Reservations of an Airline Agent
(After Surviving 130,000 Calls from the Traveling Public)
by Jonathan Lee -- The Washington Post
I work in a central reservation office of an airline. After more than
130,000 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
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 as "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 I asked 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 your 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 exit 35 on the New Jersey Turnpike. Then a woman asked
if we flew to area code 304. 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
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. "Troops," 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.'"
Well, Sarge was right. It wasn't long before I suffered a direct hit from a
woman who wanted to fly to Hippopotamus, NY. After I assured 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
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 round trip?" After quoting the one-way fare
the passenger just asked for he'll always, 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. Then I realized it was part of the hell
Sarge told us about.
But I've survived to direct the lost, correct the wrong, comfort the wary,
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 130,000 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; 10 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
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 in 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.