In the spring of 1997 after graduating college with a degree in English and enough of a GPA to have the terribly misleading phrase “cum laude” stamped on the diploma, I used my impressive four-year education to land a job taking phone reservations for Delta Airlines.
Over the next six months I was asked the following questions by certifiably adorable members of the American public:
“Does my 15 year old son qualify as a lap child?”
“Is it a full-size plane, or one of them computer planes? Them computer planes is too small.”
“Can I fly in the cargo bay with my cat?” (To which I replied, “I don’t see why not!”)
“Is Max there?”
“Give me the cheapest first-class fare you got. What specials you runnin’ in first-class?”
“Do you know where my car is parked?”
“Can you put me back on hold? That song was so pretty.”
“Do y’all sell those cute little stewardess outfits? I need me one.”
“Four hundred dollahs?! Four hundred dollahs?! My dead husband is gonna come kick your ass, Miss Thang, I ain’t got no four hundred dollahs!”
“Let me speak to the manager of Delta Airlines.”