Caveat emptor: Latin for "Buyer, beware!" or "We live in a post-9/11 world – airlines can do whatever they want!"
I despise AirTran.
Beyond its history of wretched customer-service and incompetence at elementary arithmetic (if x= the number of seats on a plane; the number of tickets sold must be ≤ x, as x – x = 0), its penchant for dishonesty leaves me colder than most of the Kennedys.
For whatever reason, AirTran sees nothing wrong with promising and accepting payment for services it doesn't provide. Apparently, the notion of contractual obligation is every bit as alien to them as are restraint and decorum to a coke-addicted Midtown hair-burner. As they're an American company, I'm sure they adhere to the "Let your 'yes' be your 'yes' and your 'no' your 'no,'" or "My handshake is my bond" schools of business ethics – in their own minds. Outside the Rove-ian Wonderland of "creat[ing] [one's] own reality," though, I suspect that they learned of yes's, no's, handshakes and bonds at Jonathan Pollard's feet rather than at The Savior's or even Donald Trump's.
AirTran first pissed me off in July of 2007, in an unprovoked assault on my "personal economy" (to nick a term from a local neocon pundit). I'd booked a morning flight to Denver's hideous, Lovecraftian airport, wherein I'd arranged to meet "Animal" MacYoung between noon and 13:00. Being a naïve, dewy-eyed lad of 39, who had yet to divest himself of the Randian "value for value" myth, I'd assumed that paying AirScam the price they requested to get me there between noon and 13:00 would prove as mutually beneficial as any transaction between two rational, consenting adults.
Unfortunately, rational adults don't make AirTran's policies. That responsibility, it seems, devolves to a roomful of malevolent, sticky-faced, sticky-fingered "special needs" children who arrive at work every morning in a faintly brimstone-smelling Blue Bird Handi-Bus.
Arriving at the gate, I was told that my flight was overbooked – but that for eighty dollars more, I could upgrade my ticket to business class. Resisting the urge to tell the obsequious attendant (there's nothing I hate more than the kind of pantywaist who waxes apologetic whilst picking my pocket on behalf of his handlers) that he could kiss my rosy Scots-Irish posterior gratis, I politely asked the gent whether he was a crack baby or merely illiterate. I showed him my printed confirmation (and empty wallet), offered to help him with his ABC's ("Bean," I said, patting him on the head, "should be near the top of the list, Sparky!") and politely inquired as to the exact nature of the fucking problem. Just as politely, he informed me that AirTran had sold more seats than were actually available, and that catching that particular flight would cost me another eighty bucks.
Having no real choice, and having been refused a refund (although I still need to research his claim that federal law allows airlines to breach contracts with impunity -- it sounds a tad fishy), I submitted to this extortion.
Had it been a matter of business ("Be at the meeting at 14:00, sharp…") I'd have sued AirTran. As it happened, though, I only risked angering a close friend who had driven 25 miles to pick me up, and who had better and more profitable ways to spend his time. As I care more about my friends than AirTran does about meeting its obligations ("We got our money, so up yours! Avaritia bona est!"), getting there on time was worth the additional eighty bucks. (It also occurred to me that standing MacYoung up wasn't a very bright thing to do…)
I was, however, pissed-off at their failure to notify me in advance. I'd given them my email address, snailmail address and telephone number, but to no avail. Apparently, the ten or so cents it would have cost them to tell me that arriving in Denver on time would set me back another eighty bucks was better spent on warm milk, (sugar free) cookies and Ritalin for the incompetent, thieving baw'bags on the board of directors.
AirTran next flew (no pun intended, of course) to the top of my shit list in July of last year. Being a semi-pro photographer (more semi- than pro, admittedly), I'm willing to fork over a few extra shekels for a window seat – as AirTran requires – for the sake of a good shot. Having gladly paid the fee for the chance to get a few interesting aerial photos, I noted, upon locating my seat, that an honest-to-God hag -- straight out of European folklore -- had taken it.
I'll grant that I'm a foul-tempered asshole. But I'm not enough of a foul-tempered asshole to roust an old lady out of my seat – especially an old lady who mutters in strangely corrupted Latin to a rat-like creature named "Ba'alphegor," and who could probably turn me into a frog, werewolf, or worse.
The matter was eventually resolved, but only because the flight crew was polite and accommodating above and beyond the call of duty -- or investor confidence. (For whatever sick reason, companies that treat their employees like shit and swindle and mislead their customers induce blue-vein, diamond-cutting priapism in speculator-types -- but that's for another post.) When I explained the situation to them, they cheerfully agreed to spot Mags and me a beer each in compensation. AirTran got their ten bucks, Black Annis got a window seat for free, and I got my ten bucks' worth. Everybody won, but it's sad that the boardroom bozos will spend millions on PR campaigns, while "the help" does a better job at customer relations through simple courtesy and honesty.
