Why I'm No Longer Welcome at the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport

I recently attended the Toronto International Film Festival. I've been before. That's not what this post is about (1). This is about the flight back. Everything seemed to be on schedule, sitting on the runway waiting for an on-time take-off. I took a brief nap. Woke up. We hadn't moved. A strong, healthy looking man is being helped off the plane by the stewardess. He has suffered an anxiety attack and will not be making the trip with us to Atlanta. So we continue to wait on the runway for his bags to be removed from the plane. By this point we've missed our window for take-off, so we wait some more. The passengers, who earlier were sympathetic to this man's plight, have now turned to their own self-interest and the fact that they will probably miss their connecting flights (2). We arrive in Atlanta an hour behind schedule. The stewardess, now coming under fire from the irate passengers suffering from their own form of anxiety, announces that it would be much appreciated if those without tight connecting flights would remain seated. Although I was sitting in the front row, I still managed to be edged out by a rather over-bearing traveller screaming he had a flight to make in the next 30 minutes (3). After finally managing to squeeze out into the aisle and down the stairs to the tarmac, I was amused to find we had to board a shuttle bus. So, we weren't going ANYWHERE until every person was off the plane. People had been so ugly, pushing, yelling, and then here they all were, uncomfortably silent as those they pushed and yelled at filed onto the bus after them. You couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. Finally, the bus starts up and drives. . . and drives . . . and drives (and you're thinking at this point, maybe we're driving back to Little Rock) until finally it comes to a stop and everyone repeats the pushing and shoving scenario getting off the bus. At this point, there is no representative from the airline--no one in charge--and there is very clearly two options available to us:
A) A staircase going up to a door.
B) A walkway leading to a ground-floor opening around the corner.
For whatever reason, the first person off the bus started up the stairs, and we all followed (4). Once he got to the top he pulled on the door, and of course, it was locked. He kept pulling angrily, cursing. I was half-way up the stairs by this point, realized our 50-50 chance of error, and turned around to descend when I saw the mass of people rushing up towards me. It was at this point that my traveling companion "lost her shit" as it is commonly known. She screamed, "You're going the wrong way!" with such force that the words alone turned back the tide of humanity. We finally got into the airport to see the monitor say that our flight was boarding. We were in terminal B and needed to get to E. So we hopped on the train and waited patiently for it to make its appointed stops. Traveling companion is pretty convinced at this point that we will not make it. I try to keep her spirits up, but this comedy of errors is adding up to a dark outcome I feel.
At the station for Terminal B we run to the escalator. I choose the escalator with only one person on it, halfway up. However, I soon realize that the reason only one person is on it is because it is not working. So I start running up steps about as high and steep as the Pyramids of Giza. Traveling companion yells from below to go on without her. She pushes on, but her head is hung low. I get as far as the guy who is halfway up, but he won't let me by, his head too hangs low and defeated as we slowly make our way up to the terminal. Once free I start sprinting the gate which is about halfway down the corridor. As I run up I am elated to see the door is still open! The lounge is empty, but the gate attendant is still there at the scanner. I run up with my boarding pass in hand. "Little Rock?" she asks in the shittiest tone possible.
"Yes, and I have one more right behind me."
"How far behind. This plane is leaving right now."
I'm getting a bit pissed by her unhelpful attitude. "Right behind me. She couldn't run as fast."
"Give me your ticket. You're not going to make this flight. I'll see if they have you on a later flight."
I look down the hall and see traveling companion coming, albeit at a speed I would generously describe as a stroll. I motion wildly that the plane is leaving. When she walks up I petulantly drop my bag and declare to traveling companion that the gate attendant is not letting us on the flight. She still has my boarding pass and has been furiously keying things into the Commodore 64 she's stationed at. She snatches, and I mean that literally, traveling companion's ticket away from her. Traveling companion, who is winded and a bit irritated from all of this, is a bit taken aback. Traveling companion says, "So, I'm confused, are we getting on this flight or not?"
"Yes, you're getting on this flight," says gate attendant in a tone even shittier than the previously shitty tone, and throws our boarding passes back in our hands. We grab our bags hurriedly and start heading down the ramp to the plane.
"Well, she wasn't very nice," says traveling companion.
"No," I said, "She was a REAL BITCH." 

