An Open Letter to Mr. Cheers

Once upon a time, I was you. Hard charging, up in the gate agent's face. Working the phone; working the angles -- by God I wasn't going to be left behind.

Let me share something with you -- the flight to Tampa was full. Full even before the weather put things behind. Full before your agent told you they put you on the flight an hour ago.

Good work, you got the gate agent's name. And you've mocked her sufficiently and her ethnicity to whomever you're browbeating on the phone.

At the end of this day, you'll be right with the rest of the chumps who didn't take the time to try and fight their way on the the last flight to Tampa: stuck in Atlanta.

Oh, there's one difference -- the rest of us have seats tomorrow. Don't know about you. Probably because we took care of business earlier, or didn't scream and yell.

The college student who shifted nervously, pitifully back and forth, worrying quietly if she'd get on the plane to catch up with the voice on the other end of her almost out of battery phone -- guess what, she got on the plane. And, Mr. Cheers, because she was so obviously upset yet maintaining a level of dignity, I'd have given her my seat. In fact, several folks would have. You? Good luck with the concierge level as we'd each stride onto that last middle seat.

So when Delta gets that report about the gate agent at A17, remember there was another side to that story.

And seriously, dude, Cheers was done before you were born. Chill.