RESERVATIONS OF AN AIRLINE AGENT

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RESERVATIONS OF AN AIRLINE AGENT


I work in a central reservation office of an airline company.  
After more than 30,000 conversations -- all ending with "Have a nice 
day and thanks for calling" -- I think it's fair to say that I'm a 
survivor.
 
  I've made it through all the calls from adults who didn't know the
difference between a.m. and p.m., from mothers of military recruits who
didn't trust their little soldiers to get it right, from the woman who
called to get advice on how to handle her teenage daughter, from the man 
who wanted to ride inside the kennel with his dog so he wouldn't have 
to pay for a seat, from the woman who wanted to know why she had to 
change clothes on our flight between Chicago and Washington (she was 
told she'd have to make a change between the two cities) and from the 
man who asked if I'd like to discuss the existential humanism that 
emanates from the soul of Habeeb.
 
  In five years, I've received more than a boot camp education regarding
the astonishing lack of awareness of our American citizenry. This lack of
awareness encompasses every region of the country, economic status, 
ethnic background, and level of education.  My battles have included 
everything from a man not knowing how to spell the name of the town he 
was from, to another not recognizing the name of "Iowa" as being a 
state, to another who thought he had to apply for a foreign passport 
to fly to West Virginia. They are the enemy and they are everywhere.
 
 
  In the history of the world there has never been as much 
communication and new things to learn as today. Yet, after asking a 
woman from New York what city she wanted to go to in Arizona, she 
asked "Oh...is it a big place?" 

  I talked to a woman in Denver who had never heard of Cincinnati, a 
man in Minneapolis who didn't know there was more than one city in 
the South ("wherever the South is"), a woman in Nashville who 
asked, "Instead of paying for my ticket, can I just donate the money 
to the National Cancer Society?", and a man in Dallas who tried to pay 
for his ticket by sticking quarters in the pay phone he was calling 
from.
 
  I knew a full invasion was on the way when, shortly after signing 
on, a man asked if we flew to exit5 on the New Jersey Turnpike. Then 
a woman asked if we flew to area code04. And I knew I had been 
shipped off to the front when I was asked, "When an airplane comes 
in, does that mean it's arriving or departing?"  I remembered the 
strict training we had received -- four weeks of regimented classes 
on airline codes, computer technology, and telephone behavior -- and 
it allowed for no means of retaliation.  We were told, "it's real hell 
out there and ya got no defense. You're going to hear things so silly 
you can't even make 'em up.  You'll try to explain things to your 
friends that you don't even believe yourself, and just when you 
think you've heard it all, someone will ask if they can get a free 
round-trip ticket to Europe by reciting 'Mary Had a Little Lamb'."
 
  It wasn't long before I suffered a direct hit from a woman who 
wanted to fly to Hippopotamus, NY.  After assuring her that there was 
no such city, she became irate and said it was a big city with a 
big airport.  I asked if Hippopotamus was near Albany or Syracuse.  
It wasn't.  Then I asked if it was near Buffalo.  "Buffalo!" she 
said.  "I knew it was a big animal!"
 
  Then I crawled out of my bunker long enough to be confronted by a 
man who tried to catch our flight in Maconga.  I told him I'd never 
heard of Maconga and we certainly didn't fly to it.  But he insisted 
we did and to prove it he showed me his ticket: Macon, GA.
 
  I've done nothing during my conversational confrontations to 
indicate that I couldn't understand English.  But after quoting 
the round-trip fare the passenger just asked for, he'll always 
ask:  "...Is that one-way?"  I never understood why they always 
question if what I just gave them is what they just asked for.
 
  But I've survived to direct the lost, correct the wrong, comfort the
weary, teach U.S. geography and give tutoring in the spelling and
pronunciation of American cities.  I have been told things like: 
"I can't go stand-by for your flight because I'm in a 
wheelchair." I've been asked such questions as: "I have a connecting 
flight to Knoxville. Does that mean the plane sticks to something?"  
And once a man wanted to go to Illinois. When I asked what city he 
wanted to go to in Illinois, he said, "Cleveland, Ohio."
 
  After 30,000 little wars of varying degrees, I'm a wise old veteran 
of the communication conflict and can anticipate with accuracy what 
the next move by "them" will be. Seventy-five percent won't have 
anything to write on. Half will not have thought about when 
they're returning.  A third won't know where they're going; 0 
percent won't care where they're going. A few won't care if they get 
back. And James will be the first name of half the men who call.
 
  But even if James doesn't care if he gets to the city he never heard 
of; even if he thinks he has to change clothes on our plane that may 
stick to something; even if he can't spell, pronounce, or remember 
what city he's returning to, he'll get there because I've worked very 
hard to make sure that he can. Then with a click of the phone, he'll 
become a part of my past and I'll be hoping the next caller at least 
knows what day it is. 

  Oh, and James..."Thanks for calling and have a nice day."


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