Dear American Airlines,
I am writing to ask that you give Verna, a flight attendant on Flight 584, a raise. Verna is a very nice person, and she deserves a raise. When I said that to her, she just replied, “thank you.”
Verna and I chatted a bit before we took off. We could have chatted longer because unbeknownst to either of us, we’d end up taking off two hours later. Still, we got a lot of conversation in during the many hours we would end up on that Airbus.
Verna asked if I was going home. I explained that my mother and I were going to Green Valley, AZ to help my Aunt get the snowbird house ready for sale. Verna asked about the house, with genuine interest.
“Now’s the time to sell,” Verna informed me. “It’ll go like that!”
Verna pleasantly acknowledged the discomfort of the plane. “They’ll pack ‘em in here. At least we don’t have standing room, though,” she said while mimicking holding onto a strap hanging from a subway ceiling. I was in an exit row. “You got the best seat in the house!”
Verna’s awesome. She deserves a raise.
Verna also spoke to the couple across the aisle from me. The husband noted that he had worked at the Tucson airport for thirty years. He worked for the emergency services. “I was your best friend,” he said. I assume he was winking, though I couldn’t see. He and his wife were trying to get home. You had canceled their flight yesterday, so they were keen on commencing some kind of movement.
“Thirty years,” he said. He was perturbed, but Verna was great.
The Captain’s voice cut in: “Uh, we’re going to find that part and get it attached so we can get going.” I hadn’t heard about any missing parts. Perhaps he was speaking into the wrong microphone or perhaps he desperately wanted to communicate something to the passengers. I don’t know, but I have suspicions.
The man across the aisle sighed loudly. My sister, an engineer, noted via text that it would be bad to fly a partially assembled plane. I agreed.
If Verna was annoyed, she didn’t show it. She kept smiling, cracking jokes, and calming the building sense of unease in the plane.
People are kind of great when you bother to listen to them.
We were flying from Dallas. We were supposed to be flying from Chicago, but you canceled the flight that would have gotten us there. So, Dallas it was.
Flight 584 was scheduled for 2:22, or thereabouts (you can look it up if you need to). It was delayed to 4:44, or thereabouts (you can look it up if you need to; you’ve got systems).
We taxied out, the missing piece of plane apparently located and affixed to its proper place. I was really hoping that was true, but I wasn’t feeling super confident in your competence at that moment.
We sat for a while. Verna looked out the window. “The rain’s starting. We gotta go.”
We didn’t go. A storm was coming. Retired guy from emergency services muttered, “if we had the part we’d have missed it.” Verna smiled.
Captain chimed in every 15 minutes. Weather was now the culprit. I had seen it coming using an app that was not the American Airlines app, which is slick, I’m not going to lie. It’s just that, while I’m not a math guy, the American Airlines app didn’t seem to be a math guy either. I checked it when we were all-set-let’s-go.
We were going across timezones and stuff, but the number at the top of the phone screen seems to contradict the number in the lower left. The math-deficient app nailed the arrival time, though. So that’s good.
But you should have listened to Verna. She’s the best.
My phone hadn’t been charging correctly, so when we were still in the airport, I had gone in search of a new cord. Good thing because, in my search, I stumbled upon the gate from which Flight 584 was departing. It wasn’t the gate the app had told me. My boarding pass was also mistaken. Given three options, I chose the one with a human standing behind a counter (give them raises too, please).
I understand that people can’t control the weather. I think they can control where they leave their parts, though. I also understand that, if the numbers in the lower left were changed to reflect reality, it might live in the Internet somewhere and reveal inconsistencies that Verna shouldn’t have to explain away.
Because Verna is a nice person who talks to people and listens to people.
Shit happens. I once fell down the stairs in Ferguson Hall at the University of Minnesota and created a waterfall of freshly frothed latte. It was a mistake, but I ran like hell for the paper towels and then apologized profusely to the custodian. He deserved a raise. I should have written a letter.
Here’s a piece I like to call “Cacti at Dusk.”
I was going to call it “Cacti at Noon,” but, well you know. Your systems confirm the reason.
You need Verna because when one passenger started speaking so loudly that I initially thought it was coming from the speakers, there was tension. “If they keep us here for 3 hours they have to refund our money. American Airlines owes us. Protect your rights!” A bit later, I heard the passenger ask Verna about whether we could go back to the gate. Verna calmly said, “If you want to go back to the gate, we can. We don’t hold people hostage.” Verna’s subtext shone as brightly as the Tucson sun.
You need Verna because when the guy behind me asked for a Jack and Coke, she told him FAA regulations do not permit serving alcohol during delays.
“If I start slinging drinks during a delay, what do you think would happen?”
“Nothing.”
Verna made a “hmm” sound and he let it go. Verna’s a rockstar.
As we landed, a different flight attendant came on the PA: “We have a service animal that hasn’t been able to relieve itself for a couple hours, so if you could allow that passenger and the animal to deplane first, that would be great.”
Some people were pretty excited to be off of your plane, so Verna had to remind them that the dog hadn’t peed all day so pretty please let him through. She looked at me and said “that dog made a beeline for the door.” She was smiling again.
Here’s a bee who visited me yesterday while I was trying to figure out how I was going to assist my mother, who doesn’t walk as well as she once did, tackle ORD to catch our connection. It was still hanging out as I suddenly had to shift to figuring out how I was going to tackle DFW.
Big Ass Bee also flies. Big Ass Bee is also Big. I don’t know if your philanthropic efforts extend to bees. I’m too tired to look, but here’s how you describe your good works in your systems. It seems like you have a lot in common, except Big Ass Bee is efficient. If you’d like to support her I can help direct you.
That’s a digression. I apologize. It’s probably not the right kind of bee, anyway.
Verna is amazing. People are pretty great if you talk to them and listen. They have more interesting stories than algorithms do.
Service dog got off the plane with Verna’s assistance. Emergency services guy said “all because of a part.” Verna took a minute to tell me, “Your mom wants you to know you worry too much.” I replied, “She probably has too much pride and I probably have too much anxiety.” She laughed. Because she’s the absolute, god’s honest best. And she’s a human, neither an automated system nor a corporation. I bet she cares about bees.
Give Verna a raise. I’m not confident that you will, because I don’t have faith in your humanness. But please apologize to my mom. Refund doesn’t seem unreasonable either. Thanks to the “go back to the gate lady,” I know how to request one.
Verna told me that Tucson has great healthcare. I noticed how many older people fly between Dallas and Tucson. I wondered if anybody was going to visit somebody in the hospital. I wondered about how the distance between Gate B14 and Gate B12 seems like nothing to you or your systems but can be an enormous distance for a lot of humans. I wondered if it mattered to you in the slightest.
While I was on the plane, the following appeared on the “Buy a Friend a Beer” board at my local Brewery, filled with people who listen to people:
I confirmed it with my husband, a human.