Eggplant and the Morons at JFK
I'm presently plopped on this gross blue carousel thing, deemed to be the "Wi Fi Hotspot" (even though there is an absolute lack of Wi-Fi to be found), in the moron circus that is JFK. I woke up this morning at the wee hours of five a.m. to hop a flight to Florida and take a (short) but much needed break from the insanity of Manhattan.
Like any true New Yorker, however, I always get teary eyed and anxious when crossing over any bridge that leads out of our glorious city.
So I get a safe distance away, attempting to put on a dab of mascara to counteract the whole "get a half hour of sleep and look like a pink-eyed sloth" thing while the extremely jolly driver plays Britney Spears. I'm usually a little bit crabby in the morning pre-coffee, but her enthusiasm for the Greatest of Britney was too hilarious to ask her to turn it down. I mean, the car next to us could hear it resounding from inside the taxi.
For the first time in the three years I've lived in New York I actually left for the airport on time, which was a godsend as the Hit-Me-Baby fan made no less than four loops around the Jetblue terminal. She parked about a block away on the other side of this concrete island, and pointed. "There it is, Miss!"
"I must confess, I still believe... STILL BELIEVE!"
After hurdling my three hundred pound carry-on over the barricade and getting half stuck as I attempted to climb over it in a dress and boots, I approached the gate victoriously. Still in a good mood.
"Give me a SIGNNN...!"
I smiled, going through the rotating doors and drowning Britney out by the hub-bub of John F. Kennedy's Airport.
I go to electronically check in, ignoring this rotund Albanian looking fellow who stood and literally... stared at my butt... the entire time I was trying to swipe my card and get the machine to recognize my flight information. Nothing. No records found. Finally giving up, I went to wait in line for a Live Person. Wooo-oo.
I spent about eight minutes speaking with Albert, who turned out to be absolutely no help at all and couldn't figure out anything nor find any records that I existed in the system, but was lovely. And I was nice, yet to loose any temper (I get really worked up in situations like these, I tend not to be the ideal consumer). He walked me down the Jetblue kiosk line to speak with his supervisor, Latisha.
Latisha continues to joke around with the Bag Attendant guy, and finally after a tap from Albert she becomes "aware" of my presence. With a sigh like this is the utmost inconvenience that could occur to her this morning, she addresses me.
"Hi, I'm Latisha, JetBlue supervisor, whattaya need?"
I explain. Her eyes visibly glaze over, kind of like a salamander, while she listens. I finish, and she turns to her computer. Eight or nine minutes of searching and typing away (...playing Solitaire) go by, before Latisha informs me that my flight is tomorrow.
"Yah, tomorrow. Guess you messed up."
I stared at this woman. Supervisor.
"Uh, not exactly. Is there another flight this morning?"
[10 more minutes of typing]
"Uuuuuh... yes. Same flight number, same time, about fourteen or fifteen seats available."
"Great. Can I get on standby?"
"Why is that?"
"Cuz you can only do standby the same day as your flight."
"It's exactly twenty four hours before my flight, wouldn't that equal exactly one day?"
"So what are my options?"
[10 more minutes of typing]
"Pay-a three-hundred-dollar fee."
"A THREE HUNDRED DOLLAR FEE?"
"Yup. Not our problem. Your problem. You booked it."
"I did NOT..."
And after a few more minutes of her MORON (yes, NOUN), I lost my temper. I think I kind of told her she had no power or something. I was clouded by American Express bill "slash" Jetblue stupidity rage.
I called my Mom, she talked me down, and I paid the fee. I restrained myself from making some far-too-literary sounding demeaning comment as I walked away. She waved me goodbye with her plastic-fingernailed claws, a deliciously evil little look on her face.
So now I'm here, on my second coffee, ingesting a large muffin. So, how was your morning?
Jetblue can eat a rotten eggplant, Ashley Avis