yip yip yip yip boiiinnnggg
Jan. 22nd, 2005 10:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7Customer: "What time do you close?"
Me: "When you leave."
Last flight for the night, United Express flight 7751 to Chicago O'Hare, was scheduled to depart at 5:45. Every other flight on the board was cancelled.
"When that flight leaves," my manager said, "you can leave."
Asked each of the customers at the bar where they were tryin' to get. "Chicago," each one said.
"United Flight 7751?" I asked.
Surprise. "I think so," they'd say. Some consulted their tickets. "How'd you know?"
"Last flight still scheduled to leave tonight," I answered. "The fella down the end of the bar has wireless internet on his laptop and is monitoring its progress. I'll keep you posted."
It's scheduled for 5:45 departure. Delayed from a 4:45 departure. But still on that schedule, the lone green line on a huge red CANCELED departures board.
"We want flight 7754," Wireless Internet Man said. "Departing O'Hare. That is the plane and crew that is supposed to land in Buffalo and pick us up, then fly back to O'Hare."
Time passes. I sell some beers. The passengers discuss their eventual destinations. "I'm trying to get home to Madison, Wisconsin," the blonde twentysomething in the down vest drinking Sam Adams Winter Lager (bottle) says. "But I wouldn't mind staying here an extra night."
"I've got a connecting flight to San Diego," the older gentleman in the yellow button-down shirt said. He was drinking Corona, with lime, but just one. And an ice water. "I'm headed to Hawaii, to go surfing."
"I just want to get home," sighed Wireless Internet Man, who was drinking Miller Lite drafts. "If we get to Chicago and your connecting flights aren't taking off, you can all come over to my house."
The night grows later. "Flight 7754 is in flight!" W. I. Man says, happy. "O'Hare let it take off! It's left the gate and is in flight! It's actually coming to Buffalo! We have a chance!"
A new customer, on the end, drinking a double Maker's Mark on the rocks, looks over his shoulder. "Why's our departure time still listed as being in forty minutes? The flight takes an hour and a half."
Debate is held, concerning the time difference. A woman in pink jacket and lipstick sits at the bar, orders a merlot, is disappointed that the kitchen is closed, wonders whether she'll make her connecting flight to San Francisco. O'Hare never shuts down, but CNN confirms they're getting hammered with this storm. (As is (Washington) Dulles, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, (New York) JFK (boy are they ever! Jetblue's ticket agents went home at noon, we think).... Even Atlanta seems to be getting a piece of the high-wind action.) But if Flight 7754 is in flight, then planes are taking off from O'Hare.
They send home the cashier working beside me, manning the grab-n-go section. Now I am the only worker left in the entire post-security side of the airport, except for the cleaners and a sole, bored manager who keeps looking daggers at the single green time listed on the departures board. United flight 7751. Bastards.
"I travel a lot," W.I. says, sipping his fourth Miller Lite. (His first was 45 minutes before I even showed up. He's far from drunk.) "I've been stranded a lot of places. But never overnight." He thinks. "Oh. Except Sept. 11th. I was in St. Louis and was supposed to leave early on the 12th. I wound up driving home."
The manager pulls me aside and briefs me on how to close the place. No big deal, not too hard. The other manager wanders by and is casually an asshole. I smile pleasantly at him. I like him less and less. But that hardly matters. I watch out the window: a plane lands. Apparently, it's just flown in from Mexico. I laugh at the very thought of getting off a plane from Mexico into... this. But we're getting less snow than New York. It seems our lake effect hasn't even been invoked. Good. I've seen lake effect and it's big fat fluffy snow because the lakes are warm. This is cold stingy nasty grainy lightweight snow that you get when it's really too cold to be snowing. This is blizzard snow. This is mean snow.
"They changed the time," W. I. Man says, his look of hope fading.
"What time?" Maker's Mark on the end has been joined by Grey Goose With Olives, a fugitive from the US Air Club which doesn't serve alcohol on Saturdays. (US Air partners with United at times and will readily switch passengers between the two airlines.)
"The departure time. Our departure time. For flight 7751." W.I. looks wary.
"What time?" I ask, my hopes of leaving by six squashing slowly.
"8:15," he says grimly.
Ripples of horror spread throughout the bar, and across to Gate 12, where the passengers are sitting.
I realize that I may never go home. The manager (not the asshole one, the nice one, who's helping the porter clean) looks weary and dismayed. We could be here all night if they don't either board or cancel this goddamn flight.
"Oh crap," says W.I. Man. "It never took off. Flight 7754 didn't really take off. It left the gate, with passengers on board and luggage and fuel and the rest of it. So they upgraded its status to 'in-flight'. But it's sitting on the runway. it never took off."
Dismay spreads through the bar. I sell another Maker's Mark, another merlot, some ice water. Three Labatt's for a trio of Asian travelers who are pissed they can't have wings because the kitchen is closed.