I spent the next few days getting drunk and married (in that order), and thought little more of the matter -- until Mags and I tried to make it home the following Monday.
When we arrived at the "Dog Bra," my wife and I were told that our flight had been overbooked…
It's a cute l'il story in and of itself, so I'll tell it elsewhere. Suffice to say that it was Mags' first time riding a MARTA train after 23:00. We'd have preferred an afternoon flight, because MARTA trains are chock full of stoners, panhandlers, bums and other barking moonbats from nightfall until the line shuts down at 01:00. I'll also mention that I'd like to see an AirTran exec ride a MARTA train any time after sundown…
The next outrage occurred the day after Thanksgiving.
My mother-in-law is getting up in years. She's 85 and suffers from Alzheimer's disease. This isn't AirTran's problem, naturally. Their problem was getting Mags to Michigan on time, which (of course) they failed to do. Her flight was scheduled to leave at 18:00, so at 15:00, I drove us to North Springs Station, whence we took the train to Hartsfield.
From start to finish, the train ride took roughly 45 minutes. Check in and lunch at a franchised greasy spoon (AirTran's in-flight meal consists of a bag of pretzels small enough recycle by using the empties to sell single "rocks" of crack inconspicuously) took another 45, but Maggie still had to run the TSA gauntlet. Therefore, we thought it best to get her to the checkpoint by 17:00.
As it happened, the Allgemeine SS to whom we've become accustomed had the day off – or perhaps they were all in Grady Hospital, recovering from overdoses of crack sold in AirTran pretzel bags. The point is: this bunch was friendly, polite, and (Dare this aging, hardcore "anarcho-reactionary" even say it?) downright helpful. Mags made it through the security checkpoint in a jiffy, and reached the concourse without incident.
No, the incidents only began flying thick and fast after she reached the concourse.
I caught the train (and probably hepatitis-C from the gent who shared my seat and identified himself only as "Junkie Jones" when he mistook me for an undercover narc) and made it back to Maison Ridgerunner at 19:00 or thereabout.
Snatching a cold one or two (or six, to be honest) from the refrigerator in the garage, I stomped into the den and slapped a copy of Axis of Evil XXXVIII: Syrian Showdown into the DVD player. I then taught the dog to make IED's, WMD's and lawn darts; to read Arabic; and to ignore the possibility of Oliver North and Bill Clinton having a few coke-dealing mutual acquaintances.
No sooner did my favorite action hero, Chuck-Claude van Warmerbruder, commence to beating RPG-toting cabbies to a bloody pulp than the phone rang.
"Woohoo! 'At's right, Chuck!" I bellowed, taking a huge gulp of beer and toasting the TV screen. "Ye' gon' stomp a mudhole in some raghead ass an' then walk that sucker dry!"
Filled to brimming with armchair warrior spirit and sunshine patriotism, I sucked in my modest, holiday beer gut, scratched my nuts once or twice, thrust out my chest and swaggered to the phone, stopping only to strike a few kung-fu poses before the hallway mirror. Unfortunately, it wasn't the president calling to commend me for bugging the phones of suspected Seventh-Day-Advento-Fascists, Mennonite suicide bombers, or their un-indicted Quaker co-conspirators… It was my wife.
Momentarily forgetting that we'd been married a little over four months at the time (she sometimes accuses me of forgetting that I'm married, period…) and had lived together for more than a year, I reflexively hissed: "I thought I told you not to call me here!" into the receiver.
After declaring that she'd call me here whenever she damn well pleased (and then calling me everything but a white man), she said her flight was delayed and that she wouldn't be leaving Atlanta for quite a while. I consoled her as best I could, roundly cursed AirTran, and went back to watching my movie.
An hour or two later, the phone rang again – and again 'twas the spousal unit. Now a bit grumpy, she said she had no idea when her flight would depart – and that apparently, neither did anyone else. She had, however, found a few other Detroit-bound "refugees," and, being every bit as gregarious as I am surly and antisocial, had talked to them. As it happened, they'd all been given different reasons for the delay. Mags had been told that the plane needed urgent repairs of some sort; hence the "bum's rush" to a different concourse and the multi-hour wait.
Some had been told that a big, scary dinosaur had risen from the depths of Lake Erie and was rampaging through Detroit.
Others were assured that Osama "Blind Kibbeh" bin Laden had been seen brandishing a Semtex-laden Epiphone Sheraton in front of City Hall, screaming: "Where this 'Hastings Street' is? John Lee Hooker was no-talent, infidel kaffir! I playing you fucker-of-mother some badass blues. I playing real deal! Boo-yah! How you liking me now? And it going little something like this!"
