san jose airport
I am two bites into my banana when the voice comes at me, just inches behind my right ear, writhing with suppressed panic. “Excuse me?” It is a question, it is an apology, and it is uttered in less than perfect English. I turn around and the woman is ever so slightly too close to my shoulder but her brows are knitted with worry. I stifle my involuntary response to startle, tell myself that the airport is a large, public place, I will be okay talking to strangers, and ask her what’s wrong. “The machine it…I put in money…Can you help?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash on me,” I say and start to turn, thinking she is asking for money. I’m on my first official business trip and I wonder, briefly, if giving change to strangers can be listed on my expense report.
“No,” she says, “I put in. I’m sorry, I don’t speak English, can you help?” She is trying so hard to form the words that I want to breathe them out of her lips for her. I can’t imagine feeling hopeless in a foreign country, lost in a sea of adverbs, nouns, and prepositional phrases. Everyone’s first instinct is to cry in his native language. How horrifying to have to translate your fears.
“Can you--?” she says, and shakes her head in frustration. She motions toward a small machine against the wall. “Please?”
She looks like she might cry so I get up, slinging my tote bag over my shoulder. Shiny and black, I bought it new to hold my files. I follow her to the machine. $20 buys you an international calling card, the face of the metal box tells me. $20 bought the woman next to me grief but no calling card. The card has become wedged, the thin plastic a white tongue you can make out through the black mouth of the dispenser. Close enough to see but not touch. “Can you please?” she says.
I pull a mechanical pencil out of my bag and push the lead through the mouth, trying to loosen the card. It wedges further. “It’s pretty stuck,” I say, the stupid American. The banana peel dangles wetly against my wrist. “Let me see if I can find someone to help.”
I look around the airport, at the buzzing crowd around me. There are no employees at the terminal desks, and all of the passengers are sitting in the plastic seats, absorbed in their own lives. I walk a few feet down the hallway, spotting a man pushing what looks like a dumpster on wheels down the hallway. No regular person would be carting around something the color and size of a baby elephant so I approach him.
“Excuse me, do you work here?” I ask.
He rolls past the phone card machine and says, over his shoulder, “I work in the airport but not for the airport.”
Great.
The man wheels on and I turn back to the woman, whose nondescript face is paling.
“Can you please?” she says.
I am frustrated myself and want to snap, “Yes, I can, I’m trying.” Instead I press my lips into a smile.
Through some invisible transaction, her burden is now my burden, her grief my grief. Though I am a stranger to her, though she will never see me again, I am powerless to walk away. It would be like moving to a new town and leaving a pet behind. She wouldn’t understand.
Anyway, you don’t leave someone in need. I pace down the hallway and finally give up trying to find someone who works for the airport and make my way to the closest store. At the register a woman counts change and when she looks up I am startled to find she looks exactly like Mimi from the Drew Carey show. Bold blue eye shadow and eyebrows drawn in thin brown pencil frame her brown eyes and her lips are pursed into the shape of a heart. “Hi,” I say, resting my hands on the counter, “do you have the phone number for any airport offices? There’s a woman who doesn’t speak English and she paid money for a calling card that is stuck. I’m trying to get someone to open the machine.”
“Oh, that’s what was happening,” comes a male voice. Out from behind Mimi steps the man who was pushing the dumpster on wheels.
“Yeah. Is there any way you can help?”
He follows me into the hall where the woman I am helping in pushing her fingers against the mouth of the machine. “Okay,” he says, after taking a look at the machine, “The airport office won’t be able to do anything. There’s only one company that can open this machine. Let me see if I can find the phone number and you can call.” He gestures to a phone on the wall, and says, “that one’s free for airport use.”
I smile at him and turn to the lady.
“He is going to help us,” I say. “I’ll call and get the company to come open the machine.” I doubt she understands what I am saying to her and I cross my fingers that it will be that easy.
It isn’t.
When the man returns with a phone number I dial and come up with a harsh buzz in my ears. I grit my teeth and dial again to the same result. “Nothing,” I say to him.
“Maybe it’s disconnected,” he shrugs, and walks back into the store.
I decide to call the airport office. As the phone rings in my ear I signal to the woman that she should do as I do. I grab the machine and tilt it at a forty five degree angle and whack the metal back with the base of my palm. The woman does the same and the effort of it loosens the machine’s grip slightly, the plastic calling card sliding closer, but still just out of reach.
“You trying to jimmy the machine?” asks a man who has appeared for desk duty at the gate.
