The Culprit: TravelPro Crew 8

I write this post from my new favorite (and well worn) bench at Lambert Field, a.k.a. STL international airport. I was lucky enough to make it through ATX (Austin, TX) in great time and land myself in an aisle row of a cattle-car packed American Airlines flight that would get me home 3 hours early! I had great company for conversation in my colleague Bill Keaggy. So great, in-fact, that I ended up walking off the flight in St. Louis without my bag (which was tucked nicely above my head–never checked. I am a well-seasoned A-List Preferred flyer, mind you.) Lucky for me, I barely cleared the airport exit when I realized my err. No problem, I walked off the flight no more than 5 minutes prior. I’ll just run up to the counter and let them know… Thus, the tale of careless gate agents, ticket takers, TSA mercenaries begin.

I first get to the ticket counter. An aged and thus wise-looking gent stood at the ready behind ticket window 40. I, in my mildest and learned ticket counter behavior, began retelling said gent of my impractical error and asked him kindly to call the gate. After much him-hawing about “no guarantees” he finally rings actor 2: unseen gate agent. Unseen gate agent gives ticket gent trouble–I can hear on the phone. Finally, gate agent gets off phone and says, “no bag found.” Huh? What do you mean? I was on that plane 10 minutes ago and my bag was there. It has my name in a big giant “I fly enough to own this airline-Airtran A+ Elite name tag (right next to my-my kids can’t remember my name Southwest A-List Preferred black tag… with my name on it.) No dice. Not his problem anymore he says. I continue to try and convince him to let me through–I can put my hand on it, I know exactly where its at. “No, no. Not the policy.”, says wisdom-waning ticket gent. He passes the buck. “Go to baggage services.”

Baggage services, for those unknowing, exists in the bowels of hell, beneath the civilian floors of the airport and is passed off as little more than a closet for the outcast baggage and the unloved employees that staff it. There I find my savior. My fighter and my ombudsman, enter: Gashaw. A diminutive (in size, not in spirit) woman that takes my case on like a little abandoned kitten in the rain. The savior of American Airlines. Er. No… Come to find out, she’s working for a contract company–not American.

Gashaw and I begin to tear up the phone lines. No one will let us back to the gate, no one has seen a bag anywhere. We play scenarios out at the counter, we rush to the carousel together, she calls DFW Dallas and ATX Austin, connecting with baggage handlers, ticket agents, TSA mercenaries, etc. Nothing. Not a damn thing. No bag anywhere between here and Austin. Keep in mind, I landed at 6. It’s now 8 PM. And did I tell you the best thing? My car keys are in the bag. Yeah. No way for me to get home until that bag shows up. I’m crushed, I’m angry–I have vowed to unhinge the American ticket counter, take it out into the parking lot and set it afire.

And then the damnedest thing happens. I get a phone call. A flight attendant, just landed in Dallas DFW has found a bag. On the flight I was on (that has since turned around and flown all the way to Dallas, TX, min you.) A black back, tags clearly visible, in the place I begged the gate agent who could’ve given a crap about some random guy (with 600 Facebook friends and 450 Twitter followers… didn’t count on that one, did ya, angry gate mercenary?) So now, it’s me, my new best friend Gashaw and a flight attendant who has clearly bit off more than he can chew (by this time, I’ve drank 165 oz. of Starbucks espresso and am carrying on like he’s found my daughter at the State Fair) trying to save my little TravelPro rolling garment bag like its the Ark of the Covenant and we’re working for Indiana Jones.

My bag makes it on the next flight (leaving DFW Dallas headed to St. Louis) arriving at 11:25 PM. That’s 5.5 hours behind me. My bag is officially one flight ahead of me–I’m going to have to leave it at home once to catch up.

Moral of the story? No one cared. No one really looked. It wasn’t their problem–it was a different department, someone else’s job to care about customers. They had tickets to punch, sugary cupcakes from yesterday’s birthday to eat, security line people to bully. Anything other than care about one guy. Well, the world has changed. And I now vow, with God as my witness, that I will avoid American Airlines as it is within my reasonable bounds to do so. Thanks, American. Me and my bag will get home about 1:30 AM now because no one felt empowered/responsible/compelled/incentivized to spend 5 extra minutes on a random guy. A random guy who travels nearly 35 weeks a year and spends tens of thousands of dollars on discretionary travel.

Thanks, Gashaw. You’re awesome. And the nameless contract company you work for. You’ll be getting a thank you note from me.