Last year, I racked up 147,000 air miles. To help cope, I got TSA Pre-check certified so I don’t have to take off my shoes, I have my Global Re-entry card so I can dash through immigration, and I always get priority seating on my airline of choice. Normally, things go well.
But then recently, my four-day itinerary had me flying from Dallas to Omaha, from Omaha through Chicago to Memphis, then Memphis through Chicago to LaGuardia, and then back to Dallas. The first few flights were no problem. But then: Chicago happened.
Although we landed on time, our gate was not available. So they sent us to a holding area where we sat. And sat. Finally, I voiced my concern that I would miss my connection to the flight attendant. She paid me little mind, but a fellow passenger said it was a five-minute run to my gate. So worst case, I hoof it.
When at last the door swung open, I had 15 minutes before my flight was to leave. Now, my 55-year-old legs had not dashed in a while, but I was doing great, calling out, “Runner coming!” as I dodged women with strollers and harried business travelers. As I turned into the H concourse, there was a baggage carrier up ahead and coming my way. I shouted again. “Runner!” But he did not change course and neither did I. I ran face first into his trolley.
The impact knocked me to my backside, but worse, it knocked out my capped front tooth (an old football injury and a story for another day). So now I am late for my flight, bleeding, holding my tooth in my hand. But I gathered myself and kept going arriving at Gate H 17 with a full 10 minutes to spare. But the door was closed. I hurried to the counter, told the agent my story, showed her the gap in my face where my once pleasant smile used to hang around, and in record time, she made it clear she could not have cared less.
And that hurt.
As a priority flyer, I figured I was entitled to a little sympathy, maybe even an apology. But not from this gate agent. All she said was, “Ticket please.”
She then held out her hand while I bent at the waist, hands on my knees trying to catch my breath and reclaim what little dignity I had left. I gave her my ticket, she pounded against the keyboard.
“I have you on the next flight at 6:30.”
“Still in first class?” Okay, I was a mess, but my priorities were intact.
“Yes.”
So off I went to clean up. When I returned to the gate, the flight notification board said the plane was now due to leave at 7:15 p.m. Another weather related delay, I figured.
So I sat and waited.
Later, I lined up with the others when the time came to board. When the gate attendant swiped my ticket, the reader it didn’t accept it. He did it again. Still rejected.
“You were supposed to be on the 5:35 flight, right?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get this ticket?”
“From her,” I said, pointing at the unsympathetic gate agent. He leaned over and showed her the ticket.
“Did you issue him this?”
She looked at it and said, “Yes.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“You’re not on this flight. You were on the 6:30 flight out of H6.”
Given it was now 7:10 PM, I was not happy to hear about this. And then it happened, that final straw that broke my already strained back.
“I told you,” she said, “you needed to go to gate H6.”
I could not believe it. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did too,” she said.
“Did not!”
“Did too.”
“Did not!” I shouted, feeling oh so 4 years old.
“Did too. You just didn’t listen.”
Could I have missed that little detail while huffing and puffing and wiping sweat from my brow? Maybe so. But a little common courtesy could have fixed that. For instance, she could have handed me a tissue to sop up my gums, offered to have a driver come take me to my new gate. But instead, she did as little as possible. Why? Because she didn’t care.
A while back, my pastor started his message by saying to the congregation:
“The opposite of hot is . . “
Parishioners hesitated, then some finally said, “Cold?”
“The opposite of light is . . .”
“Dark?” we said, starting to find our footing.
“The opposite of hard is . . .”
“Soft!” we said confidently.
“And the opposite of love is . . .”
“Hate!” we shouted as one.
“Wrong,” he said. “The opposite of love is apathy.”
Apathy kills customer loyalty. Fortunately, I rarely bump up against apathy’s uncaring face. But my tooth-missing-mug came face-to-face with apathy in Chicago that evening. And like any illness that can destroy the whole body, apathy in an organization, like the cancer it is, should be cut out as soon as diagnosed.
Randy Thompson is senior managing director at Cushman & Wakefield Inc. Contact him at [email protected].
