My name is Benjamin R. Ford and I am writing to request a refund in the amount of $392.68. But then, no, scratch that: Request is too mincy polite, I think, too officious Britishy, a word that walks along the page with the ramrod straightness of someone trying to balance a walnut on his upper ass cheeks. Yet what am I saying? Words dont have ass cheeks! Dear American Airlines, I am rather demanding a refund in the amount of $392.68. Demanding demanding demanding. In Italian, richiedere. Verlangen in German and ndeoan in the Russki tongue but you doubtless catch my drift. Imagine, for illustrative purposes, that theres a table between us. Hear that sharp sound? Thats me slapping the table. Me, Mr. Payable to Benjamin R. Ford, whapping the damn legs off it! Ideally youre also imagining concrete walls and a naked lightbulb dangling above us: Now picture me bursting to my feet and kicking the chair behind me, with my finger in your face and my eyes all red and squinty and frothy bittles of spittle freckling the edges of my mouth as I bellow, roar, yowl, as I blooooow like the almighty mother of all blowholes: Give me my goddamn money back! See? Little twee request doesnt quite capture it, does it? Nossir. This is a demand. This is fucking serious. Naturally Im aware that ten zillion cranks per annum make such demands upon you. I suppose you little piglets are accustomed to being huffed upon and puffed upon. Even now, from my maldesigned seat in this maldesigned airport, I spy a middle-aged woman waving her arms at the ticket counter like a sprinklerhead gone awry. Perhaps she is serious, too. Maybe, like me, even fucking serious. Yet the briefcase by the womans feet and her pleated Talbots suit lead me to conclude that shes probably missing some terribly important meeting in Atlanta where shes slated to decide something along the lines of which carbonated beverage ten zillion galoots aged 1834 will drink during a specified half-hour of television viewing in four to six midwestern markets and Im sure the ticket agent is being sweetly sympathetic to the soda ladys problem but screw her anyway. So a half- zillion galoots drink Pepsi rather than Coke, so what? My entire being, on the other hand, is now dust on the carpet, ripe and ready to be vacuumed up by some immigrant in a jumpsuit. Please calm down sir, I can hear you saying. Might we recommend a healthy snack, perhaps some sudoku? Yes, sudoku: apparently the analgesic du jour of the traveling class. That little game is what appears to be getting my fellow citizens through these hours of strandedness, hours that seem to be coagulating, wound-like, rather than passing. They say a watched pot never boils but baby its tough not to watch when youre neck-deep in the pot. Just how many hours so far, I cant say not with any precision anyway. Why are there so few clocks in airports? You cant turn your head more than ten degrees in a train station without hitting another clock on the wall, the ceiling, Excerpted from Dear American Airlines by Jonathan Miles All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
