Terminal Misunderstanding
The man on the other end of the wire was somewhat intoxicated. I kept telling him I was calling from Chicago and that I wanted to speak to my wife, Abby Eisler. I spelled her name three times for him.
“You should see the crowd here,” he said. “This’s a real nice crowd here.”
“Yes, I can hear it,” I said. “Would you please...?”
“This’s a real nice party,” he said. “Who’s this calling?”
“Sam Eisler,” I said. “I want to talk to my wife, Abby.”
“Sam, whyn’t you come on up here?” he said. “This’s a real nice party.”
“I’m supposed to come up there,” I said, “that’s just it. I’m in Chicago. My plane put down...” I hesitated and then looked at the telephone receiver as if it had somehow beguiled me into detailing my predicament to a drunk. “Look,” I said, “would you please yell out my wife’s name and tell her she’s wanted on the telephone?”
“Sure,” he said. “What’s your wife’s name?”
“Abby Eisler.”
“Who’s this calling?”
“Sam Eisler. Her husband.”
“Sure, Sam, wait just one minute.”
I waited. I heard the small plastic rattle of the receiver as he put it down, and then I heard him bellowing, “Annie Iceman! Telephone! Annie Iceman wanted on the telephone,” his voice receding as he went further and further away from the instrument, until finally it was drowned out by all the party noises. Wonderful, I thought. He’s wandered away and left the phone off the hook. Now I’ll never get through to her. I kept waiting.
“Hello?” a voice said at last. It was Abby.
“Is this Annie Iceman?” I said.
“Sam!” she said immediately. “Are you back?”
“Not quite.”
“What do you mean not quite? How can you be not quite back?”
“I can be in Chicago,” I said. “At O’Hare. The whole eastern seaboard’s socked in. They put us down here in Chicago.”
“How can they do that? You bought a ticket for New York, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course I... Abby, are you drunk, too? Is everybody at that goddamn party drunk already?”
“Of course I’m certainly not drunk,” Abby said. “How long is it from Chicago?”
“How long is what, Abby?”
“The train ride, naturally.”
“I don’t know. Overnight, I would guess. Anyway, I’m not about to take a train.”
“Randy, would you please fill this for me, please?” Abby said.
“Who’s Randy?”
“He’s the head of creation someplace.”
“Only God is the head of creation,” I said.
“Well, somebody said Randy is, too. I was just now sitting out on the fire escape with him when you called.”
“Since when do you go sitting on fire escapes with strange men?”
“He’s not strange, he’s very nice.”
“Nice or otherwise, since when...”
“Since about nine-thirty, I guess. What time is it now?”
“In New York or in Chicago?”
“Anyplace,” Abby said. “Oh thank you, Randy.”
“How many of those have you had?” I said.
“Which?”
“Whatever you’re drinking there.”
“Oh, two or three, I guess. Listen, why’d you ask for Annie Iceman? That’s not very funny.”
“I didn’t ask for Annie Iceman. The guy who answered the phone was loaded.”
“It’s just not very funny,” Abby said. “Sam, when do you think you’ll get here?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to check in at the information desk as soon as I hang up, see if there’s a chance of the fog lifting tonight. If not, I guess I’ll have to sleep over.”
“What should I do?”
“I would suggest that you come in off the fire escape. A thirty-eight-year-old lady shouldn’t be sitting on the fire escape in a fog.”
“Sam, you don’t have to keep reminding me I’m thirty-eight. I don’t keep reminding you you’re forty-one.”
“Well, I’m not out on the fire escape.”
“Neither am I,” Abby said. “What should I tell John and Louise?”
“Tell them I’m stuck in Chicago and may have to skip their party.”
“Well, okay,” Abby said, and sighed.
“Abby?”
“Mmm?”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” she said.
“Goddamn airline,” I said.
“Mmm,” she said. “Sam?”
“Yes, honey?”
“I still don’t think asking for Annie Iceman was very funny,” she said, and hung up.
The operator, who had not signaled to tell me when I was talking overtime (as I’d asked her to do), now told me that I owed the telephone company a dollar and forty cents. I walked over to the cigar stand, changed a five-dollar bill, and then went back to the telephone to deposit the overtime money. I picked up my two-suiter at the baggage claim counter, and then walked through the terminal to the information desk. The airline’s ground hostess informed me that the forecast for Kennedy was still fog until morning, but that all Los Angeles-New York passengers were being provided with either rail transportation to New York or, if they preferred, overnight hotel accommodations in Chicago.
“Why didn’t the airline tell us that New York was fogged in?” I said.
“Didn’t the pilot make an announcement, sir?”
“Why didn’t they tell us in Los Angeles? Before we took off.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “I don’t have that information.”
“I mean, I don’t know how long it takes to transmit a weather report across the nation, but New York is three hours ahead of Los Angeles, and it seems to me that unless this fog just suddenly materialized out of thin air and pounced down on Kennedy, it seems to me somebody in your wide-awake little outfit should have informed the passengers while we were still on the ground in Los Angeles. So that we could have decided for ourselves whether we wanted to spend the night there or here in Chicago. I don’t know about you, miss, but Chicago has never been one of my favorite sleeping cities.”
“Well, sir,” she said, “I don’t control the weather in New York.”
“Where do you control the weather?” I asked.
“Sir?” she said.
“There’s a man in New York your airline ought to hire. His name is Randy, he’s the head of creation.”
“Sir?”
“How do you expect to get that million-dollar bonus if you treat your passengers this way?”
“You’re thinking of another airline,” she said, and then turned away curtly to assist a sailor who looked as though he had never been outside of Iowa in his life and was now totally bewildered by jet terminals and smiling hostesses and glowering New York attorneys like me, Samuel Eisler. I kept glaring at the girl’s back until I was sure my indignation had burned clear through to her spine, and then I stalked off angrily in the direction of the airport bar.
Jennifer Logan was making a phone call in an open booth not a hundred yards from the information desk. She was wearing a very short green mini, a dark-green cashmere cardigan, and sandals. Her long blond hair spilled over the receiver as she spoke, and she brushed it away from her face impatiently and then said into the phone, “Well, you know; Marcie, what would you like me to do? Hijack a damn airplane? I’m telling you I can’t get on. Yes, sure, I’m wait-listed, but that can mean tonight or tomorrow or maybe St. Swithin’s Day.” Jennifer paused, pulled a face, looked directly at me, smiled, waggled the fingers on her free hand, whispered, “Hi, Mr. Eisler,” and then said into the phone, “St. Swithin’s. Oh never mind, Marcie.” She paused again, and then said, “When I get there. I’ll get there. Meanwhile, I see somebody I know. Give my love to Paul.” She hung up, felt in the return chute for any unexpected bonanza, rose, left her two suitcases and what appeared to be a hatbox outside the booth, reslung her shoulder bag, and walked toward me with her hand extended.