My cheeks blush crimson and I say, “Nope, just trying to get our money’s worth.” Where the hell was he when I needed him?
“Hello?” The other end of the line finally crackles to life and a man’s warm voice sends a shock of calm through my body.
“Hi. I’m trying to contact the company that sells International Phone cards. We have a machine here that’s stuck and I’m trying to help a woman get her card out.”
“Sure thing,” he says. “Let me put you on hold and transfer your call.”
“Thanks.” The line goes quiet and then starts doing the same buzz as before. I hang up the phone and dial the office again.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m the girl who just called. My transfer didn’t go through.”
“Let me try again.”
“Thanks.” Nothing.
The third time I call him back he says, “Hm, must be disconnected.” Duh.
The woman stands at the machine, still whacking away, every minute or so getting on her knees to try a different angle of attack. I turn away from her.
“Is there a store or restaurant or something right across the hallway from the calling card company? Maybe I can call there and someone can run across the hall and ask.”
“I’ll check.” The line goes quiet again and I give the woman my hopeful smile.
“Ma’am? Just another minute.” I hate it when people call me ma’am. I want to tell him, Tanya. I’m Tanya but he’s gone again so I turn back around.
The woman is growing tired in her efforts. I help her bang the machine again, but nothing comes and after all that, after twenty minutes and me still on hold, she says, “Thank you. Arragato.” She bows to me, this woman who looks Russian but has just spoken Japanese, and starts to walk away.
“Wait,” I call after her, “We’re almost there.” But her white t-shirt floats down the hallway and gets lost in the crowd. I wait on the line, not wanting to hang up on the kind man who is helping us.
His voice comes back a few minutes later. “Ma’am, I’m still trying to connect to someone.”
“She left,” I say, and I’m the one who feels abandoned now. She gave up. We were so close. “Thank you for your help,” I say, and hang up the phone.
Devoid of purpose now, I walk back to the store and offer my thanks to the man who tried to help. “No, thank you,” he says. “I hate it when people come to this country and get bad service. It’s bad for customer relations and global relations.” I’m not sure if it is really a global problem but I nod in agreement. “Anyway, I got her number and name, so if we ever do get the card or money back, I can send it to her.”
“Thanks again,” I say, and walk out of the store. I look at the desk and realize that my gate has changed. Quite possibly my flight was never supposed to go out of that terminal and I didn’t notice. I adjust my briefcase on my shoulder and walk down the long hallway to my next destination, pausing briefly at the machine to wonder why out of everyone’s faces the woman in white found faith in the back of my head.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash on me,” I say and start to turn, thinking she is asking for money. I’m on my first official business trip and I wonder, briefly, if giving change to strangers can be listed on my expense report.
“No,” she says, “I put in. I’m sorry, I don’t speak English, can you help?” She is trying so hard to form the words that I want to breathe them out of her lips for her. I can’t imagine feeling hopeless in a foreign country, lost in a sea of adverbs, nouns, and prepositional phrases. Everyone’s first instinct is to cry in his native language. How horrifying to have to translate your fears.
“Can you--?” she says, and shakes her head in frustration. She motions toward a small machine against the wall. “Please?”
She looks like she might cry so I get up, slinging my tote bag over my shoulder. Shiny and black, I bought it new to hold my files. I follow her to the machine. $20 buys you an international calling card, the face of the metal box tells me. $20 bought the woman next to me grief but no calling card. The card has become wedged, the thin plastic a white tongue you can make out through the black mouth of the dispenser. Close enough to see but not touch. “Can you please?” she says.
I pull a mechanical pencil out of my bag and push the lead through the mouth, trying to loosen the card. It wedges further. “It’s pretty stuck,” I say, the stupid American. The banana peel dangles wetly against my wrist. “Let me see if I can find someone to help.”
I look around the airport, at the buzzing crowd around me. There are no employees at the terminal desks, and all of the passengers are sitting in the plastic seats, absorbed in their own lives. I walk a few feet down the hallway, spotting a man pushing what looks like a dumpster on wheels down the hallway. No regular person would be carting around something the color and size of a baby elephant so I approach him.
“Excuse me, do you work here?” I ask.
He rolls past the phone card machine and says, over his shoulder, “I work in the airport but not for the airport.”
Great.
The man wheels on and I turn back to the woman, whose nondescript face is paling.
“Can you please?” she says.
I am frustrated myself and want to snap, “Yes, I can, I’m trying.” Instead I press my lips into a smile.
