We never actually penetrated into the city of Buffalo, but stayed on the periphery in a suburb called Amherst. We were only there one night, staying at the Clarion Hotel, a very modest place on an industrial road that catered to Canadians who had driven down to the US in order to fly inexpensively out of Buffalo.
Working on my laptop in the lobby around 10:30, I listened as the desk clerk took telephone calls from prospective guests. One of the customers he was speaking with was clearly difficult, and although the clerk remained polite, there was an increasing edge to his voice. When the call ended he hung up the phone hard and asked the clerk who was coming in to replace him for the 11:00 shift to look after things for a few minutes so he could go cool down.
When he returned 20 minutes later, he had not cooled down but had in fact heated up. He complained bitterly about his job, and about a laundry list of everyday annoyances that for him were becoming unsustainable. His girlfriend woke him up early. A bird shit on his car. The movie was sold out. The list went on and on and on, the anger and frustration building in his voice as he recounted each misery.
At 11:00 a new clerk took over and immediately began his routine, which included changing the station on the TV, turning up the volume very loud and then setting up the coffee station for the morning. He suggested that I and the other man working in the lobby go to the Business Center around the corner, a small windowless room with two desks. It was from here where I looked out to see the clerk, happily ensconced in his familiar habitat settle into the sofa to watch TV alone for the rest of his graveyard shift.
In the morning a shuttle was provided to take us to the airport. The driver performed his job efficiently and without sentiment, and at the end of the trip we decided to tip him $5. However, neither Rachelle nor I had anything smaller than a ten, and when we asked him if he had any change, he quickly said “no,” and then held our gaze, and so we gave him the ten, which he accepted without gratitude.
At the airport we discovered there was a hidden fee for checking our luggage and when we asked about it the woman working the counter responded shrilly and with a curious satisfaction, “it’s been that way for two years!” before throwing the luggage onto the conveyor belt.
None of the employees there really looked like the photo ID’s that hung around their necks.
The woman who took our boarding passes never once looked up from the tickets she was being handed, possibly missing out on meeting the person whom might help carry her into a brilliant and unexpected future.
Buffalo is a depressed city, a place that is widely ridiculed, and all of the people I had encountered were living on the outskirts of this place, having found an economic niche serving Canadians that were looking to save a buck on their travel expenses. It’s probably safe to assume that none of these people were working at the jobs they felt they were born for. It was as if they were expecting to be disappointed in people, and having received little generosity in their lives, were unwilling to offer any.
On the plane a man in his 40’s spoke self-importantly into his cell phone. He had a dusting of grey hair and a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his head. He was speaking loudly, as if he wanted everybody on the plane to hear him and be impressed, but it was clear he was a bottom-feeding salesman overmatched by the world. When he got off the phone he began to try to put a book –Mediation For Dummies—into his laptop bag. It wouldn’t fit, and he began to jam at it with greater and greater ferocity, eventually tearing it’s cover. He sighed, and then as he stood up to put the bag in the overhead compartment, he conked his head on the ceiling.
“Just one of those days,” he said.
And looking on was the gay flight attendant, who said, “don’t I know it,” adding sarcastically, “ and you know, it just keeps getting better and better.”
And there you have it, right there, the spirit of Buffalo.