JFK was a madhouse—delays, crowds, and tense travelers. Then one woman made it a nightmare. I’m Sam, and I was navigating the chaos when her voice cut through, loud and rude, on a FaceTime call with no headphones. She was yelling about refusing to “do their job” while her fluffy dog, in a shiny collar, left a mess on the terminal floor. An older man gently said, “Miss, your dog’s making a mess.” She snapped, “Mind your business, Pops!” People gasped. A mom shielded her kid’s eyes, and another traveler shouted, “You’re not cleaning that up?” She shrugged, “They’ve got people for that,” and walked off, phone still blaring.
I saw her again at TSA, cutting the line and tossing her bag like she owned the place. “I’m PreCheck,” she told the agent, who pointed to the regular line. “My dog’s anxious,” she argued, pushing through. She fought about removing her boots, calling them “slides,” and only complied after muttering threats. Her dog barked at a baby, a suitcase, anything that moved. At the coffee counter, she screamed at the barista for not having almond milk. “Are you incompetent?” she yelled, grabbing her drink and leaving, her phone blasting music for all to hear.
At Gate 22 for the Rome flight, she took 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 walked away, and others whispered, “Is she on our flight?” No one sat near her. I’d had enough. I sat beside her and grinned. “Tough day, huh?” She shot me a look, and her dog barked at my shoe. “He’s not friendly,” she muttered. “Airports are brutal,” I said, staying calm. She went back to her call, ranting about a lost ring, while her dog chewed a straw, unleashed.
An elderly couple flinched when her dog barked at them. They shuffled away, looking uneasy. That was it. I thought of my mom’s advice from my retail days: “Smile and outsmart the rude ones.” I was exhausted, and this was my chance. I stood, stretched, and walked to the gate’s edge, pretending to check my phone. Then I sat back down and said, “Paris for vacation?” She paused. “No, Rome.” I glanced at the sign—clearly “ROME – ON TIME”—and tapped my phone. “Odd, I got an alert saying Rome’s at Gate 14B now. This is Paris.”
She scowled, checked the sign, then packed up, muttering, “This place is a mess.” She grabbed her dog’s leash and stormed off, cursing the airport. No one said a word. The gate went silent—no barking, no shouting. The sign hadn’t changed. She didn’t come back. Laughter rippled through the crowd, soft and warm. A man nodded at me, a mom smiled, and a little girl hugged her stuffed animal, whispering, “Yay.” The gate agent looked relieved. Rome only flies once a day from JFK. My mistake.
