Today was the day.
The day.
The DAY!
My first flight as a Southwest airlines A-List member. I had reached the pinnacle, the apex, the zenith of the frequent flyer club and oh how I would revel in this glory enjoyed by the Few. My fingers twitched as my mouse moved across the computer screen. www.southwest.com. The anticipation mounted. The all too familiar home screen greeted me, my frequent flyer number shone in its unassuming place along the right margin. I entered my password. Welcome Joshua, A-List member, I strained to stifle a giggle. Waves of ecstasy rolled like a summer breeze over wheaten fields as I searched for a flight from RDU to DTW (to the lay members of the audience, that’s Raleigh-Durham (like Bull Durham) to Detroit Metro). Even the hourglass icon fairly pulsed with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning. I envisioned myself atop a gilded litter, borne down the jet-way by comely handmaidens chosen singly for the appointed task of bearing The Chosen, the A-Listers.
The next screen found a list of flights, 3:10 too early, I would never make it, even pushing the 4 cylinders of the mazda rental heap to redline couldn’t cut the 90 minute drive time from Nowherestown North Caroline to Raleigh in half . . . 7:40 too late, images of a mangled green Jeep liberty smoking along the shoulder of I-94, it’s exhausted driver asleep at the wheel, no, not today . . . There! 5:55, perfection, enough time to make the flight, an arrival early enough to allow a sleep-free drive home.
Click “Choose This Flight”.
Business Select? BAH! I was A-List, I needed not the alluring succubus of Business Select, not as long as I was one of the chosen; my puissance flowed freely as the mouse clicked “next”.
It was with mild trepidation that this process, despite being of an elevated nature, seemed familiarly pedestrian. . . never mind that, yes, send my messages via text, thank you for remembering how lazy I am and pre-populating my phone number, yes send an email, wait, no send it to my work address please, yes use my business AmEx (I could never afford to travel like this!), check, this is a business flight. . .
Click “Purchase flight”
Sweat beaded above my braided brow, it was done. Time to check-in and revel in the glory of an
A-List status boarding position.
Click “Check-In”.
Even though the speed of the modern interweb is measured in milliseconds, each nano-pulse seemed an eternity, countless weeks, scores of flights were culminating in this moment.
An eternity passed.
Photons and electrons danced along myriad strands of cable, copper and fiber married in a technological orgy of wonder bearing the information to the computer screen, electrons excited rare metals, teasing photons from improbable places, CMYK, RGB, soaring at ‘C’ to my eager retinas. Muscle fibers, coaxed by nerve endings and electrical impulses clenched my fists around the cool polymer arm of the chair.
Finally. It arrived.
Boarding group B-27.
?
. . .
Stage 1 – Denial
Despite being machines borne of logic, computers were inherently faulty. In a former life, I was paid good money to resolve these idiosyncrasies, so I deem myself an adequate, if not exceptional judge on the subject. A computer error, yes, that was it. I’ll blame technology, luddites unite!
Reboot.
Three times.
Reconnect, and www.southwest.com, freq. flyer number, password, logged in, elevated blood pressure slowly descending to normal, deep breathes, a glitch, a hiccup, a minor flaw in the matrix. Nature has a way of working out the kinks, very hawkingesque indeed.
Click “My Flights”
There it is, my distress must have been a minor fugue, brought on by the excitement, the caffeine, the bit of undone potato I had for lunch.
Click “check boarding status”
All was beginning to normalize.
Boarding pass. . .
Boarding Group B-27.
Was I not A-List? But there, staring at me from below, “A-List”, printed clearly in stark black. . . none blacker. Then. . . they know, southwest knows, but how. . . could they know? Mere inches above those illustrious words was the dire bane condemning me to the ranks of the hoi polloi, the unwashed and huddled masses, the b-listers! A fate worse than. . . well a really bad thing.
What was happening??? Call Kevin. . . he’ll know.
Stage 2 – Anger
“WHAT THE F#%$&!!!!!!!???”
Stage 3 – Bargaining
I met Kevin for the first time through a phone call on my newly issued Pacific Bell cell phone. It was roughly the size if a VW Bug, the new kind. . .and the old kind too, had an antenna and the game ‘Snake’, the best game ever made for any cell phone ever. Suck it Gen-Y!
He was to train me to take his place as a field service technician as he was moving into a new position with a new company. Eventually that turned into a good job installing crappy software in far off places. For this reason he travelled.
A lot.
He had reached preferred status on nearly all airlines everywhere, from American Airlines to Uganda Air, he was Road Warrior incarnate. Living out of suitcases, more at home in a Marriott than his actual . . . well. . . home. If anyone would know, he would.
He would know.
The phone rang and his familiar voice answered, I had no time for small talk, my straights were desperate.
“Kevin”, I said “something’s wrong.”
His immediate worry was ameliorated as soon as I explained my plight. His explanation brought bitter bile to my clenched throat. A-List only assures automatically the best boarding position available at that time, there’s no requirement to log in and desperately hit the refresh button 24 hours in advance of a flight, A-List will queue you in, no interaction required.
“but”, I pleaded, “I’m A-List”
“doesn’t matter” he claimed.
Doesn’t matter? It matters to me. . .
Stage 1 (again) – Denial
“No, it can’t be. . .that’s impossible!” spittle spewed from the corner of my mouth in a desperate plea of understanding. Certainly he couldn’t grasp that I was A-List, he wasn’t getting it.
“Forget it. BYE!”, if a cell phone could be slammed, I slammed it.
Stage 4 – Depression
Why was this happening to me? Why, after all the flights, the layovers at Midway and Baltimore, the middle seats. . .oh, the middle seats, why Southwest, why have you forsaken me??!?!? It’s not fair, none of this, emptiness, the dark, falling. . .
falling
falling
Into the abysssssssss.
Stage 5 - Acceptance
The dull ache of my shoulder and back lay in stark contrast to the visions of grandeur held mere hours prior. Shoulders aching due to the proximity of my seatmate, a young girl, who I think is reading this as I write it. . .you can read it if you want to, sweetheart, but turn your iPod down, you’ll lose your hearing listening to music so loud.
My back aching because the worn seats are 30 years old.
Here I was again, A-List B-Listed, six miles above the deep violet blanket of twilight below, on my way home.
Epilogue
Both me and my luggage made it home, to a peaceful sleeping family, the dog greeted me at the door and I kissed the slumbering kids good night. Seeing their cherub cheeks, ruddy with sleep was by far better than any A-List.