And I fully admit that I shouldn't have said that. 

It was wrong. 

I'd had a stressful few minutes. There's no excuse.

And as for the gate attendant, I'm sure she had a perfectly good reason for forgetting every rule of customer service.

SLAM went the door behind us as gate attendant started marching down the ramp toward us.
"Sir! I can throw you off this plane. I have the power to do that. Is that what you want."
I stopped and looked back at her enraged face rushing down the ramp like the supreme being in "Time Bandits".
"No," I said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, it's just that we had a very tight connection and . . . "
But she was still going at it. "I can throw you off this plane. Do not disrespect me!"
Now traveling companion starts to weigh in (5):
"He said he was sorry. What is your deal?"
We rush into the plane by this point, hoping that if she does kick us off, she will have to forcibly remove us. Instead, she loudly informs the plane's crew that there are some "very rude passengers" on this flight. No sooner than she does this and turns back up the ramp, than the pilot announces to the plane that we will be sitting here a while because the computers are down and everything is being done by fax. So we sat on the runway again for another hour. And once we finally got to Little Rock, you can rest assured the bags didn't make it until the next morning.

This isn't my first written encounter with the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Airport. Years ago I got stuck there overnight on my way to Boston. Coming off the plane I remember the gate attendant announcing, "Boston's gone" as if it had been struck by some devastating attack. I did make several "line friends" that night and we kept each other entertained with stories, allowed use of cell phones to reach family, and other bonding experiences that can only happen when you know you have only a few hours to spend with a few people you'll never see again in your life. I started to write it as a play, which briefly morphed into a musical until I remembered I couldn't write music. I had called it "DFW". It was in reference to the abbreviation for the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. I chose it because I liked the way it sounded better than "Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta". But it was also a small nod to my favorite living writer, David Foster Wallace. Favorite living until last week, when he committed suicide.
His writing was like the voice inside my head. Their was a recognition there that seemed uncanny.  I had struggled through Infinite Jest and loved every bit of it--especially the naming of years by corporate sponsors.  I had consumed his essays eagerly wherever they appeared.

I'd even met him a couple of times, once at a book signing in New York, and once at a reading in Los Angeles. I was incredibly nervous, but I wanted to say something to him that didn't make me look like an idiot. So instead I chose to make myself look like a raving-lunatic fan.
"I love your writing. I even tracked down your first essay, Signifying Rappers."
"Oh yeah," he said slyly, "that old chestnut." It didn't sound like he was that impressed with it (6).
I just smiled like an idiot.

Footnotes: (1) If you are interested about what I saw at the this year's Toronto International Film Festival, here is the list with a brief one or two word review. "The Brothers Bloom"-good soundtrack. "Burn After Reading"-funny. "Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist" - soundtrack and film could have been better, still enjoyable. "Rachel Getting Married" -dysfunctional family and camerawork. "Once Upon a Time in Rio"-Rio. "Lovely, Still" - mislead. "Slumdog Millionaire" -brilliant. "Genova" - awful. "7915 KM"-needed soundtrack. "Me and Orson Welles" -excellent mimickry of Welles. "Blindness" -enough already. "Happy-Go-Lucky"-absolutely. "Good"-Not so. Viggo in an SS uniform. "The Burning Plain"-more dysfunction. "Che"-Benecio brilliant. "Afterwards"-sleepy. "The Other Man"-surprising. "Gigantic"-mildly amusing. "Easy Virtue"-Noel Coward, 'nuff said. That's 19 films over about four days.
(2) Discussions arise as to how to deal with an "anxiety attack" on a plane and what meds are required. My travel companion says that, had she known, she would have volunteered the small pharmacy in her purse if it would have gotten us to Atlanta on time.
(3) My flight was scheduled to leave in 15 minutes v. rude man's 30 minute departure.
(4) This may be the biggest "lemming" moment of my life.  Or at least recent memory.
(5) At this point I'm pretty much resigned to the fact that she will have us kicked off the flight since there is no telling what will come out of traveling companion's mouth.
(6) Like he wouldn't be impressed at this lame attempt to honor his style by using footnotes to fragment the narrative.