A Little Rant at 39,000 Feet

Jim, your faithful servant, here . . . 

I am in 16D at 39,000 feet on the 6:58 a.m. flight out of Leon to Dallas . . . the plane is American Airlines’ standard issue “shitwagon,” the toy plane they fly on this stretch on the days they don’t have enough passengers to use a real aircraft.

Today is one of those days . . . 

I woke, as I often do, at 3 a.m. with the expectation my driver would appear at 3:45 to take me to the airport.  I know this because the same service has shuttled me back and forth for a dozen years.  Translated:  I am one of their best customers.  I never do a shared ride, even though it is a third the cost of a private driver, for fear of missing a flight because some old lady can’t find her glasses or the shuttle driver can’t find an address.  I take my obligation to show up on time and be ready seriously.  

This morning the driver failed to show.  No call, no show.  Kelly called the “emergency” number only to be told, “he will be there in 2 minutes.”  Which was, of course, bullshit.  At 4:10 a.m., Kelly and I got into the SUV and she drove me to the airport — 1 1/2 hours one way.  As we pulled out of town, she called the service back who offered no apology for the error, but rather continued repeating the mantra that “he will be there in 2 minutes!”  

Mark another incompetent off my list of vendors.  They have lost my business – forever. 

A few months ago, I flew my last United Airlines flight for more or less the same reason — gross incompetence and lying to cover it up.  

Bottom line:  I am simply not going to take this shit from anyone anymore.   

Now as we shake, rattle and roll this garbage scow into DFW, I note there are three flight attendants.  Normally, it is two, but today, for some unshared reason, we have an extra, and I have been sitting quietly for nearly an hour without the pleasure of talking with any of them.  

Finally, one of the help rolled her cart up and asked if I want something to drink.  

I wanted whiskey, but said “coffee.”  She handed me stirrer and a napkin and scuffled along.  I ask, “What about the coffee?”  

“Oh,” she replied, “I’ll have to go get that in a minute and bring it to you.”

I would normally confront that problem openly but having been removed from airplanes before for even the slightest hint of dissatisfaction, I held my tongue.  

Ten minutes later she shows up with one cup of coffee, sets it in front me and walks away.  

That, my friends, is called “service” in modernity.  And now the three servers are huddled up laughing, talking and drinking my next cup of coffee in the front of the plane.  I can assure you they won’t return until it is time to land and then they will show up to take out the trash.  In short, to do their job you need to be able to walk, speak English at a remedial level, pour a cup of coffee or fake juice, and put trash in a bag.  And they wonder why they aren’t paid a living wage?  I can tell you.  They have no skills and no desire to be anything other than bad waitresses in a terrible restaurant at 39,000 feet where their customers are captives.  

I was reading an article this morning waiting on the driver who didn’t show up to do the one thing he is hired to do — show up.  The article was called “the dumbification of America.”  The short version is that college exam scores have never been lower.  After 12 years of so-called State education, most of them can barely read and those who can read don’t understand what they read and can’t remember any of it.  They are, in short, stupid and unmotivated.  But more than stupid, they are incurious.  Like the girls up front chatting about Caitlyn and their boyfriends, i.e., Ben, Jerry and their vibrators, my driver, who is probably still drunk and asleep, don’t know anything because they don’t want to know anything.  They don’t want to do anything.  They don’t want to succeed at anything.  They want to exist.  They treat life as if it is something to get through.  So they want to do as little as it takes to survive another week and get another shitty little paycheck that barely pays the rent and leaves enough for a bottle of tequila or a bikini wax, just like Kim Kardashian’s.

This all makes me feel like puking but it seems the gold old boys who “service” the airplanes in Dallas forgot to put a barf bag in the seat pocket in front of me.

I would push send on this little fireball but, alas, American hasn’t seen fit to outfit their shitwagon fleet with Internet.  And so I shall drop this in your inbox when (and if) we arrive in Dallas.  

And so the week begins.

Selah.