She scanned it again. Third time. Green beep. Her lips pressed together until they disappeared. The passenger behind Marshall, a white man in a charcoal suit, shifted impatiently. Gretchen noticed. She stepped aside immediately, flashed a warm smile. "Welcome aboard, sir. 1B right this way."
Then she turned back to Marshall. The smile vanished. "Go ahead." She said it the way someone says, "Take out the trash."
Marshall walked to 2A, sat down, set his backpack beneath the seat. He didn't ask for anything, didn't press the call button, didn't even adjust the air vent. He just sat.
That should have been the end of it, but Gretchen Harlo wasn't done. 5 minutes after the cabin doors closed, she began first class service. Dom Perignon in crystal flutes, warm towels on silver trays, leather-bound menus with gold embossing. She started at row one. Smile. Eye contact. "Welcome aboard, sir. Ma'am, can I get you started with some champagne?"
Row one served. Row 2B, the charcoal suit, served. "Here you are, sir. Excellent choice." Row 2A, Marshall Fenton, skipped. She walked right past him. Didn't slow down. Didn't glance. As if seat 2A were empty.
Row three. Row four. Every passenger received a towel, a menu, a greeting, every passenger except one.
Marshall waited. He wasn't the type to make a scene. He'd spent his whole life not making scenes, so he waited. 10 minutes, 15. The champagne went around a second time. Marshall's tray table was still bare. No towel, no menu, no water, nothing. He raised his hand just slightly. Two fingers the way you'd signal a waiter. Gretchen walked past him again. Eyes forward as if he were invisible.
He pressed the call button. The soft chime rang through the cabin. Gretchen took her time. She finished pouring champagne for row four, refolded a napkin that didn't need refolding, adjusted a window shade that was already down. Then she walked to 2A. She didn't lean in. She stood over him, arms crossed. "What?" Not "what can I get you?", not "how can I help?", just "what?".
"I'd like the champagne, please, and a menu."
Gretchen tilted her chin up. "I'll need to verify your booking with the gate agent first. We've had issues with third-party reservations." She turned and walked away. She didn't come back.