Finally, the truth comes out. The Hawaii-bound Corona drinker comes back over from the gate, whence he had wandered. "It's canceled," he calls out disgustedly.
Shock. Horror.
But not, really, surprise. We've been watching the plows go up and down the runway, and yes a few planes have landed, but it's snowing blue blazes out there, little stingy sharp flakes, the kind that won't be plowed but blow around and around and stick to de-icer. And it's snowing like that everywhere.
"Last call," the manager says. "Close the bar."
I collect my open tabs, close out the register, and wish everyone good luck.
"What's the nearest airport?" W.I. Man asks.
"Rochester's an hour-fifteen that way," I say, pointing, "but they're getting more snow than us. Toronto's three-something that way," and I point west and hook north, "but they're getting snow."
"Cincinatti?" he asks.
"They're getting snow too," I answer. "Dunno how far. Ask Mapquest. And ask Weather.com too."
You know, why couldn't United have had the balls of every other airline and admit they were beat? Just close and let these people get started on their alternate plans.
"My ride is in North Tonawanda," Two Merlots, wearing pink, says in horror. NT is a north-west suburb of Buffalo. The airport's in Cheektowaga, a south-east suburb. (Not very south. But. NT's not near anything. Ugh. And the roads? A nightmare.)
My ride, however showed up early, having received a text message from me linking my fate to that of United flight 7751, and seeing its status. Yay Dave!
I was the second-last person still out there. The last? A lone cashier at the Niagara Grille, selling cold food just before the security checkpoint to console those still waiting for the last scheduled arrival, which was looking less and less likely. Buffalo's runway was clear; I watched the plows in formation, four wide, the last one projectile-plowing the shoulder in a majestic white plume, moving in a half-vee down the big north-south runway. But all the other airports across the northeast and down the seaboard were closed. And JFK? They're getting two feet of not lake-effect, but ocean-effect snow. Poor bastards.
Who wants to guess what'll happen tomorrow? I'm there until 8:15 regardless. And guess what? This last paycheck, it seems they're not paying me overtime even if I am there more than 8 hours at a stretch. Oh boy! There goes the only money I ever made at Club Nobody Comes Here.
Me: "When you leave."
Last flight for the night, United Express flight 7751 to Chicago O'Hare, was scheduled to depart at 5:45. Every other flight on the board was cancelled.
"When that flight leaves," my manager said, "you can leave."
Asked each of the customers at the bar where they were tryin' to get. "Chicago," each one said.
"United Flight 7751?" I asked.
Surprise. "I think so," they'd say. Some consulted their tickets. "How'd you know?"
"Last flight still scheduled to leave tonight," I answered. "The fella down the end of the bar has wireless internet on his laptop and is monitoring its progress. I'll keep you posted."
It's scheduled for 5:45 departure. Delayed from a 4:45 departure. But still on that schedule, the lone green line on a huge red CANCELED departures board.
"We want flight 7754," Wireless Internet Man said. "Departing O'Hare. That is the plane and crew that is supposed to land in Buffalo and pick us up, then fly back to O'Hare."
Time passes. I sell some beers. The passengers discuss their eventual destinations. "I'm trying to get home to Madison, Wisconsin," the blonde twentysomething in the down vest drinking Sam Adams Winter Lager (bottle) says. "But I wouldn't mind staying here an extra night."
"I've got a connecting flight to San Diego," the older gentleman in the yellow button-down shirt said. He was drinking Corona, with lime, but just one. And an ice water. "I'm headed to Hawaii, to go surfing."
"I just want to get home," sighed Wireless Internet Man, who was drinking Miller Lite drafts. "If we get to Chicago and your connecting flights aren't taking off, you can all come over to my house."
The night grows later. "Flight 7754 is in flight!" W. I. Man says, happy. "O'Hare let it take off! It's left the gate and is in flight! It's actually coming to Buffalo! We have a chance!"
A new customer, on the end, drinking a double Maker's Mark on the rocks, looks over his shoulder. "Why's our departure time still listed as being in forty minutes? The flight takes an hour and a half."
Debate is held, concerning the time difference. A woman in pink jacket and lipstick sits at the bar, orders a merlot, is disappointed that the kitchen is closed, wonders whether she'll make her connecting flight to San Francisco. O'Hare never shuts down, but CNN confirms they're getting hammered with this storm. (As is (Washington) Dulles, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, (New York) JFK (boy are they ever! Jetblue's ticket agents went home at noon, we think).... Even Atlanta seems to be getting a piece of the high-wind action.) But if Flight 7754 is in flight, then planes are taking off from O'Hare.
They send home the cashier working beside me, manning the grab-n-go section. Now I am the only worker left in the entire post-security side of the airport, except for the cleaners and a sole, bored manager who keeps looking daggers at the single green time listed on the departures board. United flight 7751. Bastards.
