The Coffee Table

The Last Leg

I’m back in Arkansas—but the last leg of my most recent journey provided no rebuttal to my prior proclamations on the agony of air travel. At check-in, I’m asked if there are any batteries in my luggage. As usual, I reply, “hearing aid batteries.” At my five previous check-ins this netted the response of “Oh, no problem.” 

But this airline agent is befuddled. She asks what they look like. I take off a hearing aid and show her the battery. “Wait here,” she commands. (I’m not going anywhere. She has my credit card and my passport.) When she returns from her emergency consult, she informs me that I must get the batteries out of my suitcase and put them in my carry-on luggage. So, in front of all my traveling comrades, I open my suitcase, dig around for batteries, and transfer them accordingly. 

My flight from Eugene to Denver takes off on time, but gets rerouted to a new gate in Denver, forcing all the passengers with connections to take a train to another concourse. I have twenty minutes. I have thwarted the deities that enjoy laughing at old ladies whose bladders aren’t meant for running by wearing my new travel panties that catch leaks but am rewarded with shin splints instead. (Moral: Wear running shoes for air travel.)

I make my connection only because the boarding process was slightly delayed. Not enough time to go to the restroom, but at least I’ll get home tonight. Alas, my luggage won’t. It stays in Denver because it can’t run between concourses as fast as I can. 

After landing in Arkansas there are several of us at the XNA counter looking for lost luggage. The airline agent is gentle and kind, despite a few faces fighting furied frowns. He promises home delivery of my belongings and gives me an internet connection to the suitcase retrievers in case I get nervous.

The following morning finds me at the Berryville “Peace, Love, and a New Library Festival,” playing banjo and singing Beatles songs. I’m glad my flight got me to this place on time. This is when I realize I forgot to claim the battery in the banjo tuner in my suitcase. Ha! Fortunately, I have a spare tuner.

In the afternoon, my suitcase appears at my front door, escorted by John, who has driven here from Bentonville. I thank him for making the long drive, and he assures me it was a joy. He loves Eureka Springs and the calm of Carroll County. His usual deliveries are confined to the cities surrounding XNA, where he is often challenged by the recipients of lost luggage—people blaming him for their separation anxiety. 

“Really?” I ask, genuinely dumbfounded. How can people blame John? He is the knight in shining armor who has reunited me with my sweet suitcase. I didn’t even have to hoist it into my van or up the walk. John brought it to my door. What could be nicer?

In the past I’ve been ugly to front line employees whose job is to resolve customer complaints. My anger never helped. There’s truth to the old adage, “You catch more flies with honey.” But I’ve kept my cool throughout my trying travels. And from here on out, when my patience is on its last leg, when I’m mad at Walmart, Ticketmaster, or the Mastercard company, and beginning to argue with the solitary employee the corporation has engaged to solve the problem I’ll do my best to remember John—who was gracefully doing his job—and be kind. 

Thank you, John!