Mr. Write's Page

Late last month, I flew to California and spent a week with my son Britt and his family.

The time went by too quickly, of course. Ultimately, there I was, sitting at Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, waiting to board a Delta flight home. I was scheduled to fly to Salt Lake City, then to Atlanta. It was 11:00 AM. Departure time was 11:15.

“Passenger Walter Smith,” the PA system suddenly intoned. “Passenger Walter Smith on Delta flight 4677 to Salt Lake City. Please see the courtesy agent at Gate B4.”

I went to the gate to find out what was up.

Behind the counter was a young man whose name tag identified him as Paco. I was tempted to tell him that my dog is named Paco, but decided to let it go. He looked up as I approached.

“Hello, Mr. Smith,” he said with a cheery smile. “We have a situation. The Salt Lake flight is full. I have a group of five ladies traveling together, going to Seattle, and one of them was booked incorrectly. We’re trying to find a way to keep them together.”

He peered down at his computer screen, which reflected bright green patterns in his glasses.

“You’re ticketed to fly to Salt Lake, then board flight 1222 to Atlanta, arriving at 10:30 PM. Would you consider giving up your seat on the Salt Lake flight in exchange for a direct flight from LAX to Atlanta, arriving at 9:30 PM?”

As he spoke, the five ladies in question sat not far away. They were all 70-ish. Between them, they had enough carry-on luggage for an Army battalion. They were listening intently.

How and when I got home really didn’t matter. Being retired and living a life of indolence, I wasn’t facing any demands or deadlines.

“Sure, why not?” I said. The ladies erupted in a gleeful round of chattering and hugs.

“But how do I get to LAX?”

“We’ll put you on a shuttle. Let me get this flight boarded, and I’ll make the arrangements.”

Agent Paco proceeded to board my former fellow passengers. With great feeling, the five ladies thanked him for his help while I sat watching. Hey, I thought, don’t I deserve a nod or smile or something? People these days.

After the exodus, the agent motioned me back to the counter. While I waited, he peered again at the computer screen, clucked and pursed his lips in concentration, and finally printed out a series of computer cards.

He patted the cards into a neat stack, selected the card on top, and handed it to me.

“This is your boarding pass for flight 1554, leaving LAX at 2:20 PM,” he said. I took the card, read it, and tucked it in my shirt pocket.

He handed me the next card from the stack. “This is a voucher for ground transportation to LAX,” he said. “Go out to the front of the terminal, look for a blue van that says ‘Super Shuttle,’ and give the voucher to the driver.”

I glanced at the voucher, noted that the value was $65.00, and placed it in my pocket.

Agent Paco handed me another card. “This is a meal voucher. You can use it anywhere in the terminal — here, LAX, or Atlanta.”

The voucher was for $10.00. Into my pocket it went.

Next, he stapled the remaining six or eight cards together and handed them to me. “This gives you $200.00 credit, redeemable for travel anywhere in the Delta system.”

Wow, cool.

“When you get home, go to Delta.com and follow the instructions on the cards. Any questions, Mr. Smith?”

“Blue Van, Super Shuttle to LAX,” I repeated. “You sure you can get me there in time for a 2:20 flight?”

“No problem.”

“About my luggage — I assume it’s gone to Salt Lake City.”

“Yes. Too late to retrieve it. You’ll have to hang around Atlanta until it arrives at 10:30. A good time to use your meal voucher, right?”

Burbank Airport is a small facility, and five minutes later, I was standing at the Super Shuttle parking area in front of the terminal, along with a dozen other grim-faced wayfarers. A man whose nametag identified him as Talil was holding my voucher and punching buttons on some kind of odd handheld device.

“Okay, my friend,” he announced finally. “You’re good to go. Wait for the third blue van. Not first, not second. Third. Okay?”

“Roger.”

“Sir! Sir! Excuse me!” interrupted an elderly man with a cane, clearly in distress. He waggled a finger at Talil. “When will my van arrive?”

“Two minutes,” Talil replied wearily. “The second blue van, going to Pasadena.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am, indeed.”

“And what would be an appropriate tip for the driver?”

“Whatever your generosity will allow, sir.”

“Bull crap. How much should I tip?”

“I suggest several dollars, sir. The driver has a wife and two babies, so –”

“Okay, a couple of bucks. Thanks.”

The old man toddled off, slowly following his cane, and a tall, athletic young fellow wearing the uniform of a Delta pilot joined the group. Notable was his long, luxurious blond hair, perfectly coiffed, somehow impervious to the wind.

He handed some paperwork to Talil, who whipped out his handheld device again.

“Okay, my friend,” Talil said presently, “You’re good to go. Wait for the third blue van. Not first, not second, okay?”

“Gotcha,” said the pilot. He took out a cell phone and wandered away from the group.

Five minutes later, the first and second blue vans had come and gone, and only Talil, the pilot, and I remained. I wondered how Delta would handle things if I missed the 2:20 flight. Probably issue me another voucher.

Then the third blue van arrived. The driver was a chubby Latino fellow of about 40 with coke-bottle glasses, acne, and a jovial grin. The pilot climbed into the back seat. I buckled myself into the middle bench. The driver squeezed himself behind the wheel, and we were off.

“VEHICLE OPERATOR: CESAR AMPARO” said the plate over the driver’s head.

Cesar and the pilot, both LA born and raised, spent most of the trip discussing sports teams and venues. They lamented the fact that LA hasn’t had a pro football team since the Raiders returned to Oakland in 1994. Like most Angelinos, they yearn tragically for a football team. Any football team.

It occurred to me that maybe they’re being punished for stealing the Dodgers from Brooklyn in 1957.

I learned from the guys that a new stadium will be built soon on the site of the Los Angeles Convention Center — which cannot be reduced to rubble soon enough for my two tripmates. Their philosophy: if you build it, they will come. A team, that is.

Greater Los Angeles is a behemoth that sprawls over five counties, covers roughly 4,800 square miles, and is home to 17 million people. On the map, Burbank Airport and Los Angeles International Airport are a thumb-width apart.

On the ground, the distance between them is about 30 miles — 30 interminable, agonizing, traffic-choked miles.

At one point, we crept to the top of a hill on I-405 and got a panoramic view of the downtown area ahead. It was an impressive sight, made more so by the dense layer of smog under which the entire city was submerged.

“Wow!” I said, “The smog is unbelievable!”

The pilot leaned forward eagerly. “I’m glad you brought that up,” he said. “Most people aren’t aware that Los Angeles solved the smog problem a decade or more ago. What you’re seeing is mostly water vapor. It rolls in every night from the ocean. By mid-afternoon, the wind will dispel it.” He beamed with civic pride.

“Water vapor?” I repeated.

“Water vapor,” he confirmed.

“Not smog?”

“Nope.”

—————

To be continued…