"I travel a lot," W.I. says, sipping his fourth Miller Lite. (His first was 45 minutes before I even showed up. He's far from drunk.) "I've been stranded a lot of places. But never overnight." He thinks. "Oh. Except Sept. 11th. I was in St. Louis and was supposed to leave early on the 12th. I wound up driving home."
The manager pulls me aside and briefs me on how to close the place. No big deal, not too hard. The other manager wanders by and is casually an asshole. I smile pleasantly at him. I like him less and less. But that hardly matters. I watch out the window: a plane lands. Apparently, it's just flown in from Mexico. I laugh at the very thought of getting off a plane from Mexico into... this. But we're getting less snow than New York. It seems our lake effect hasn't even been invoked. Good. I've seen lake effect and it's big fat fluffy snow because the lakes are warm. This is cold stingy nasty grainy lightweight snow that you get when it's really too cold to be snowing. This is blizzard snow. This is mean snow.
"They changed the time," W. I. Man says, his look of hope fading.
"What time?" Maker's Mark on the end has been joined by Grey Goose With Olives, a fugitive from the US Air Club which doesn't serve alcohol on Saturdays. (US Air partners with United at times and will readily switch passengers between the two airlines.)
"The departure time. Our departure time. For flight 7751." W.I. looks wary.
"What time?" I ask, my hopes of leaving by six squashing slowly.
"8:15," he says grimly.
Ripples of horror spread throughout the bar, and across to Gate 12, where the passengers are sitting.
I realize that I may never go home. The manager (not the asshole one, the nice one, who's helping the porter clean) looks weary and dismayed. We could be here all night if they don't either board or cancel this goddamn flight.
"Oh crap," says W.I. Man. "It never took off. Flight 7754 didn't really take off. It left the gate, with passengers on board and luggage and fuel and the rest of it. So they upgraded its status to 'in-flight'. But it's sitting on the runway. it never took off."
Dismay spreads through the bar. I sell another Maker's Mark, another merlot, some ice water. Three Labatt's for a trio of Asian travelers who are pissed they can't have wings because the kitchen is closed.
Finally, the truth comes out. The Hawaii-bound Corona drinker comes back over from the gate, whence he had wandered. "It's canceled," he calls out disgustedly.
Shock. Horror.
But not, really, surprise. We've been watching the plows go up and down the runway, and yes a few planes have landed, but it's snowing blue blazes out there, little stingy sharp flakes, the kind that won't be plowed but blow around and around and stick to de-icer. And it's snowing like that everywhere.
"Last call," the manager says. "Close the bar."
I collect my open tabs, close out the register, and wish everyone good luck.
"What's the nearest airport?" W.I. Man asks.
"Rochester's an hour-fifteen that way," I say, pointing, "but they're getting more snow than us. Toronto's three-something that way," and I point west and hook north, "but they're getting snow."
"Cincinatti?" he asks.
"They're getting snow too," I answer. "Dunno how far. Ask Mapquest. And ask Weather.com too."
You know, why couldn't United have had the balls of every other airline and admit they were beat? Just close and let these people get started on their alternate plans.
"My ride is in North Tonawanda," Two Merlots, wearing pink, says in horror. NT is a north-west suburb of Buffalo. The airport's in Cheektowaga, a south-east suburb. (Not very south. But. NT's not near anything. Ugh. And the roads? A nightmare.)
My ride, however showed up early, having received a text message from me linking my fate to that of United flight 7751, and seeing its status. Yay Dave!
I was the second-last person still out there. The last? A lone cashier at the Niagara Grille, selling cold food just before the security checkpoint to console those still waiting for the last scheduled arrival, which was looking less and less likely. Buffalo's runway was clear; I watched the plows in formation, four wide, the last one projectile-plowing the shoulder in a majestic white plume, moving in a half-vee down the big north-south runway. But all the other airports across the northeast and down the seaboard were closed. And JFK? They're getting two feet of not lake-effect, but ocean-effect snow. Poor bastards.
Who wants to guess what'll happen tomorrow? I'm there until 8:15 regardless. And guess what? This last paycheck, it seems they're not paying me overtime even if I am there more than 8 hours at a stretch. Oh boy! There goes the only money I ever made at Club Nobody Comes Here.
Oh, the irony!
Date: 2005-01-23 02:50 pm (UTC)Not being able to have wings at an airport. Deep.
I woke up this morning the find my city utterly buried. I just know all the local newscasts are going to be comparing this to '79 (for which I was not present).
Luckily, I was at the home of the owners of the theatre I normally go to on Sunday mornings last night, and they told me they'd be cancelling today's screening. Otherwise, I'd be out there, bravely trudging off to Harvard Square... No I wouldn't.
--qwerty