airport, I use the Express South lot. Shuttle buses come to where you parked and ferry you to the terminal. Well, ferries are usually a smooth ride. These buggies bounce and rattle passengers like a buckboard on the prairie.
It has always bothered me that they run this shuttle thing like a military campaign. Every grubby little bouncing bus has a driver who is required to report his or her every move via radio link to someone pretending to be a dispatcher.
"Two onboard Unit 62 departing South heading for Charlie," the driver speaks into the microphone. Back comes someone repeating, "Unit 62 with two for Charlie." This means bus number 62 has two passengers for terminal C. I have this image of uniformed dispatchers in the command center tracking buses on a big map like NORAD plotting the course of missiles launched across the North Pole.
Fine, they want to break up the boredom of driving the same two mile loop 500 times a day by pretending to be commandos -- I've got no problem with that. But last night, upon arriving back to Express South Parking during the coldest night of the year and freezing rain turning the highways treacherous, my battery is dead. Wind chill is below zero. I crank that key a couple of times and hear only the click-click-click of despair. I'm quite a way off the beaten path in this parking lot. I see a shuttle bouncing it's way toward me. I run about 100 yards in the sleet to flag down the driver who I can see chatting officially on the walkie-talkie. She sees me and rolls down the window. I tell her my car won't start and could she radio for help (that's what I told her -- making it sound as commando like as possible).
"Yes, sir, I'll let someone know you're out here."
I put my head down in the wind and finally get back to my car. 20 minutes go by. Shuttles creep in and out of that lot every minute, but not a one came near me. I'm in the car, so at least I'm out of the wind, but my feet are starting to go numb. Not good when you're a diabetic! So I got out my cell phone and by its tiny glow found the Triple-A card in my wallet and gave them a call. As the operator was verifying my member information, they found out I had moved.
"Can I update your address, sir?"
"Look, I'm freezing out here," I said, getting a little impatient. "Can't we update the mailing list after you get someone headed this way?" By her accent, I could tell she was Canadian (something about the way she said, "We're sending someone oot there.") OK so how likely is someone from Canada to take pity on anyone sitting in merely a little freezing rain. "It will be within an hour," she said.
About a half hour later, I get a call from the Auto Rescue driver trying to figure out where I am. I'm thinking he's approaching Express South. Turns out he's not sure about how to find the airport. He's never been to the airport. He asks me to stay on the phone with him and guide him to where I am. I'm telling him what signs to look for, only this guy can't read. I hear him talking to someone who's in the truck with him. I tell him "I'm in the Express South lot" and have to repeat that about eight times. He keeps having me repeat "Express South" and then he says, "south express -- is that the airline?"
"No! it's a big parking lot!"
"What's the name of it?"
I'm thankful for the increase in my blood pressure as I actually begin to feel a bit of warmth.
So finally the driver sees the Express South sign. I can see his headlights emerge from the mist as he comes over the bridge. I don't know what I was expecting -- maybe a big tow truck or a heavy duty vehicle of some sort. He's driving a beat up, little red pick up truck with a flashing yellow light on top. Perfect! This is getting sillier and sillier. At least I'll freeze to death with a smile on my face.
When you come to the entrance to Express South, there is a welcoming booth with usually two or three people standing around. They have been trained to ask everyone attempting to enter Express South two questions. 1. Do you know your terminal? and 2. Would you like a bottle of water? My Auto Rescuer pulls up to the entrance booth. I can hear his conversation with the welcomers because he keeps me on the phone.
"Do you know what terminal you're going to?" the girl asks.
Genius says, "I'm here to jump-start a customer's car."
"What?" she says, obviously confused. "Do you know what terminal he at?"
"He says in the south express."
"Well, I don't know where that is," she says.
I'm yelling in the phone. "Express South ...tell her I'm in this parking lot!"
Genius tells her he's got me on the phone, that I can see him, and I'm going to guide him to my space.
"Do you know what space he's in?" the attendant asks.
"B1031," I tell him.
"T301," he says. He's not only illiterate; he's dyslexic!
We finally get the parking place correctly identified. I knew we were making progress when she asked him if he wanted a bottle of water.
He comes through the gate and as he gets closer to me, I jump out of the car and wave him down.
In less than 30 seconds he jumps my battery. I then discover he has a little girl with him. She's maybe nine or ten. She is wearing only a hoodie and Genius is in shirtsleeves! After a few moments it becomes clear that she is his literary companion as she has to read the VIN number of the car to him.
I signed the paper, thanked him for his coming, and anxiously got on my way. As you leave, they have a person who helps you put your ticket in the gate. Honestly, they must have reserved this lot for idiots. She, too, has a radio on which to tune in the drama of running a shuttle service.
"Are you the guy who needed the boost," asked the girl, bundled head to toe like an Eskimo.
"Yea, that's me," I tried to say through chattering teeth.
"You know, you coulda' called us and we'd send someone to give you that boost."
I explained to her I had risked falling on the sleet-soaked tarmac to flag down one of their drivers who I had asked to radio in for help.
"You did," she said surprised. "I'm so sorry. I do apologize."
In the Christmas spirit, she said, "Would you like a bottle of water?"
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