The Assistants(2)

“I need to be on the next flight to LA,” he said. “And have them bump the seats around mine.”

Robert made requests like this as if he were ordering a pastrami on rye at the corner deli, or in his case, maybe braised brisket on a roll.

“You’re flying commercial?” I asked.

“Don’t get me started. The Boeing died and they tell me there aren’t any jets available for the rest of the afternoon. Can you believe that shit? Not one. I used to be somebody in this town, you know that?”

In the six years I’d worked for Robert, not once had he ever flown on a commercial airline. I glanced at the clock. In order for him to make the LA meeting on time, he’d have to be on a flight in the next two hours.

“And make sure they comp me,” he said.

“The airline?” What amounted to buying out half of first class on a flight that would be leaving almost immediately, Robert wanted for free. And he expected it to be done as simply as saying “hold the mustard.”

“Okay,” I said.

Robert brought his hands down from his head, placed them flat on his desk, and looked at me amiably with his big brown eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

That’s something people who haven’t met Robert can’t understand—his graciousness. They see a seventy-year-old media tycoon accused of evading every tax and law imaginable to expand his multinational domination. They see a sinister businessman accused of single-handedly making a mockery of news journalism. They see a one-percenter with a “Don’t Mess with Texas” bumper sticker on the back of his Mercedes. But actually, Robert’s a very nice man.

So I called the airline, used my executive voice, and politely explained our crisis situation.

“You do understand this will cause a great disruption to our other first-class passengers,” the phlegmy-voiced woman on the phone said. “But because Mr. Barlow is such a valued customer we’re happy to accommodate him.” She sounded like one of Marge Simpson’s chain-smoking sisters.

“Thank you,” I replied, perfectly mimicking Robert’s amiability.

All sweetness and light, Robert always said. That’s how you have to talk to people, all sweetness and light, but tough as stewed skunk.

She clicked away on her keyboard. “The total fare will come to nineteen thousand, one hundred forty-seven dollars.”

I had the urge to gasp. That was a high enough figure to make flying in a private jet sound fiscally reasonable.

“Ma’am?” I said. “I do understand this is terribly short notice and you’re going to great lengths to accommodate Mr. Barlow’s sizable request, but I was wondering if it would be possible for this fare to be complimentary.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

More silence. Then laughter, then the clearing of mucus, then finally—“You’ve got to be f*cking kidding.”

“Excuse me?”

“Who does this guy think he is?”

“Ma’am,” I said again, which always made me feel slightly Southern in spite of my New York roots, and also a little bit like an *, “did you just curse at me? I’d like to speak to your manager immediately.”

“There is no way we’re comping Robert Barlow,” she said.

I glanced at the time and then at Robert’s desk. He’d already left for the airport, unable to even fathom that his request would be denied. Jesus, no wonder he never flew commercial if this was the treatment he got. Asking to fly for free or not, where were these people’s manners?

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll pay the fare. But as soon as I hang up this phone I’m filing a complaint with your customer service department.”

“Credit card number, please.”

I recited Robert’s corporate Amex number from memory as obnoxiously as possible.

Two seconds later the woman replied, “I’m sorry,” like she wasn’t sorry at all. “That card’s expired.”

“Impossible.”

I could hear her grinning through the receiver. “That card is expired.”

Shit. Fine. How could I be losing this battle of wills so terribly? I fished through my bag, found my wallet, pulled out my own credit card, and read off the number.

Titan didn’t allow assistants to have corporate cards, so it was my personal card that I had to use.

“One moment, please,” she said.

I listened to her breathing, which sounded like Darth Vader performing an anti-tobacco PSA, and then she came back with: “I’m sorry. That card’s also been rejected. You’ve exceeded your credit limit.”

I pretty much set myself up for that one. None of my credit cards had a limit over eleven thousand dollars. “Can I split it between two cards?” I flipped through my wallet.

“No,” she said.

“No?”

“No.”

“I would seriously like to speak to your manager immediately,” I said. “I’m not even kidding now.”

“Okay, fine. You can use two cards.” My nemesis was growing bored of sucking the life out of my day; I was obviously harshing her mellow disengagement. “But this isn’t customary. I’m doing you a favor.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, because at heart I’m a total weakling.