Sunday, September 29, 2013

Wyatt Earp is a jerk.



On a recent trip to New Orleans, I was reminded again firsthand why it pays to always be nice to people in customer service. 

I was running late to the airport as it was, and even though I was just going for a quick trip, I decided to drive my car and park. There was some sort of construction going on in the parking lot and the closest parking spot I could find was almost all the way across the entire lot so I had a quite a hike. My roller suitcase was acting like a spoiled child on one of those kid leashes ridiculous parents harness up their young in. It was a good thing I hurried because there was a line all the way across the width of the terminal in front of the ticket desk. 

I wasn't checking a bag so I weaved my way through the people who, printed tickets in hand, were just standing there apparently waiting to check theirs. I thought, "Look at all these people, checking bags. Look at them waiting and look how smart I am skipping that step. I'm a genius." Once to the little electronic kiosk however, I was taken down a notch.

"Flight something something has been delayed. Please see a reservation specialist or call 1-800-whatever for more information."

Apparently I had a very recognizable look of confusion and disappointment as I looked up because the first lady behind the desk I made eye contact with pointed to the line that spanned the width of the terminal. 

Defeated, I picked my way back through the people I had just laughed at in my head. They were waiting to speak to a "reservation specialist" as well. 

A few miles away, at the back of the line, I watched as one by one, or couple after couple, approached the desk and lit into the poor women behind it about how they were going to miss their connection or how long ago they had booked their flight and how ridiculous all this was. The ladies were obviously stressed out as collectively there were around 65 people waiting.

As I got closer, I noticed the older man in front of me was especially unhappy. He was on his phone with the airline and was being very rude. 

"I'm gonna to miss my connection! You need to fix this. (pause) I don't care if the repair part is coming from China, you give me another connection! 

I turned behind me to exchange an eyebrow raise with the mother and daughter behind me who were looking at each other in disbelief. There was a muffled mixture of profanity and mumbles as he hung up on whoever he was talking to and put his cell phone back on his belt. If I didn't like him before, the cell phone holster on the belt took the cake. 

WHY do people, mostly middle aged and older men, consider it necessary to have a holster for their cell phone on their belt? Is it so they can "quick-draw" their phone old west gunslinger style to get on that call? Is it because there isn't enough room in their, count em' FOUR pockets, for your ONE cell phone?  They're stupid and I hate them.

This guy was chomping at the bit to get to the desk, huffing extra loudly and shaking his head in disgust to anyone that would notice. When it was finally his turn he made his three step approach as theatrical as he possibly could by dropping his bag just hard enough to make a loud thud and slapping his ticket info on the desk.

I turned again to the two ladies behind me to make a "buckle up, here we go" face.

The poor lady behind the desk, Barbara, was obviously stressed. Her hair was a little messed up and her forehead was glistening with sweat from busting her ass with the luggage. He didn't waste any time letting her have it. You could see her shrink a little with the first barrage of "This is the most unprofessional something something" he hit her with, take a breath, gather herself and settle in to take yet another pissed off traveller's horrible attitude right on the chin. 

After she had checked every airline that flew out of Charleston for available options and rearranged connections with a typing speed of what seemed like 900 words a min, something with the computer system put him on hold. She asked him as sweet as she could if he would step aside for just a minute so I could step up. He let out an annoyed sigh and Wyatt Earp'd his phone out of his belt holster as he sauntered off. 

As I stepped up, I saw her again, look down, take a deep breath and armor up for just another livid, delayed passenger to give her hell. 

"Hello sir, how may I help you?"
"Hey there, I think I might need to switch flights."

As she looked up my itinerary, she started talking through the options.

"I have a 4:30 out of Charlotte, that'll put you at your destination about 2 hours later."
"I hate to be that guy, but is there anything earlier?"

She began to look, as she had for the gunslinger in front of me, at every available airline. The times were either way too late or the flights were full. With an almost fearful expression she looked up and said "It's a friday afternoon, most flights are full so…"

"Hey no worries, if that 4:30 is all you can find that'll work just fine."

