JFK was a zoo—delays, crowds, and frayed nerves. Then one woman made it unbearable. I’m Jamie, and I was trying to survive the chaos when her voice pierced the air, loud and demanding, on a FaceTime call with no headphones. She ranted about refusing to “deal with nonsense” while her fluffy dog, sporting a shiny collar, left a mess on the terminal floor. An older man kindly said, “Miss, your dog’s making a mess.” She snapped, “Get a life, Grandpa!” The crowd gasped. A mom nearby covered her kid’s eyes, and another traveler shouted, “You’re not cleaning that up?” She shrugged, “They have cleaners for that,” and strutted off, phone still blaring.
I saw her again at TSA, cutting the line and tossing her bag like she owned the place. “I’ve got PreCheck,” she told the agent, who pointed to the regular line. “My dog’s anxious,” she argued, pushing through anyway. She fought about taking off her boots, insisting they were “slides,” and only complied after muttering threats. Her dog barked at a stroller, a cane, anything that moved. At the coffee counter, she screamed at the barista for not having almond milk. “What’s wrong with you people?” she yelled, grabbing her drink and leaving, her phone blasting music for all to hear.
At Gate 22 for the Rome flight, there she was, taking up three seats with her bag, legs, and dog. Still on FaceTime, no headphones, her dog yapping at a toddler who started crying. The parents left, and others whispered, “Is she on our flight?” No one dared sit near her. I’d had enough. I plopped down next to her and grinned. “Rough day, huh?” She shot me a look, and her dog barked at my shoe. “He doesn’t like strangers,” she said. “Airports are tough,” I replied, staying calm. She went back to her call, yelling about a missing earring, while her dog chewed a straw, unleashed.
An elderly couple flinched when her dog barked at them. They shuffled away, looking uneasy. That was my breaking point. I thought of my mom’s words from my retail days: “Smile and outsmart the rude ones.” I was done with her storm. I stood, stretched, and walked to the gate’s edge, pretending to check my phone. Then I sat back down and said, “You going to Paris for fun?” She paused. “No, Rome.” I glanced at the sign—clearly “ROME – ON TIME”—and tapped my phone. “That’s odd. I got an alert saying Rome’s now at Gate 14B. This is Paris.”
She scowled, checked the sign, then grabbed her stuff, muttering, “This place is a joke.” She yanked her dog’s leash and stormed off, cursing the airport. No one said a word. The gate went quiet—no barking, no shouting, just peace. The sign hadn’t changed. She didn’t come back. Laughter rippled through the crowd, soft and relieved. A guy nodded at me, a mom smiled, and a little girl hugged her stuffed animal, whispering, “Yay.” The gate agent looked grateful. Rome only flies once a day from JFK. My mistake.
