Darla, Mohammed and a Girl From Kansas

Last Wednesday I had a wicked crappy flight.  I’d expected (and dreaded) it having seen the weather forecast and that probably made it worse.  My safety restraint fastened low and (not so) tight around my waist kept me from bouncing into the cabin ceiling – but not always in my seat.  I am admittedly (somewhat) decidedly prone to hyperbole, but my ass actually cleared the seat a time or two!  Perhaps I’m naïve in this regard, but I believe aviation should be at an advanced enough stage at this point in time to aptly identify a bit of turbulence and fly around that shit.  Fishtailing and pogoing simultaneously at 30,000 feet in a sick tube does not a happy Wednesday make.

Landed.  Frazzled.  Mentally chain-smoking. 

As I was conjuring the will to step off the Avis shuttle into a pouring wintry mix I said to myself, I could use a drink.  It wasn’t quite 9:00 in the AM (I know, right?) and this is starting to feel a lot like a Monday. 

I guess I was too focused on my own private pity party to see that waiting to greet me was my old friend Darla.  I’ve seen her every couple of weeks for the last year or so for 30 seconds at a time.  She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.  My car is almost always a free upgrade from what my office manager reserved.  She always calls me Mr. John. Her crooked Appalachian smile never falls.  She’s from West By God Virginia and the constant twinkle in her eye is infectious.  With no apparent expectation of personal gain, she was standing in this awful weather with an umbrella to walk me to my car.  There was nothing on the lot to upgrade me so I would have to make do with this old Impala.  I’ve had the engine running for a while and I turned your seat heater on so it should be nice and toasty just like you like it. 

Really?  Wow.

As a rule, I find the service industry near intolerably devoid of service.  There are exceptions and when I stumble across one it absolutely makes my day bright, and in some small way restores my faith in humanity.  Darla is certainly an exception and last night I emailed customer service to let them know how much I appreciate her.  I’d like to think that Avis will bestow upon her a major award or at least a day off or something, but I don’t expect it – and she wouldn’t accept it if they did.  Darla is who she is just because she is.  Much to my surprise, some people are simply inherently kind and want only to be exactly that.  That’s a strongly powerful thing, no?  I’m sure that I do nothing to deserve her special treatment and I’m not sure it’s all that special actually – I imagine she’s treated all her customers with that level of attention for the (20) or so years she has worked there.  There’s a lesson here that we all could learn from Darla.

The rest of that day was, to be extremely polite, uneventful if not watching-paint-dry boring.  The project is on auto-pilot at this point so I spend my days wandering around the site snapping pics of whatever randomly entertains me.  I’m contractually obligated to be there plus it was built into the fee, so no worries.  The client seems okay with this – perhaps I hide my disinterest better than I realize. In fact, the level of service that we’ve shown them has actually won my firm another deal with these guys that ensures my presence in Northern Virginia not less than monthly through Spring 2013.  (Speaking of needing a drink!)

Back at the hotel bar watching a news story about Willard Romney winning the New Hampshire primary I began to feel ill.  I will spare you the political rant that has been brewing in my head for several weeks now and instead tell you about the bartender.

His name is Mohammed but you call me Mo you will.  He’s from Hanuman Junction, Andhra Pradesh, India.   He’s lived in the states for (5) years but his wife and (3) kids live in India.  They’re (by his account at least) still happily married but I can’t imagine that.  He’s just started the process of becoming a naturalized citizen and he freaking loves America.  Not Obama so much – his favorite is George Harry Bush.  I’m not sure which Bush he’s referring to because he gets so excited talking about what a bad ass man he was that he drops back into his native tongue.  I assume Bush II. Whatever.

Mashed potatoes you like?  Grilled asparagus you like?  You get (2) with these crab cakes – piss your pants man.  You like Apple?  Steve Jobs is a – Hey, did you know he died? – genius man. In India, everyone has iPhone.  We have no car – poverty man bad but we have Steve Job.  Michael Jackson could dance but he lost his way.  He’s crazy man.  I work (3) jobs so I can’t vote for Obama again.  Did you see? You see?  You want crab cakes man?

Holy shit, Mo.   I’m all for an engaging bartender but more often than not I would prefer they shut the hell up and let me brood.  Though I appreciated his enthusiasm, his energy level was a bit high for a Wednesday evening.   So I ordered the crab cakes and let him rave on about everything from Elvis to Tom Cruise to the Brooklyn Dodgers.  Did I mention he loves America?

Seeking the silent company of strangers I walked next door to another hotel with a cooler, darker bar.  As I strolled out, I heard Mo through the infernal din of the piped-in muzak of the lobby, Hey John! George Harry Bush man!  I flashed a peace sign over my shoulder and shouted back, see ya next time.

Aloft has a slick, neon, downtown feel that doesn’t belong in the suburbs anymore than I do.  It's still not somewhere I would ever frequent in the real world but it beats the hell out of the alternative.  Plus Jeff is the perfect bartender – he doesn’t insinuate himself into the conversation, he simply observes.  He overheard the meaningless sports discussion I was having with a carpet salesman from Charlotte and the next time I looked up he had tuned the Hawks game in for me on one of the TVs.  That, my friends is service.  

I quickly tired of the other guy’s tales of carpet sale wonderment and N.C. State basketball and was about to call it a night when I absently noticed someone sit down between me and the guy at the end of the bar.  She ordered a Yuengling and a Maker’s neat.  I didn’t see that one coming – my hasty assessment had assumed a Chardonnay, at best a vodka tonic.  Her name was Kelsey, she was from Kansas and she had an Aubrey Plaza hotness that I found intoxicating.

Though it might seem otherwise, my intentions (if I had any) were purely conversational.   My heart is rarely capable of even that these days and a lot less more often.  That said I didn’t feel I should miss a chance to talk to a girl who orders a beer with a whiskey back, right?

As it turns out she was a producer for Biggest Loser and was in town filming a where are they now segment.  I’d never heard of this program (you know how I feel about reality television) but apparently it is quite successful as these things go. She lives in LA for her work obviously but spoke fondly of her dreams of moving to the valley with her fiancé and becoming a stay-at-home mom. 

It’s odd what one is willing to share with a perfect stranger isn’t it?  I think there is a freedom there that most of us don’t know on the daily.  The freedom of anonymity is an empowering phenomenon and I love the random banter I have with people that I meet along the way.  These are brief random encounters, moments in time that I would most likely forget if I didn’t write them down.  The random was thick with the moment and some days the moment is enough.  This was one of those days.  For this moment, I was 500 miles from home having an intelligent conversation with an odd, beautiful, interesting person that I will never see again.  In some ways I find that nearly a perfect moment.  In a different time, in a different world I would have had a helluva lot more to say.  Kelsey was cool.  I’m glad our paths crossed.

I got home late Thursday night, didn’t feel like unpacking and left my bag on the floor at the foot of the bed.  When I got home from work Friday, my sweet Maynard was curled up asleep inside of the open suitcase.  It was the cutest thing I had I ever seen the little fella do so I ran to the studio to get my camera.  When I got back, he had awakened and was vigorously relieving himself right there in the suitcase!  Maynard!

It seems Maynard felt the need to add his own commentary to my little story.   

Now I know how he really feels about me traveling!