I started writing this blog post an airport, Louis Armstrong International Airport (MSY, from Moisant Stock Yards—history here). Now, I’m at another airport, Ronald Reagan International Airport (DCA—D.C. airport, I assume—and forcibly called “National” by overexcitable locals).
I was waiting in line for a burger when one of the food workers called for order number 13. A man waved from the opposite end of the counter—”13!” He stood there repeating himself, flailing his arms and refusing to walk the five feet necessary to retrieve his meal from the designated meal retrieval area.
The worker called again for 13.
“13!” More exasperated this time.
He eventually got the message, but he made sure to ask the worker if it was really that hard to walk to him instead of for him to walk to her, this punctuated with come on and ridiculous and other indignant interjections.
I really wanted to be snarky, but I held my tongue. Instead, I must hope he felt as embarrassed as he should.