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 hell 
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."