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It's one of
those winter days at the airport in the
nation's icebox, a.k.a. Rochester, NY, and
all flights have been delayed because of
weather. We've all been sitting around the
departure gate for our flight to New York
City for hours. Most of us have that pinched
look around the eyes, but most of us are
resigned. That's what happens in Rochester
in the winter.
The intercom
calls out our flight number for an
announcement. Everyone starts to line up at
the departure gate counter in anticipation
of some sort of news. The intercom says our
flight will be delayed yet another hour. The
frazzled attendant starts to try to attend
to individual questions.
I notice the
man in front of me in line is doing a barely
perceptible jig. I can see his neck is
unusually pink just above the collar of his
Brooks Brothers suit and the arm holding his
black leather briefcase is twitching ever so
slightly. He reaches the counter and the man
uncorks! He goes ballistic!
He demands to
know the cause of the delay. He shouts to
the startled attendant that he must be in
New York for an important meeting, and he's
already late. The attendant tries
courteously to calm him down. It's an
unavoidable weather delay. All flights are
delayed, etc., etc.
He just gets
redder in the face. He demands to know what
her name is. He shouts out for all to hear
that he is going to write to the president
of the airline about this unforgivable snag
that's been thrown in his way. Somehow he
seems to be under the impression it's all
her fault and it's a conspiracy against him
personally.
Miraculously,
the attendant keeps her voice down and her
courtesy quotient remains steady. The man
stomps off, muttering loudly.
I come up to
the counter. I know self-control when I see
it, and I can admire a textbook case of how
to stay cool during a seismic disturbance. I
ask the attendant, "How do you manage to put
up with this sort of thing?"
"It's O.K.,"
she says. "He's going to New York, but his
luggage is going to Kuala Lumpur." |
