It takes a special kind of person to work at the airport. Airport workers are a breed of human being with whom interaction should be limited to those situations where all that is required of you is to stand still and respond to their questions with one word answers.

Have my bags been out of my control since they've been packed? NO. Am I flying to San Francisco this morning? YES. Would I like a receipt? OKAY.

The first thing to understand about airport workers is that none of them are equipped to function successfully in a world not governed by a semi-independent federal agency and a cabal of food service conglomerates. Given "choices" and "rights," an airport employee is likely to end up right back where s/he started: pregnant (again) or in prison (again).

Maybe I'm being over-critical, but I don't know how else to explain a group of people who willingly go through at least two levels of security every day just to make $8/hr. Nobody not at the end of their rope or their work visa would endure such hassle.

Of course not every person is batshit crazy. The airport is a buffet of dysfunction and there is something there for every taste. For lighter fare, one might look to the airport equivalent of the fruit and granola bar: ticket counter agents. They are the least crazy, primarily because they have to be. Ticket agents are the first face of recognized, reputable corporations who have a vested interest in not frightening their customers into land-based forms of travel. Being the least crazy should not, however, be comforting to anyone.

They say Richard Ramirez was the least crazy of all the late 20th century American serial killers. That's all well and good until you remember he's still a murdering psychopath.

The problem with ticket agents is their binary personalities: either too chipper or too surly. 6am at the end of a double shift or 2pm on the day before a two-week vacation, you're going to get one of those two attitudes and you will have no way to determine which one is coming.

A couple years back, I missed a connecting return flight in Phoenix and spent the night on a padded bench in the foyer of a nearby Raddison Hotel. I managed maybe 45 minutes of fitful sleep before being kicked out by the Night Manager who looked exactly like the "snooty" Maitre'D in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I returned to Sky Harbor at 5:15am with bleary eyes and a horrific headache. I was hoping to get on the 6:20 flight back to Oakland and was met by a line that snaked through the length of the concourse.

I got to the head of the line with 15 minutes to spare and was waved down to a counter manned by a young black man named Darren. Darren wore a perma-grin and spoke with his hands. I asked him if he was on drugs. "Noooo sir," he said, "just happy to be alive and working." I am not a violent person by nature, but I wanted to reach across the counter and punch him in the larynx. Darren sped me through check-in, finagled me an aisle seat, and personally walked me (with his hand pressed firmly in the small of my back) to the head of the security line.

Darren frightened me. He took United's departure salutation to heart. He believed I had a choice in airlines, and he really did appreciate that I chose to fly the friendly skies. This was not normal behavior...in fact this was the kind of attention one typically receives only from counterpersons at fastfood restaurants owned by marginal religious sects. Darren had done more than drink the Kool-Aid. He had a Keith Richards-level transfusion with it.

Darren's alter ego is the bitter, impatient agent who is forced--by his union's collective bargaining agreement with the airline--to attend annual team-building retreats at one of the airline's regional operations facilities but sees through the shiny trinkets and logo-covered shwag. He recognizes the whole enterprise as the communal Office Space pride swallowing that it really is.

My ticket agent on a recent trip from Newark to San Francisco seemed like he was straddling that line between happy crazy and angry crazy. He would have been textbook surly 10 years ago but has turned over a new leaf since rehab. I guess that's part of the deal when sex offenders are paroled and rotated into federally-subsidized, work-release programs.

His name was Alan. He was 5'10", 220lbs with greasy, light brown hair and ring around the collar from years of neckfat sweat. His dark-blue tie hung askew as is typically the case with rotund, middle-aged pederasts who can only fasten their top button with a safety pin or divine providence.

Alan, the child molester-cum-ticketing agent ambled up and asked curtly, "Mr. [DrunkRex]?" I nodded. "All I'll need is some photo ID," he recited. I nodded and fumbled through my wallet for my driver's license, hoping, not foolishly, that my clumsiness would neither force a dialogue nor draw his ire. The last thing any of us need is a relapse and a run on clown make-up in the tri-state area.

With some difficulty I slid the license from its protective sleeve and into Alan's sweaty, child-groping hand. "Thank you sir, gates are to your right and down the escalator." I nodded again and moved briskly toward the escalator and a quick descent into the next circle of the Airport Inferno: the security line.

To be continued: TSA Security Agents...

Posted by nils at 9:17 AM

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