As she started back with her court reporter typing speed to switch my flights, I leaned a little closer and jokingly said in a hushed voice, "Do they send you to some kind of special psychological boot camp to deal with days like these?'

She looked up with a spark in her eyes that made me laugh.

"I've been doing this for over 20 years, and people don't realize we're just as upset about it as they are."

She laughed and shook her head as she looked down, as if to shake off the day thus far.

"Does that make working in baggage claim like punishment?'

She gave me a look that only a memory full of baggage claim nightmares could produce.

"Ohhh, baggage claim is not somewhere you want to work for very long. It'll change you."
"I bet, especially dealing with guys like that guy," as I nodded towards gunslinger who was waving his hands in the air mid conversation with whoever else he was chewing out. She smiled and shook her head again, "It's not like I broke the plane! It's in Houston! I don't even know how to set my radio in my car, I'm sorry I can't fix an airplane that broke down in Texas! My lord!"

I was laughing out loud at this point. She probably had an entire soap box worthy speech ready after years of dealing with angry people.

"I know a little how you feel. It like that saying, don't screw with people who handle your food. I bet you could make or break some people's day with that little keyboard there."

She laughed again as though that was not the first time she had those thoughts and replied as though to another person with "I'm sorry sir, the only flight I can find for you is through Antarctica." She had me rolling in laughter as she acted out a sarcastic "I'm sorry" face and dramatically hit one key on the keyboard as if to make that connection through Antarctica official. 

"You're being very easy, it makes it so much easier to work with people when they're understanding. How's and upgrade to 1st class sound on your second connection? These little planes out of here don't have 1st class but your connection is almost two hours long, how would you like that?"

"Really? That's awesome! Thank you so much!"
"Like you said, be sweet to the lady behind the desk, and the drinks are free."

She handed me my tickets and smiled. 

"Have a good flight, and drink one for Barbara, here at the US Airways desk."

I laughed and took my boarding passes like Charlie finding his golden ticket to the Chocolate Factory. I wanted to hug that sweet lady, but the desk was too high and gunslinger was hovering behind me, impatiently waiting to speak to her again. I shook her hand and held it just a second longer as I leaned in again, eyeing behind me towards gunslinger and said with a hush and a smile,

 "Good luck."

I turned and smiled to the angry man who was about to climb over my now obedient child of a roller bag to get back to Barbara. I wanted to ask him if he liked apples in a Bostonian accent like that scene from Good Will Hunting and then slap my upgraded ticket onto his forehead like "How bout' them apples?" but I didn't. I just went on my way to gate B2, thinking about Barbara in the trenches, taking grenade after grenade.

Lesson learned, as if I wasn't already fully aware. Don't be rude to people in the customer service industry, no matter what the situation. Treat people with common courtesy and a smile and it's amazing how willing they'll be to help you. Hopefully all of this makes sense, as I am writing it 2 vodka tonics into my 1st class flight. 

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Petting dogs with bare feet.

I love live music, and although there are plenty of places to go see it here in Charleston, my favorite place is The Pour House. The Pour House is in West Ashley and has live music either on the outside deck, on the main stage or both, every night of the week. I've been there countless times and have seen my all time favorite musician, Martin Sexton there, so it has a special place in my heart.

Upon hearing a band from my neck of the woods would be playing there called The Dirty Dozen Brass Band, I immediately made plans for a trip to The Pour House. I called up a friend and we made our way down Maybank HWY, parked and made our way to the front door. The guy who was apparently working there let me give the door a solid two tries before he informed us the doors would be open in around 5 minutes and that there was music on the back deck playing until then.

Half a PBR tallboy in, my friend looked around and proclaimed, "I feel like I'm a MLB scout at a Wando JV game." I surveyed the scene. The ratio was about 1 girl to 7 bearded guys. Normally, big guys with full sleeve tattoos and solid 6 month beards would make me nervous but with hipsters being as popular are they are here in Charleston, they usually just make me Chai Tea Lattes. If anything did go down, I'm pretty sure jeans that tight aren't easy to run in. I felt pretty safe but I wasn't there to start any trouble, I'm sure they were all fans of The Pour House WAY before it was cool and just wanted some good tunes like I did.

