“Welcome to the jungle, we got fun and games; We got everything you want, honey, we know the names”

The room is overwhelmingly bright, plain, and exceptionally grand in size. Modern white counters lighted in the branding colors of several car rental companies mark the perimeter. All except two are closed. A line of overtired and hangry customers gathers in the center of the room with their luggage and emotional baggage in tow. There is no rhyme nor reason to the organization or madness. Confused passengers tend to wander off to an unmanned desk branded in their favored company’s colors. Eventually, they’re directed to the back of bedlam by compassionate bystanders.

I sit on a black leather-cushioned bench next to an older Hispanic couple from Orlando dressed for hot and humid summer days. They tell me their tale of woe, which includes a four-hour wait for a rental vehicle. They initially went to the wrong desk on the incorrect floor and argued with a random representative before being redirected to this spot. He babies their chihuahua, which he just let out of the cloth carrier. He offers it food and water, as she rants about their day’s struggles. They just need something for their week-long stay in Hartford.

We bond over the shit-show taking place in front of us. She asks about my situation as I sit alone with just a purse. I tell her I’m a local getting a car for vacation, which begins tomorrow. She asks which person in line is connected with me. I point to him – a lean Asian man staring off into space, waiting for the line to move, even if it’s only inches.

She looks around, perplexed. “Who?”

“The last one in line.”

She makes the connection and apologizes profusely as if the coupling is not one she’s seen before. I assure no harm has been done and insist she has not offended me.

Meanwhile, a family of six pass in front of us. Each is dragging a roller bag along the shiny white tiled floor, laughing in an ironic fashion about the rental car they’re exchanging. It reeks of cigarettes and is comparable to an ashtray, they say as they pass. I can’t tell if they’re talking to each other or the room at large. There are four teen-aged children. Three, I imagine are biological children – two girls and a boy are tall with pale skin and blonde hair matches the adults. The third is African-American with Afro-textured hair. I wonder how he is affiliated with the crew, but soon enough, I see he is the boyfriend of a daughter. As they wait for a new vehicle, the mother, and apparent leader of the crew, offers me lemony hand sanitizer after she sprays the hands of her companions. I graciously accept.

My attention turns to a singleton in line. She is thin and dressed in exercise clothes. She’s in the middle of the pack. Her brunette hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail and she fidgets with her phone. She collapses into a fit of tears and talks aloud to herself. Then, she regains her standing pose and touches the screen as if to dial a phone number.

She shouts at no one in particular and paces in a small circle.

Eventually, one of us bystanders ask her if she’s alright.

“My daughter and I were in a car accident driving up here from the city. We need a new rental car. My daughter was so scared,” she says, pacing. “She’s so young.”

“Where is your daughter?” Another asks.

“Downstairs. In the car.”

We inhale a synchronized gasp.

“She’s with my husband. No, she’s not alone.”

We all exhale.

“We’re supposed to drive up to Vermont to see family that won’t ever come down and see us. I don’t know why we always have to go up there, but we do. And, my husband doesn’t drive. He’s a spoiled city boy. He doesn’t even have a driver’s license. He doesn’t know how to drive. He never had to,” her voice gets louder and trails off at the same time.

A new woman wearing all gray, and surprisingly a long sweater, appears presumably out of nowhere. She approaches the woman in line, “Ma’am,” she begins. Her tone is terse. “You’re causing a scene and I’m going to have to ask you to stop. Acting out will not get you what you need.” I am annoyed for the woman. Pissed, actually.

The thin woman appears befuddled. She turns in a circle looking at no one in particular.

“She’s not causing a scene,” I yell out.

“Leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s having a hard time and is by herself?” someone else says to the supposed manager.

We talk quietly among ourselves, wondering why the manager is here and not at a desk. Wouldn’t that be of better use to this line of agitated customers? No one asks the question. Instead, we turn our attention back to the frantic thin woman, who falls to the floor and cries. The supposed manager walks away, disappearing into oblivion.

“And, I haven’t eaten since six this morning,” the thin woman adds.

I look at my watch. It’s nearly twelve hours later. I dig through my purse. “I have mini candy bars.” I find two and run them over to her. I extend my arm with a dark chocolate Milky Way and Twix in my hand.

“Thank you, but I’m a vegan.”

“Oh. Hmm.” I retreat, offering them to the Hispanic couple who decline the treats and suggest I should eat them later. “Wait a second, I have mints. Spearmints. Want one?”

I return. This time with a wrapped white circular mint.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she says taking it from my hand. “You’re the only one.”

I return to my seat wanting to cry for the singleton woman as the family of six excitedly leave for the garage. They wish us good thoughts as if we’re extended relatives.

The thin woman is called to a counter. I silently send positive thoughts her way. I look around wondering how this ridiculousness the weekend before the July fourth holiday is acceptable. The line grows. Newcomers bear the expression of “shit-show” as they look for a place to stand.

Soon, a heavyset Black woman calls for the next one in line. My boyfriend walks to the counter and I join him after saying goodbye to the couple beside me.

“How are you maintaining your sanity?” I calmly ask the woman behind the counter.

She laughs. “I have no idea! Everyone is calling out today. We are the only two left,” she nods in the direction of the poor soul listening to the thin woman’s drama. “They tried to promote me to supervisor, but I told them ‘No way! I’m pregnant and I was a supervisor downstairs. There’s no way I want that responsibility up here. I’ll do my hours and then go home’,” she continues.

We all laugh. I watch her perform her job with the ease and peace of a fabled saint. She is professional, compassionate, and juggling issues that come out of nowhere. The woman in gray is nowhere to be seen. The other customer service representative is still listening to thin woman. Her story may never end.

I wish our agent well as we leave and watch the chaos that remains. The camaraderie has dissipated and the scene is foreign. I’m just glad it’s no longer our story.