Airport shuttle

Code 3 for a burn. At the airport. On an inbound flight. ETA 15 minutes.

I hate going to the airport for calls. I can count on one hand how many transports I’ve actually had out of there. It almost always is a refusal, which means a disproportionate amount of paperwork just to cover our collective butts, because we’re always there for the dumbest reasons. And the reason for that is the airlines call us all the damn time for the dumbest things. Liability, or fear of liability rather, is a bitch.

“I bet someone spilled coffee.”

So we go onto the tarmac like we always do to get to the jet bridge from the outside, up those metal steps and through the coded door. Fire is there already. We wait. And wait. And wait.

The aircraft taxis in, finally. The jet bridge moves towards the cabin door. There’s always one guy who doesn’t know the jet bridge is going to move, and he catches himself from falling.

The cabin door opens. A flight attendant tells us the lady spilled hot tea on herself and she’s in the back of the aircraft.

“We’re going to let the other passengers deplane first since it’s not serious.”

So why the hell did you call us out here then?

“Sure, whatever.”

Definitely don’t get in the way of the passengers trying to get off a plane.

So we wait again. And wait. And wait. A hundred people later, a woman and her friend get off and their eyes meet ours.

“I told them not to call you guys.”

“I know. I know. They always call anyway. This isn’t the silliest call we’ve been here for.”

“I’m fine! I just spilled some tea on my lap. I’m fine!”

“That’s OK. How about this – why don’t you let me take a peek at it really quick while we give you a ride to baggage claim? You guys won’t have to walk all the way over there.”


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