The Psychology Of An Airline Reservationist


                            I work  in a  central reservation office  of an  airline company.
          After more than 130,000 conversations  -- all ending with "Have a
          nice day and thanks for calling" -- I think it's fair to say that
          I'm a  survivor.  I've made it through  all the calls from adults
          who  didn't know  the  difference  between  a.m. and  p.m.,  from
          mothers  of military  recruits  who  didn't  trust  their  little
          soldiers to get it right, from the woman who called to get advice
          on how to handle her teenage daughter, from the man who wanted to
          ride inside the  kennel with his dog  so he wouldn't have  to pay
          for a  seat, from  the woman who  wanted to  know why she  had to
          change clothes on  our flight between Chicago and Washington (she
          was told she'd  have to make a change between the two cities) and
          from the man  who asked if  I'd like to  discuss the  existential
          humanism that emanates from  the soul of Habeeb.   In five years,
          I've  received more  than  a boot  camp  education regarding  the
          astonishing lack  of awareness  of our  American citizenry.  This
          lack  of awareness  encompasses  every  region  of  the  country,
          economic  status, ethnic background,  and level of  education. My
          battles have  included everything from  a man not knowing  how to
          spell  the  name  of  the  town  he  was  from,  to  another  not
          recognizing  the name of "Iowa" as being  a state, to another who
          thought  he had to  apply for a  foreign passport to  fly to West
          Virginia.   They are  the enemy and  they are  everywhere. In the
          history of the  world there has never been  as much communication
          and new things to learn as today. Yet, after asking a  woman from
          New York what  city she  wanted to  go to in  Arizona, she  asked
          "Oh...is it  a big place?"  I talked to a woman in Denver who had
          never heard of  Cincinnati, a man in Minneapolis  who didn't know
          there was  more than one  city in the South  ("wherever the South
          is"), a woman  in Nashville who asked, "Instead  of paying for my
          ticket,  can I  just  donate  the money  to  the National  Cancer
          Society?" and a man in  Dallas who tried to pay for his ticket by
          sticking quarters in the pay phone he was calling from.  I knew a
          full  invasion was on  the way when, shortly  after signing on, a
          man asked if we flew to exit  35 on the New Jersey Turnpike. Then
          a woman  asked if we flew to area code 304. And I knew I had been
          shipped  off to  the front  when I  was asked, "When  an airplane
          comes  in,  does   that  mean  it's  arriving  or  departing?"  I
          remembered the strict  training we had received --  four weeks of
          regimented  classes on  airline codes,  computer  technology, and
          telephone behavior -- and it allowed for no means of retaliation.
          We were told,  "it's real h--- out  there and ya got  no defense.
          You're going to hear things so silly you can't even make  'em up.
          You'll try to explain things to  your friends that you don't even
          believe yourself,  and just when  you think you've heard  it all,
          someone  will ask  if they can  get a  free round-trip  ticket to
          Europe by  reciting 'Mary Had  a Little Lamb'."   It wasn't  long
          before I suffered a direct hit from  a woman who wanted to fly to
          Hippopotamus, NY. After assuring her that there was no such city,
          she became irate and said it was a big city with a big airport. I
          asked  if Hippopotamus  was near  Albany or Syracuse.  It wasn't.
          Then I asked if it was near Buffalo. "Buffalo!" she said. "I knew
          it  was a big  animal!"   Then I  crawled out  of my  bunker long
          enough to be confronted by a man who tried to catch our flight in
          Maconga. I told him I'd  never heard of Maconga and we  certainly
          didn't  fly to  it. But he  insisted we  did and  to prove  it he
          showed me  his ticket: Macon,  GA.  I've  done nothing during  my
          conversational  confrontations   to  indicate  that   I  couldn't
          understand English.  But after  quoting the  round-trip fare  the
          passenger just asked for, he'll always ask: "...Is that one-way?"
          I  never understood why they always  question if what I just gave
          them is what they just asked for. But I've survived to direct the
          lost, correct the wrong, comfort the weary, teach  U.S. geography
          and give tutoring  in the spelling and pronunciation  of American
          cities. I  have been told things  like: "I can't go  stand-by for
          your flight because I'm in  a wheelchair."  I've been asked  such
          questions as: "I have a connecting flight to Knoxville. Does that
          mean the plane sticks to something?" And  once a man wanted to go
          to  Illinois. When  I  asked what  city  he wanted  to  go to  in
          Illinois, he said,  "Cleveland, Ohio." After 130,000  little wars
          of varying degrees,  I'm a wise old veteran  of the communication
          conflict and can  anticipate with accuracy what the  next move by
          "them" will be. Seventy-five percent won't have anything to write
          on. Half  will not have  thought about when they're  returning. A
          third won't know where they're going; 10 percent won't care where
          they're going. A few won't care if they get back. And  James will
          be  the first name  of half the  men who call.  But even if James
          doesn't care if he gets to the city he never heard of; even if he
          thinks he has  to change clothes on  our plane that may  stick to
          something; even if  he can't spell,  pronounce, or remember  what
          city he's returning to, he'll  get there because I've worked very
          hard to  make sure that he can.  Then with a click  of the phone,
          he'll become a part of my past and I'll be hoping the next caller
          at  least knows  what  day  it is.  Oh,  and James..."Thanks  for
          calling and have a nice day."