Through some invisible transaction, her burden is now my burden, her grief my grief. Though I am a stranger to her, though she will never see me again, I am powerless to walk away. It would be like moving to a new town and leaving a pet behind. She wouldn’t understand.
Anyway, you don’t leave someone in need. I pace down the hallway and finally give up trying to find someone who works for the airport and make my way to the closest store. At the register a woman counts change and when she looks up I am startled to find she looks exactly like Mimi from the Drew Carey show. Bold blue eye shadow and eyebrows drawn in thin brown pencil frame her brown eyes and her lips are pursed into the shape of a heart. “Hi,” I say, resting my hands on the counter, “do you have the phone number for any airport offices? There’s a woman who doesn’t speak English and she paid money for a calling card that is stuck. I’m trying to get someone to open the machine.”
“Oh, that’s what was happening,” comes a male voice. Out from behind Mimi steps the man who was pushing the dumpster on wheels.
“Yeah. Is there any way you can help?”
He follows me into the hall where the woman I am helping in pushing her fingers against the mouth of the machine. “Okay,” he says, after taking a look at the machine, “The airport office won’t be able to do anything. There’s only one company that can open this machine. Let me see if I can find the phone number and you can call.” He gestures to a phone on the wall, and says, “that one’s free for airport use.”
I smile at him and turn to the lady.
“He is going to help us,” I say. “I’ll call and get the company to come open the machine.” I doubt she understands what I am saying to her and I cross my fingers that it will be that easy.
It isn’t.
When the man returns with a phone number I dial and come up with a harsh buzz in my ears. I grit my teeth and dial again to the same result. “Nothing,” I say to him.
“Maybe it’s disconnected,” he shrugs, and walks back into the store.
I decide to call the airport office. As the phone rings in my ear I signal to the woman that she should do as I do. I grab the machine and tilt it at a forty five degree angle and whack the metal back with the base of my palm. The woman does the same and the effort of it loosens the machine’s grip slightly, the plastic calling card sliding closer, but still just out of reach.
“You trying to jimmy the machine?” asks a man who has appeared for desk duty at the gate.
My cheeks blush crimson and I say, “Nope, just trying to get our money’s worth.” Where the hell was he when I needed him?
“Hello?” The other end of the line finally crackles to life and a man’s warm voice sends a shock of calm through my body.
“Hi. I’m trying to contact the company that sells International Phone cards. We have a machine here that’s stuck and I’m trying to help a woman get her card out.”
“Sure thing,” he says. “Let me put you on hold and transfer your call.”
“Thanks.” The line goes quiet and then starts doing the same buzz as before. I hang up the phone and dial the office again.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m the girl who just called. My transfer didn’t go through.”
“Let me try again.”
“Thanks.” Nothing.
The third time I call him back he says, “Hm, must be disconnected.” Duh.
The woman stands at the machine, still whacking away, every minute or so getting on her knees to try a different angle of attack. I turn away from her.
“Is there a store or restaurant or something right across the hallway from the calling card company? Maybe I can call there and someone can run across the hall and ask.”
“I’ll check.” The line goes quiet again and I give the woman my hopeful smile.
“Ma’am? Just another minute.” I hate it when people call me ma’am. I want to tell him, Tanya. I’m Tanya but he’s gone again so I turn back around.
The woman is growing tired in her efforts. I help her bang the machine again, but nothing comes and after all that, after twenty minutes and me still on hold, she says, “Thank you. Arragato.” She bows to me, this woman who looks Russian but has just spoken Japanese, and starts to walk away.
“Wait,” I call after her, “We’re almost there.” But her white t-shirt floats down the hallway and gets lost in the crowd. I wait on the line, not wanting to hang up on the kind man who is helping us.
His voice comes back a few minutes later. “Ma’am, I’m still trying to connect to someone.”
“She left,” I say, and I’m the one who feels abandoned now. She gave up. We were so close. “Thank you for your help,” I say, and hang up the phone.
Devoid of purpose now, I walk back to the store and offer my thanks to the man who tried to help. “No, thank you,” he says. “I hate it when people come to this country and get bad service. It’s bad for customer relations and global relations.” I’m not sure if it is really a global problem but I nod in agreement. “Anyway, I got her number and name, so if we ever do get the card or money back, I can send it to her.”
“Thanks again,” I say, and walk out of the store. I look at the desk and realize that my gate has changed. Quite possibly my flight was never supposed to go out of that terminal and I didn’t notice. I adjust my briefcase on my shoulder and walk down the long hallway to my next destination, pausing briefly at the machine to wonder why out of everyone’s faces the woman in white found faith in the back of my head.