My Baggage Thanks You

I'm always amazed when individuals "in charge" -- those wearing clothing emblazoned with company logos ... In uniform, running the shows, ostensibly, and holding down forts in exchange for their paychecks -- engage that representative power to help ...

You'd think this is something that should go without saying ... and in Europe, across much of the airline, food service, banking, car rental, hotel and other hospitality sectors, it does.

There is pride in a uniform "over there", still ... A sense of contributing to the common goals of a shared community as much as an overriding ... if not desire, than at least, obligation, to represent their company logos appropriately, and make an effort -- in a pleasant way -- to provide assistance, if and as needed, to other human beings.

In the States, this is often sorely lacking.  There is laziness.  Indolence.  Pushback.  Sore attitude.

All of the above being preferable, arguably, to stark indifference:  the apathetic numbness shown by employees too bored to give a shit.

Thus, happily, did I arrive to depart recently at one of New York's better known "third world" airports ...

For some reason, my flight was being "operated by" another airline - not the airline whose website I visited, and which collected my payment.

A different airline.

... Ergo, a different airport terminal than the one in front of which a taxi deposited me and my baggage.

To my further dismay, I realized I was already about 45 minutes from my scheduled departure; and walking (or running!) between hugely spaced, unconnected terminals at this particular third world airport would not be an option.

So I flailed around trying to find a ride for a minute ... then fumed as I heard a harried shuttle driver bark into a dispatcher's radio, "Ten minutes!  Be there in five to ten minutes!"

I waited.  I fumed.  A shuttle finally arrived, and I climbed aboard with a pilot or two ... a baggage handler ... and sped off toward the correct terminal ... which again, for some reason, did not belong to the airline I was supposedly flying!

Praying this wasn't some sort of mistake (or a sick prank ... Deceived again!) ... I climbed over the pilots, the baggage handler ... Did a lap dance with an elderly couple ... and leapt from the shuttle van.  Ran into the airport and up to the kiosk ... Swiped this, and entered that ...

NO!

My flight, by this point departing in only thirty minutes, was already closed.  As instructed on-screen, I went to 'see attendant' ..

To make a long story medium-length, this lovely lady loved her job.   Respected the uniform she wore, and the corporate logo she represented, and skillfully, helpfully, whisked me to the front of the security line ... Rock star-like bypassing the holiday throngs, with a hastily printed standby ticket for any random later flight (This lovely lady knew things! ;) ... so I was able to get to the gate and catch my flight.  Against the clock, and against all odds.

I'm on that flight now ... and as the sun sets above the clouds, it dawns:

We Americans ... Hectic, obnoxious, harried, demanding, rude, preferring to be left alone; inconveniencing others when we're inconvenienced (often through nobody's fault but our own) ...

Or I, in any case; ME, American ... get the service and treatment too often deserved.

"Freedom, Struggle", ©Jeff Glovsky

The Meaning of Jimmy

I wonder what happened to Jimmy, sometimes.

My first professional gig in New York, my first actual job there, was as a light and sound engineer at a cabaret theater called The Ballroom.

Jimmy, ostensibly, was the floor manager of the bar and restaurant part ... no doubt having taken the job proudly; won the position from numerous other qualified applicants and fulfilled his duties with zest and purpose ... once.

By the time I knew Jimmy, he'd become installed:  a figurehead, fixture at the end of the bar, where he'd plant each day and into the night, quaffing cup after cup of port and vino ... Occasionally yelling out, "86!" - whether the kitchen was actually out of a menu item or not.

It didn't matter to Jimmy, who scarcely realized where he was by the middle of each nightly shift ... let alone who he had bartending or waiting tables for him (who he was "managing", in other words) ... who might have been playing in the cabaret ... or whether blurting out "86!" in a crowded restaurant, for no good reason, was a good idea.

In work, as in life, there are comforts, nostalgia, stagnation, complacency, habits (for we are creatures of all!) ... which creep in and combine with routine, daily boredoms, lethargy, apathy, to freeze one in place ... annihilating zest and purpose, rendering one meaningless.

I wonder what happened to Jimmy, sometimes ... and sense, in the end, we are all of us, Jimmy.

(re)Tired Images

photos no longer used online here

Audio / Vi(m)eo

Photo(s) by Jglo

*

Fearless Failure

Whenever a gig folds, I expand ...

I wrote that twenty-some years ago, in a fit of exhaltation, having been sent home from a nice-paying job because -- as it was put to me -- my bright, loud '90s tie was too wide.  I think there may have been stars all over it.  I remember a guy I worked with bursting out into "Star Man" -- this tremulous, pitch-perfect Bowie noise -- whenever he saw me throughout that day.  We laughed about it ... Me calling him "Ziggy" ... Me laughing not with, but at myself ... and then my gig folded.

I got sent home.

Looking back, it's doubtful my neckwear was the (only) problem.  Perhaps I was bored.  A bit understimulated ... I was working in a hotel environment, where customer service and propriety were the norms.  Probably singing "Ballroom has broken", loudly -- this excellent, tremulous Bowie noise! -- to the tune of "Morning Has Broken", or barking gibberish in German, didn't help back then with the overall perception of me as a qualified, team-oriented AV professional (nor one with a full set of crayons in the box, for that matter!).

... I got sent home.

That paled, though, in comparison to being called up by an employer on New Year's Eve once, after work, and being bluntly informed that that day had been my last ... The subsequent year getting off to a flying stop, as I lay on the floor of New York's Port Authority bus station, waiting for daylight on January 1st, and my wife to return from upstate with our house keys.

There are several -- nay, hundreds -- of other examples, of me and misfortune caressing each other ... Each time, with each failure, and each lesson learned, there's potential, resolve not to get it wrong next time!

There are realizations, and steely damn insights, and fury ... Self-loathings with each new awareness...

But work-wise, I've learned it comes down to this:  If the job doesn't fit you, you really should quit.

If the job don't fit, you gotta quit.

If you're in a rut and it doesn't feel right ... bored to wit's end, and you're understimulated ... Singing songs to pass the time, or acting foolish through discomfort -- You don't feel you belong, so you're creating discomfiture -- it's time to assess.  Call timeout, and if necessary, take yourself out of the game.

Don't wait to be benched.  Or, for your gig to be folded ...

Take a deep breath.  Expand.

Be exhalted ...