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My Missing Bag
Rich Galen Friday September 9, 2005
From New York City
On its way from Baton Rouge to New York, my bag ended up in Dallas. American's small commuter jet was, when fully loaded with fuel, people, and baggage, too heavy for the short runway and so the bags were all off-loaded. They would be sent to our final destination, we were told.
Across the aisle, a man, was sitting against the window covered by a large, old, turquoise blanket. In the overhead was his backpack and a new pair of workbooks. "Steel toes," he said proudly. The contents of the backpack, he added, was all he had left.
He was of indiscriminate age - could have been anywhere from 35 to 55. He told us that when his house had begun to flood, he grabbed an old life preserver and began wading toward downtown New Orleans.
A door floated by so he climbed on and, after finding a board nearby, paddled his way to the Superdome. Everything he now owned was in that backpack in the overhead.
He fell asleep, still curled up against the window. When the flight attendant came by with drinks, he awoke and asked for three glasses of water, which he drank one after the other.
He was on his way to Chicago where he had grown up. His mama, he said, still lived there and he was going to stay with her while he figured out what to do next. Was she picking him up at the airport? He wasn't sure. They had only talked for a few seconds on a borrowed cell phone.
He said he had about three dollars with him, and he would call his mom when he got in.
We got to Chicago late, so I missed my flight to New York. I had been rebooked on a flight leaving in 20 minutes but there were no first class seats available. Did I want to wait for a later flight? No. I'll go now.
When I got to LaGuardia Airport and, knowing my bag was not with me I called American and was told I could call again from my hotel and they would take care of it over the phone. So, I rented a car and drove into the city. The valet took my car. I got my room key and went up to drop off my backpack and shoulder bag.
I was going to sleep in a real bed and take a shower by myself for the first time in five nights, but first I went out to find a late-night drug store to buy new stuff. I could buy new stuff. If necessary, I could buy all new stuff. But I would get my bag back and wouldn't have to.
The baggage lady from American told me this story:
A few nights before, a friend of hers in reservations had gotten a call from a woman who had been evacuated from New Orleans. She was trying to get to somewhere, say Columbus, Ohio. She said her friend found the woman a fare of $260. The woman said all she had was her driver's license. No credit cards. No check book. No nothing.
Her friend put the woman on hold and leaned over to the person sitting at the next position and asked if there were anything American could do. The other person said she had a woman on the phone who wanted to donate a $200 travel voucher.
They put the donor, together with the donee, forgave the missing $60 and the woman got her flight.
"There are five major reservation offices across the country," my baggage lady told me. "This office is huge. The chances of those two calls coming in simultaneously to adjoining positions was �"
While we taxiing into the gate in Chicago I had taken my last two twenties and my last ten, wrapped them inside a page from my reporter's notebook on which I had written, "To help you start again" and, as I got up to leave, I handed it to him.
He carefully unwrapped the paper, read it, counted the money, looked up at me and, without smiling, slowly shook my hand.
My bag was waiting for me at Washington Reagan when I got off the shuttle from New York.
On the Secret Decoder Ring page today: A good Mullfoto and a very amusing Catchy Caption of the Day.
--END --
Copyright © 2005 Richard A. Galen
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