Chapter 13: The Letter That Went to the Wrong Inbox First
I landed the next morning after a night on a hard chair at the connection city, and I didn't go home first. I went to my apartment on the third floor where the elevator had been out since Tuesday. I took the stairs one at a time and sat at my kitchen table with my red suitcase by the fridge and my boarding pass smoothed out flat.
I was Harold Grant again in that apartment. Not the man hunched in the terminal. I had my glasses, I had my charger, I had time. I opened my laptop and the airline's website was still bright blue and white like the signs in the terminal. I found the feedback form under Contact Us and then Compliments.
I typed slow. My hands weren't shaking as bad as the day before.
I wrote that on the morning of the flight I had been unsteady near the black gate seating by the large windows, that my boarding pass was for that afternoon's departure, that my gate had later changed and I had been moved in a blue manual wheelchair with a silver frame and black wheels. I wrote that Jess Morales, cleaning staff, maroon top, dark green pants, had left her mop with the wooden handle to get that wheelchair when I couldn't stand straight. I gave the time, I gave the terminal area, I gave the name of the gate agent who later scanned me. I didn't write about how it felt. I wrote what happened. I hit submit and the screen said Thank You For Your Feedback with a reference number I wrote down on the back of a grocery receipt: 84729-A.
I made coffee and waited like that number meant something.
The reply came the next afternoon while I was sitting at the same table with the same receipt. It was not from a person.
Thank you for contacting us, Mr. Grant. We appreciate you taking the time to share your experience. Please note that airport cleaning and wheelchair services are operated by third-party contractors and not directly by our airline employees. For matters concerning contractor staff, please contact the service provider directly. We have forwarded your comments where appropriate.
It forwarded nothing. It gave me a link to a different website I had never heard of.
I sat with that email for a long time. The light in my apartment is gray in the afternoon, the kind that comes through the parking lot side. I read it twice and realized I'd sent the letter to the wrong inbox first. I had praised Jess to the company that didn't employ her.
I found the contractor's name on the small print at the bottom of my boarding pass jacket and on a search. Meridian Services Group. Their site had a phone number and a generic HR email under Careers.
I called the number at nine the next morning.
A woman answered with the practiced cheer of someone who answers that phone all day. Meridian Services, how can I help you.
I said I was trying to reach Human Resources about an employee commendation.
She transferred me. I waited through music that cut in and out. Another woman picked up.
HR, this is Carla.
I told her who I was. I gave her Jess Morales's name, the date, the terminal, the wheelchair, the reference number from the airline. I said I had been the elderly man in the dark blue coat and gray sweater who couldn't stand right, and that Jess had pushed me and stayed with me when her supervisor told her not to.
Carla was quiet for a second. Then she typed. I could hear the keys.
I see a Jess Morales on our roster, terminal cleaning, she said. Is this related to an incident report filed yesterday?
My chest got tight. I asked what report.
She said she couldn't share personnel details, but that any commendation would be attached to the employee file and reviewed. She gave me the email to send it to and asked me to include the flight log reference and the gate agent's name if I had it.
I did. I sat right down and forwarded the same letter, word for word, to [email protected], and I added the flight number and the gate agent's name tag as I remembered it: L. Park. I attached a photo of my boarding pass I'd taken with my phone on the kitchen table, the time stamp visible.
An hour later Carla called back. Her voice was different, flatter.
Mr. Grant, we received your email, she said. I need to let you know there is also a supplemental report on file from the supervisor on duty, Diane Keller. It notes a policy violation regarding equipment use and leaving an assigned post without authorization. That report will be considered alongside your statement at review.
I stood up without meaning to. The chair scraped the linoleum.
She's reporting Jess for getting the wheelchair, I said.
I'm noting that you dispute the characterization, Carla said. Procedurally, both accounts are part of the record. That's why we schedule a review meeting.
I asked when.
Tuesday at ten a.m., she said. At our office over by the airport. Ms. Morales will be there, Ms. Keller will be there. You are invited as a witness if you are able. It is not a termination hearing, it is a review for corrective action.
I wrote the address on the same grocery receipt. The ink bled a little.
After she hung up, I stayed standing in my kitchen with the phone in my hand. I thought about Diane in the light blue shirt behind the wheelchair, about how she had stood so still and formal. Of course she had filed her version first. She knew the system better than I did. My letter had gone to the wrong inbox, hers had gone to the right one on time.
May you like
I sat back down and looked at the email I'd sent. It was in motion now, but it wasn't ahead. It was stalled between two offices, and there was another piece of paper sitting across from it that said the opposite thing.
I folded the receipt and put it in my coat pocket, the dark blue one hanging by the door. I would be there Tuesday at ten.
