Opinion
I have a friend, a lawyer who specialises in both marine and space law, and thus consults with shipping lines, space agencies, island nations and nascent despots. One morning, while living in Montreal, he woke and checked his frequent flyer points and was outraged to find United Airlines had shortchanged him.
Walking to work, he ordered a coffee from a hole in the wall and when he held out a tenner to the barista she just shook her head and smiled sadly as if money was yesterday’s answer and retail suddenly declasse. “An incipient hippy,” he thought, happily tonguing the foam on his gratis latte. “More fool her. With any luck I’ll be a dozen cups to the good before she goes belly-up.”
Once settled in his office he rang United Airlines and, after an aggravating wait, got through to a woman named Belinda at customer service. It was immediately apparent to him that Belinda was a flighty type. A good thing in a pilot, but not in customer service.
“Belinda,” he said, “Settle down and listen up. On the 15th of last month I flew to Florida with your airline to meet with NASA. Five days later I flew with you to Greece to meet with … never mind who I met with there. To date I’ve received no frequent flyer points for either flight. Now, I’ve been a regular customer with your airline over the years, and this isn’t good enough.”
“You’re ringing about your frequent flyer points?”
“Does it not appear so, Belinda? As that’s all I’ve been talking about?”
“Today?”
“It must be today. It always is. There isn’t any other.”
“Well, our systems are stretched …”
“I don’t want to hear about your systems, Belinda. Any mention of your systems makes me think less of you. Your systems are A-OK when I’m paying for my flights. There’s no talk of stretched systems then.”
“It’s just, I’m fielding a lot of calls, and …”
“You’re paid to field them, Belinda. Field this one with equanimity … with grace, if you can.”
“A call about frequent flyer points.”
“Yes. Two trips: Montreal-Florida return, Montreal-Athens return.”
In this brusque manner my friend got a promise from Belinda that his frequent flyer points would be credited to him by day’s end. After he hung up, with Belinda defeated and his flyer miles defended, he put his feet on his desk and switched on the office TV to catch the day’s news. Just in time to see the first of the Twin Towers detumesce in plumes of rubble and blood. It was September 11, 2001. America had been having a rough day. And United Airlines more than most.
Though I’ve made him out to be a fink, my friend is a kind man who does a lot of work pro bono, defending moribund ecosystems and wheezing cultures against modernity’s appetites. He would have been more polite than I’ve made him out to be in the conversation above – I wrote the call as I thought it must have sounded to a dazed Belinda as the towers burned.
In the years since that terrible day he frequently thinks, with horror, of Belinda and the wound he surely inflicted on her view of humanity. He imagines her sitting there watching incoming calls queue on her screen, family members desperately wanting news of loved ones, while he argues for his flyer miles. Part-way through that conversation she must have realised that with the world on fire a certain kind of man, sniffing the smoke, will demand an immediate upgrade from Economy to Business. It’s something we all learn eventually, but usually by increment.
I imagine Belinda, 50 now, living in a lawn-sprawl suburb of Chicago, regularly telling this story to outraged Illinoisans over dinner, and them cursing Australians. Here in Melbourne my friend is still telling it as an anecdote against himself, still astounded at the accidental inhumanity he committed as a young man.
That morning he knew what a prick he’d been just by turning on the TV. We aren’t often enlightened about our insensitivities in such a vibrant way – or at all.
But 9/11s aren’t rare. Given the uncertain and fragile nature of life, a hefty percentage of us are undergoing personal, un-newsworthy 9/11s at any time – the death of the dog, the dad, the diagnosis, the prognosis, the loss of a lover or dream … It’s worth remembering, when you’re next talking to Belinda, that the buildings are always burning somewhere, for someone.
Anson Cameron is a columnist for Spectrum in The Age and the author of several books, including Boyhoodlum and Neil Balme: A Tale of Two Men.