The band playing finished up and the crowd started building up on the outside deck. My friend and I got another round and met a middle aged woman and her husband playing that ring on a string game thats to the right of the bar. We tried to explain the point of the game was to try and swing the ring and hook it on the opposing post, for whatever point system or drinking game your incorporate it with but she wasn't having it.

"It's not possible to hook it, the ring is rotating. It's physics."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I've been trying for like..fifth...five minutes!"

As she was explaining how she read "in a book" that the physics pertaining to this game made it impossible, my friend had taken the ring and was on his 3rd try when we both heard the clang of the ring successfully hooking onto the post.

 I tapped her beer bottle with my PBR can and whispered "physics."

There was a chocolate lab named Charlie we had become friends with during our tenure out on the deck and he was making his way around our little area getting pats on the head from whoever would oblige. He was there with two girls in their mid 20's and would occasionally circle back to check in or take a little rest at their feet. If they had brought Charlie with them to be their wingman, it quickly backfired as a man well into his late 50's approached them with tight high wadder jeans, a tucked-in yet unbuttoned hawaiian shirt and no shoes or socks on. As he leaned on the African Safari arcade game to get about 4 inches from the now very worried girl's face for a little chat, he started to stroke Charlie's back with his foot. His bare foot.

"Hey there darlin, is this pup here yours?"
"Uh, er, yes sir, I mean yea."

I turned to my friend and made a face as he sighed and shook his head.

"Let's go inside."
"Damn Wando JV game."

Inside the main floor was starting to fill up as the opening band was setting up. They were pretty solid bluesy rock and a few of their songs had their moments but I was ready for The Dirty Dozen Brass Band to go on. This band is originally from New Orleans, one of my favorite cities, and they play a mixture of zydeco, cajun marching music and funk covers. I've seen them play multiple times and wasn't going to miss a chance to hear some music from home.

As the main show began to start, my friend, and another that had joined us, moved down from that upper bar area to the main floor to get a better view of the stage. The band was amazing. The main guy could play two trumpets and the same time. It's ridiculous. It's also great music for semi-dancing without spilling your drink or moving your feet from where they are, or as I like to call it, "white people dancing." Consistent beat. Not too fast. Very easy to follow.

Some people like to take things up a notch from the safe haven of "white people dancing," especially when the band really gets things going. In comes Encino Man from the outside deck completely hammered, cargo shorts, no shoes, a ripped up Quicksilver sleeveless shirt and a bandana tied to cover up his mid back long blonde hair. And not a bandana tied Rambo style, but Cinderella scrubbing the floors while little mice sing to her style. Also, I say Encino man, the caveman unearthed in Samwise Gamgee's backyard in one of my favorite early 90's movies, because he was dancing like Brendan Fraser, or, Encino Man, did in one of the last scenes of the movie where an entire high school not only had no idea he spoke no english throughout the entire movie but elected him prom king after he led a school wide dance.


I use this comparison only partly in jest, because my comrade at The Pour House used the little kick to the side move at least 2 dozen times. He even did a spinny twirl move that knocked two drinks and a purse to the ground and although the mixed drink was KIA the PBR can he saved from completely emptying out had at least a sip or two left in it. He was a little shocked but too drunk to be embarrassed and as he looked up at my now empty hand I just smiled and said:

"You earned that."

I'd like to say Encino Man had as much fun at the show as I did but after closing out and heading to the parking lot, we heard the distinctive sound of someone's stomach refusing to "party on." I went over to see if he needed any help but he was already snuggled up in the bed of a pickup and ready for the ride home.

If there's any lesson here, it would be support local live music venues, don't be afraid to dance to what you think is your full potential, and don't ever, under any circumstance, pet a dog with your bare feet, in a bar.