She blasted music, yelled at the staff, and let her dog poop on the floor as if the entire airport belonged to her. By the time we reached the gate, everyone looked worn out. I simply sat next to her with a calm smile and quietly showed her the way.
JFK was at full capacity. Delays, long lines, and irritated tourists—just like always. And then her voice rang out. Loud, sharp, impossible to ignore.
“Yes, I said I wouldn’t do that.” She continued without shame. “It’s okay if she cries.”
Heads turned. When she wasn’t on FaceTime, she stood near the Hudson News store, holding her phone stiffly in front of her face. Her voice sliced through the ambient noise like a siren.
Right behind her, in the middle of the airport, was a small white puffball—her dog. Under the airport’s fluorescent lights, its diamond collar glinted.
An older man wearing a tan cap approached her gently. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, pointing, “your dog…”
She snapped without hesitation, “Some people are so damn rude!” and continued her call. “This guy’s looking at me like I just murdered someone. Granny, mind your own business.”
Gasps echoed around her. A mother nearby shielded her child’s eyes as though she were protecting them from a crime scene.
A voice from the crowd spoke up. “Ma’am! Are you not going to clean that up?”
The woman breezed past. Raising her hand in the air, she announced, “They have people for that.”
People just stood there, stunned, trying to grasp what had just occurred.
Later, I saw her again at TSA. She shoved her way through the line, slamming her bag in front of others like she was entitled to be first.
The agent calmly told her, “Ma’am, you need to wait your turn.”
“I have PreCheck,” she shouted. “And my dog gets anxious.”
The agent gestured across the terminal. “That’s not the PreCheck line.”
“Well, I’m going through anyway.”
Someone behind her muttered, “Unreal.”
Then came the issue with her shoes.
“I’m not taking them off,” she argued.
“You have to,” the TSA worker explained.
“I get along with TSA. These are slides.”
“They’re boots, ma’am.”
“I’ll sue.”
She finally removed them, grumbling under her breath the entire time. Her dog didn’t react—not even when a baby passed by in a stroller or a man hobbled by with a cane. Not a single bark or pause.
Then, at the coffee stand, she lashed out again. “I told you—almond milk. Are you hearing impaired?”
“I’m sorry,” the barista replied. “We only have oat or soy.”
“I said almond!”
“We can refund your money,” another worker offered gently.
“Forget it,” she snapped. “You people are impossible!” And off she went, storming away with her drink, music still blaring from her phone, with no headphones in sight.
I arrived at Gate 22 for my flight to Rome. Unsurprisingly, she was already there.
Still on FaceTime. Still no headphones. Still letting her dog bark at anything that moved. She took up three seats: one for herself, one for her bag, and one for her dog stretched out like royalty.
Someone nearby whispered, “This cannot be real.” A girl moved to a different row of seats. “She’s not really on our flight, is she?” asked two older passengers, visibly anxious.
A baby began crying when the dog barked. The parents quietly relocated without a word.
No one sat near her. No one said a thing. Except me.
I sat down right beside her.
She glanced at me with narrowed eyes, clearly expecting a problem. I smiled. “Long wait, huh?”
She didn’t respond. Her dog growled at my shoe.
“Cute little guy,” I said.
“He doesn’t like strangers,” she muttered.
“I understand. Airports bring out the worst in all of us.”
She returned to her call. I leaned back in my seat and took in the room. People were watching—her, me, us.
They looked exhausted. Hopeful. Hesitant.
I said nothing more. But I knew exactly what I was going to do.
I sat in silence, letting the chaos buzz around me. The woman continued ranting into her phone about a lost bracelet. “They’ll have to send a new one!”
Her voice screeched in my ears like a fork on glass. Her dog chewed on a discarded plastic straw wrapper. No leash in sight. Don’t worry.
A couple by the window caught my eye. The man had a cane on his lap; the woman held their boarding passes delicately, like they were birds. The dog barked—twice, sharply. They flinched. Whispered. Nodded. And slowly stood to leave.
That was the moment. I exhaled through my nose and nearly smiled.
She reminded me of a customer from my old job in customer service. The kind who threw bags and barked “Do your job” like it was an insult. The type who thought someone else should always clean up after their mess—figuratively and literally.
My mom always said, “The only way to deal with a bully is to smile and outsmart them.” That stayed with me.
I was tired too. It had been a long week, a longer month. But at that gate, my mother’s advice felt just right.
The woman beside me screamed again into her phone. “No! Tell him I won’t pay. He can take me to court. I’ve got screenshots!”
Her dog barked again. Loud. Shrill.
A gate agent stepped out to make an announcement, saw the situation, and quickly retreated.
I stood up.
She scowled. “What now?”
“Just stretching,” I replied with a smile.
She rolled her eyes and kept talking.
I stepped away, stretched slowly, leaned against the window, and waited. Just long enough for her to believe I’d left.
Then I returned, calm as ever, and sat down beside her again.
“Flying to Paris for fun?” I asked, as if we were lifelong friends.
She paused mid-sentence. “What?”
“Paris,” I said, nodding toward the gate. “Are you traveling for business or pleasure?”
She scoffed. “I’m going to Rome.”
“Oh,” I said, feigning surprise as I checked my phone. “That’s odd. My notification just said the Rome flight moved to 14B. This gate is Paris now.”
Her eyes darted to the monitor. Then to me. Then back to her phone. She didn’t argue. Just muttered “Unbelievable,” stuffed her things into her oversized bag, yanked her dog’s leash, and stormed away.
She shouted into the air behind her. “Stupid airport. No one here knows anything!”
No one stopped her. Not the gate agent. Not the crowd. No one even blinked as she disappeared, leaving behind only silence, muttered curses, and the faint echo of her angry shoes.
I sat back down. No barking. No shouting. Only the familiar hum of the airport.
Behind me, the screen still said “ROME – ON TIME.” She didn’t come back.
Then came a breath. A soft laugh. Someone chuckled. Then another. It swept through the gate like a quiet wave. Not loud—just warm, grateful laughter.
A young woman smiled at me. A man across the aisle tipped an invisible hat. The mother, now watching her child play with a toy truck, beamed. “Thank you,” she said.
A lone clap rang out from the food court. Then another. A few more joined in. Not everyone needed to cheer. Just enough to confirm that something had shifted.
A little girl near the window hugged her stuffed animal and whispered, “Yay.”
The tension had lifted.
When the gate agent returned, she looked pleasantly surprised—maybe even relieved.
I exchanged glances with a few others. JFK only has one Rome flight per day. Sorry.