Good morning folks,
I will be working in Montréal today.
Didn't I write a Pulp about queuing up? I think so. You think we would know how to do it. I mean it's very close to the first thing we learned in grade 1. That and not to eat the glue and not to push the crayons up one's nose. Or anyone else's nose.
But alas, this Pulp is dedicated to the guy in the boarding lounge of gate 31 of Pearson this A.M. wearing the yellow shirt.
Despite the fact that I was first in line to chat with the gate agent and patiently waiting (really, I was patient, just waiting for the agent to log-in and get his desk in order) when Yellow Shirt walks up, cuts the line and sort of 'hangs' at the corner of the counter.
Excuse me sir, I began, the line is behind me.
Yellow Shirt countered with, Yes, but I only have a question -- it's important.
I challenged his assertion with, I and the others appreciate that your particular concern is important, but do you think that the rest of us are here to order sandwiches? We too only have questions, and I would rate mine at a minimum, as important as yours.
When the gate agent was ready for passenger inquiries (an oh-so-fancy word for questions) he promptly ignored Yellow Shirt and asked how he could help me.
As agent and I discussed my particular need, Yellow Shirt strolled around behind me and to my right to stand a mere 3 inches from my right elbow.
I turned slightly and said quietly to Yellow Shirt, 'go away'.
At this point the agent asked Yellow Shirt to please stand over there, vaguely pointing to a place that could only be interpreted as anywhere but at my side.
But did Yellow Shirt get it? Nooooo.. Instead countered with a claim that there was something wrong with his ticket, with the seat number.
I wondered to myself, wrong with the seat number? Was it comprised of Roman Numerals? Was it an Irrational number, a fraction? Seat 23 1/2 B, IV D? 10.999999999999999 F ?
And then it happened.. the agent asked to see his ticket! Was this validation that Yellow Shirt's question was indeed more important than that of the rest of the passengers in queue?
But before I could ponder this peculiar turn of events, the agent simply said, you don't have a seat, you have a stand-by ticket. Go away until we call you.
The sad thing is, this buffoon will barge into another queue at his next opportunity, having reached his goal of getting to ask his oh so f&cking important question.
Have a good day, don't be that guy.