3 – The Exodus of Hud, Act 2: Wicked Witch of the Airlines

The Boston Exodus included two trips.  Since I had no place to live, I’d planned to stay in a hotel for a week, find an apartment, then return to Atlanta for Pallas Athena and the TT.  The Outback would be safely stashed at my new residence, and all the urgently-needed needed household items it carried would have already been unloaded and stashed in the new home.  (For those interested in every little detail, the motorcycle was sold before leaving The Big ATL.)

The best laid plans …

Everyone knows my penchant for making plans that are less than best-laid; this particular plan devolved into yet another flurry of last-minute phone calls and adjustments.  In fact, things had started going awry the prior weekend, when I discovered that four rather large boxes of “urgently-needed household items” wouldn’t fit into the Outback.  Those four boxes had remained behind in Atlanta.

Delta Airlines had issued me a frequent-flier ticket for the one-way flight between Logan and Hartsfield-Jackson for the second trip, with a Boston departure during Friday’s early evening.  Well, something came up at the office and I'd have to stay late on Friday.  Since it was my first week at the new job, I was eager to rearrange my personal plans to take care of professional assignments.  (This trait has a long history: ask my sons how often they were the last kids picked up at school.)

It’s a 25-minute ride from Braintree to downtown Boston this morning.  No problem; plenty of time to call the Delta Gold phone number and get my flight rescheduled as I drive in to the city.

All Is Not Cool. 

The Delta lady couldn’t figure out that I wanted to leave Logan on Saturday morning instead of Friday evening.  Really, it took about ten minutes for her to grasp the concept of, “I’d like to reschedule today’s departure (Friday) for tomorrow morning (Saturday) about 9 am.”  Then she very sternly told me she couldn’t rebook frequent-flier tickets after the trip had already begun.  “No ma’am, the trip hasn’t begun; I’m scheduled to leave this evening, Friday.”  In the same stern voice, she then told me that frequent-flier tickets cannot be altered within three days of departure.

“OK, let’s buy a ticket from Logan to Hartsfield-Jackson for tomorrow morning, and I’ll hold the credit for the existing ticket.”



Delta Airline Customer Service Representative?

“I’m sorry, sir, but you will not be credited for the unused ticket.”

“What?  I cashed in 15,000 frequent flyer miles for that ticket, and those miles will just evaporate if I don’t use the ticket?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“OK.”  I figured I’ll get this straightened out with someone who actually knows how to issue Delta Airline tickets rather than this uncooperative, idiot excuse for a ‘customer service representative’ who is, in my opinion, a perfect candidate for termination with cause.

“Let’s forget the existing ticket, and I’ll buy a new one for tomorrow morning.”

“There are no available tickets for tomorrow.”

“None all day from Boston to Atlanta?”

“That’s correct.”

OK, I said to myself between gritted teeth, I’ll just have to fly on Sunday, drive back immediately, and forego family visits.  “When is the next available seat to Atlanta?”

“Monday morning.”

“MONDAY MORNING?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks, then.  Goodbye.”

She had just confirmed my earlier opinion: this lousy conversation was due to some poor soul who was starting a very bad day and decided to take it out on whoever was the first to call that morning -- me.  There’s absolutely no other explanation.

You see, there are nine daily non-stop flights from Boston to Atlanta; this I knew because I had recently purchased the existing ticket.  HELLO!  Boston to Atlanta?  Come on!   How many permutations are available if we introduce an intermediate destination?  At least an additional dozen, I’ll bet.  But the Wicked Witch of the South was certain that every seat on every flight was already sold.  Idiot.  Incompetent idiot.

So I kind of reneged on my offer to take care of things at the office … which was pretty easy, since the critical issues had become non-nuclear as critical issues often do.  

Last-minute calls confirmed a Hartsfield-Jackson airport pickup by my older son, a reserved bed for an overnight visit with him and his wife, and that he had not crashed the TT during the week at his house.  Other calls confirmed the rendezvous with my younger son, his wife, Mom and Dad, and that Pallas (my lovely little dog) had not forgotten me during the week of pampering she surely got at my parents.

All Is Cool. 

Board the Blue Line at Aquarium, transfer to the Logan bus, and climb aboard an astonishingly empty plane – delayed because of mechanical problems.  No biggie; son knows how to check arrival times on his phone, my next-seat-over new friend and I convinced the flight attendant to give us two beers each as compensation for the delay, and as soon as they closed the airplane door, my next-seat-over new friend moved to give us both room, and became my next-row-over new friend.

Two beers is my limit before Evil Hud begins to exhibit himself.  He’s gregarious, incredibly wise, unbelievably funny, and whatever your trivial, insignificant contribution to the conversation, he’s been there and done that.  Then he falls asleep.

Thank goodness it was an empty plane.  Evil Hud had no one to belittle.  (Really, there were less than 20 people on a Boeing 757 with 130-odd seats.)  It was so empty that probably no one heard Evil Hud snore, either.