American Fez

Thou Shalt Consult Expedia

There is a Moses in my mind, tending to a flock of idle thoughts, who is surprised by a majestic voice from within a burning synapse. "Call your travel agent," the voice commands. "You must lead your luggage into the promised vacation."

Suffice it to say, the ten bucket list destinations are carved in stone tablets of gray matter. Top of the list is northwestern Sicily, which although unreachable by floating down the river in a basket doesn't require parting any red seas to get there. I can simply book a seat on ITA Airways, the new Alitalia.

Apparently, the Moses in my mind is done with working for Pharaoh every day and who can blame him? After all, over the years, the daily grind has changed from a challenging eight hours of productive activity to an interminable fog of superficial burdens; specialist knowledge and consummate artistry become merely the installation of an app and a series of point and clicks on a computer screen.

Other prophets I know are already retired and living off manna from their many investments. Alas, I'm not sure this Moses has got enough stashed away his Ark of the Covenant to give Pharaoh the finger just yet but his knuckle is slowly unfolding. Meanwhile, he has the consolation of pontificating to the juniors about the good old days while downloading street maps of Palermo

Customer Service

The agent's face was stone cold, disengaged, her thoughts elsewhere, like the marble face of some minor deity's sculpted head emerging from the earth after thousands of years of burial beneath a Turkish shopping mall. Despite being surrounded by much activity she was deaf to the world around her, especially the world as represented by the man in line in front of me who was almost screaming across the counter in her direction. Blind, also, as she seemed completely oblivious of an ever-lengthening queue of irate customers who were quickly becoming an uncontrollable mob bellowing into bottomless pit.

Staff shortages, I suppose, was the explanation. Overworked and underpaid, the agent's brain had simply shut down and surrendered to the nirvana of total apathy. Perhaps she'd eventually rouse herself to depart the counter in body as well as mind, leaving my fellow plaintiffs and I to demand answers from an empty chair. I couldn't blame her. Minimum wage was surely not worth suffering through this much soul destroying aggravation every day, processing the trivial and petty complaints of an enraged and entitled consumer society. 

I'd only joined the line to ask about getting a new membership card, something to do during my lunch break. But my plans were stymied by someone who could not comprehend that last week's price-saver deal was not extended into this week; someone else who for some obscure reason needed to return an entire shed of unused gardening tools; and finally the screaming man in front of me who, well, I wasn't sure what he wanted because his argument had rapidly become incoherent. Clearly I was not going to get my new card today. Just another unproductive hour spent struggling in the quicksand of other people. Will the robots, when they come, be more efficient wranglers of humanity and its discontents? Probably not. After allm, even circuits blow and gears grind to a halt when put under too much pressure.