Some were told that Goldman-Sachs had just purchased every square inch of Eight Mile Road, and their army of insurance assessors was too busy to be disturbed; and others that Elvis, Jim Morrison and the Lindbergh baby had come out of hiding and were discussing our nation's uncertain future with Eminem, Ted Nugent, the reanimated corpse of Les Bangs, and Lee Iaccoca's little-known twin brother, Binky.
Yes, that's a joke – but so is AirTran's idea of customer service.
Eventually, the victims concluded that AT had probably overbooked again, handled its customers on a first-come, first-served basis, and effected a quiet (and early) departure. As each customer was fed a different line of bullshit, though, we'll probably never know the truth.
What I do know is that Mags didn't reach Motown until 03:00, Central Time. I also know that the AirTran's CEO didn't exactly pull up in a limo, apologize for his underlings' incompetence and offer her a ride to Troy.
Needless to say, by 03:00, Budget Rent-A-Car was closed, so my wife was unable to obtain the vehicle she'd booked a full three weeks in advance. (I'll cover the matter of Budget billing her for a car she never received in another post, although that was irritating, as well.) Fortunately, Avis was open and had a car available. This solved one problem, but left her with another: driving through Detroit at zero-dark-thirty -- alone. Hell, I'm a guy and I can't say that I'd be eager to try my hand at that. The entire fucking city is exactly like the Bankhead Court Apartments during the late '80s and early '90s…
Luckily, everything worked out – no thanks to AirTran.
Now lest anyone think I'm completely down on the greedy, incompetent shit-weasels; I'll admit that I'm not. To be sure, I despise them, and they're beyond awful in many, many ways. To their credit, though, they offer the lowest fares in the business -- period. Bearing in mind that one gets what one pays for, I'll give 'em a thumbs-up for ticket prices. They also service a respectable number of major cities (always a plus) and even one airport each in Mexico and Puerto Rico. Oh! And many of the stewardesses are Grade-A eye candy.
Ultimately – for all the nasty things I've said about them – I'll probably still use them when I want to fly somewhere for next-to-nothing. Make no mistake, Gentle Reader – AirTran is a bad airline, and that's that. But even bad airlines have their uses. If, for example, you decide to pull up stakes; tell your boss, ex, etc. to pound sand; and start over again in another town, a one-way ticket on AirTran is just what the doctor ordered. If you live like I did during my late twenties and early thirties (work a few months, put a few shekels in the bank, then fuck around until the money runs out; or work part-time and take numerous weekend road-trips), AirTran is a great way to see the country. In short: As long as you have more time than money, AirTran is the way to go.
If, on the other hand, you're adhering to a strict timetable (a wedding, funeral, Christening, job interview, hit, heavy dope deal, etc.), stick to the real airlines.
G'night.
I also found the flunkie's choice of words insultingly amusing. Now let me get this straight: AirTran – once again – fails to provide service as promised. By way of making amends, they offer us yet another non-existent service. And yet they have the temerity to act as if we and not they were the ones trying to obtain something for nothing? Good Lord, folks! They sold our seats TWICE! They doubled (at the very least) their profits by failing to provide the service for which we paid -- and then acted as if they were the aggrieved party! Moreover, they insulted our intelligence. As any frequent flyer knows, last-minute tickets are far more expensive than those reserved in advance. I don't consider the nabobs at Airtran very bright, but since they're on the board of directors (as opposed to humping baggage or handing out Band-Aid-sized bags of pretzels), they must have a few functioning brain-cells between them. As the "overbooking" bit happens so frequently, I can only assume that it's deliberate. They know as well as we that airline tickets aren't refundable. Therefore, they have nothing to lose when "bumping" a passenger with a less expensive ticket in favor of some gobshite who waits until the last minute to purchase his/hers.
As neither of us was satisfied with the arrangement (or AirTran's dishonest policies), we hounded them relentlessly. Finally, they made good on their promise and provided us with tickets. This meant we ended up flying into Denver more-or-less on schedule – after a layover in (and I shit thee not, Gentle Reader) Milwaukee, Wisconsin. This, as my late father would have said, was a case of "going 'round your elbow to get to your ass" if ever there was one.
And yet the story has a happy ending. Our "redeye" flight out of Denver wasn't overbooked, for once. additionally, the AirTran employee working the desk that night was one of the sweetest, most gracious ladies Mags and I have ever met. The flight attendants were likewise the salt of the earth; and the pilots managed to put us one the ground in "Da ATL" safe, sound – and slightly ahead of schedule.Just when I resolve to give a poorly managed company the heave-ho for good, the "grunts" – through "mere" honesty and professionalism – save their bosses' arses once again…
