 2: Terminal D? Mexican-less!
We arrived at Laguardia two hours early specifically so that we could sit in a Mexican restaurant, inhale chips, and drink Margaritas. One catch: THERE ARE NO RESTAURANTS IN TERMINAL D. Only bars and newsstands. So we sat in one of the bars and watched as an elderly deaf Latino (possibly Asian) man made a “bar salad” for me. He handled the lettuce with his bare, elderly, Latino (possibly Asian) hands. Just imagine what those hands have touched in their 103 years on this planet.
Incident 3: Galaga costs 50 cents. FIFTY CENTS.
Laguardia is filled with Ms Pac-man and Galaga arcade machines. (No, I don’t know why) Both games were released in the early ’80’s, and I can play both at home for free. But in Terminal D? 50 cents a game. These are arguably two of the most perfect video games ever, so I did play a bit to help pass the interminable wait, but it sickened me, man. I come from the “quarter-a-play” era and anything more is just not right.
Incident 4: I’m 6′5″. Want to put your seat back? ASK.
I hate four things in this world. First, the boy who lives at 36 Division Street in Hudson, OH who vandalized my Mustang with a screwdriver in 2002. Second, Matt Lauer. Third, obnoxious fliers who sit in front of me and recline their seat, crushing my knees. Is it so difficult TURN AROUND AND ASK ME IF I MIND? CAN YOU NOT FEEL MY KNEES PRESSING AGAINST THE SMALL OF YOUR BACK? CAN YOU NOT HEAR MY CRIES OF AGONY?
So rude. So heinously, obnoxiously rude.
(By the way, the fourth thing I hate? Man’s inhumanity to man.)
Incident 5: The airline lost my bag.
2:30 AM CST Chicago O’Hare baggage claim. My companion’s bag rolled off the conveyor, but mine was nowhere to be seen. Beaten and defeated, but more than anything, desparate to brush my teeth (the toothbrush was in my bag) I approached the customer service counter, where a disinterested and husky young woman named “Tanya” started this conversation, which I present here in its entirety:
TANYA: Name.
TIM: Here’s my luggage tag.
TANYA: … (her fingers move lazily over the keyboard)
TIM: Is my bag showing up in the computer?
TANYA: Name three items in the bag.
TIM: Ummm…dirty clothes. Brown shoes. More dirty clothes.
TANYA: Write your address here. (She hands me a scrap — a scrap! — of blank paper. Not a form) If no one calls in 24 hours, call us. (For the first time, she looks directly at me, suddenly becoming absurdly friendly.) OK! You’re all set!
“OK! You’re all set?!?!?” No, not exactly, I wasn’t. Not in any way. How could she possibly say that? Unfortunately, I was too tired to debate further with this vapid waste of a name tag. We drove home, and I was in bed by 4:30 am.
The next day, a rusted out van pulled up to my house, and from it emerged a toothless old vagabond. He struggled to pull my bag up to the front door. I was still bitter, so of course I didn’t help him. He had me sign a receipt, and then he turned and hobbled back to the van, departing without a word.
My soiled garments were intact, and finally, I could brush my teeth.
Next Time: Part II of the The New York Trip, featuring blurry photographs with hilarious captions.