She blasted music, yelled at staff, and let her dog poop on the floor like the airport was her personal kingdom. By the time we reached the gate, everyone was exhausted. That’s when I sat down next to her, smiled—and gave her a reason to finally walk away.
JFK was jam-packed. Delays, long lines, tired travelers. Just another day in Terminal 4.
Then came the voice. Loud, sharp, impossible to ignore.
“Yeah, I told her I’m not doing that. Not my job. Let her cry.”
Everyone turned.
There she was: a woman in a red coat standing near Hudson News, phone held out in front of her on speakerphone, FaceTiming at full volume. No headphones. No regard.
Behind her, a tiny white dog—complete with a rhinestone collar—squatted right on the terminal floor. Pooping. In public.
An older gentleman in a tan cap approached kindly. “Excuse me, miss. Your dog…”
She didn’t even glance at him. “People are so damn rude,” she snapped. Then, louder to her phone, “Now some Grandpa’s looking at me like I murdered someone.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. A mom nearby shielded her kid’s eyes like it was a crime scene.
Another woman spoke up, “Ma’am! You’re not cleaning that up?”
Red Coat kept walking, flipped a hand in the air, and muttered, “They have people for that.”
The disbelief was thick. People just stood there, stunned.
Later, I saw her again at TSA.
She shoved ahead in line, dropped her tote at the front like she owned the place.
“Ma’am, you need to wait your turn,” said the TSA agent.
“I have PreCheck,” she barked. “And my dog gets anxious.”
“That’s not the PreCheck line,” the agent replied calmly.
“Well, I’m going through anyway.”
Someone behind her muttered, “Unreal.”
Then came the shoe debacle.
“I’m not taking them off,” she snapped.
“You have to,” said the agent.
“They’re slides.”
“They’re boots, ma’am.”
“I’ll sue.”
Eventually, she complied, mumbling threats the whole time. Her dog barked at everyone—babies, strollers, wheelchairs. No pause, no leash, no shame.
At the coffee stand, she shouted, “I said almond milk! Are you deaf?”
The barista, unfazed, replied, “We only have oat or soy.”
“Forget it. You people are impossible,” she yelled, grabbing her drink. Now her phone blared music from its speakers. Still no headphones.
I reached Gate 22 for my flight to Rome. And—of course—there she was again.
Still FaceTiming. Still barking dog. Still making the gate her territory. One seat held her crossed legs, another her bag, and the third her sprawled-out dog.
A man across from her muttered, “This cannot be real.” A young woman moved seats. Two elderly passengers whispered, “Is she really on our flight?” They looked quietly desperate for a different answer.
The dog barked at a toddler. The baby cried. The parents picked up their child and walked away without a word.
No one sat near her. No one said anything.
Except me.
I walked straight over, sat down right next to her, and smiled.
She shot me a side-eye. Her look said: What now?
“Long wait, huh?” I said casually.
She didn’t reply. The dog barked at my shoe.
“Cute pup,” I added.
“He doesn’t like strangers,” she muttered.
“Totally get it,” I nodded. “Airports bring out the worst in everyone.”
She went back to yelling into her phone—this time about a missing bracelet and how someone would “just have to send a new one.”
I sat quietly beside her, not flinching. Not moving.
People were watching us now. Watching her. Watching me. They looked tired, wary—but hopeful.
Then the dog barked, twice, sharp and loud, at a couple by the window. The man clutched his cane. His wife squeezed their boarding passes like they might tear. They slowly got up and walked away.
That was my signal.
I exhaled through my nose and almost smiled.
She reminded me of someone I used to serve in customer service—always dumping a mess on the counter, barking “Do your job!” like it was a threat. The kind who demanded a manager I didn’t even respect. The kind who walked through life like a storm, expecting others to clean up the damage.
My mom once told me: “The best way to handle a bully is to smile—and outsmart them.” I never forgot that.
And I was tired. Of her. Of this kind of person.
She yelled again: “Tell him I’m not paying for that! Take it to court! I’ve got screenshots!”
The dog barked again.
A gate attendant stepped out, glanced over—and quietly stepped back inside.
So I stood up.
She glared. “What now?”
I smiled. “Just stretching.”
She rolled her eyes and kept talking.
I walked to the far end of the gate, leaned against the window, and waited. Not long. Just long enough.
Then I returned and sat beside her again, calm and casual.
“Flying to Paris?” I asked like we were old friends.
She paused mid-sentence. “What?”
“Paris,” I said, pointing to the gate. “Are you flying for work or vacation?”
She scoffed. “I’m going to Rome.”
“Oh,” I said, checking my phone. “That’s weird. My app just said the Rome flight was moved to 14B. This gate’s showing Paris now.”
She frowned. “What?”
I held up my phone, scrolled like I was double-checking. “Yeah, just updated. You might want to head over. 14B is kind of far.”
She looked at the gate monitor. Then at me. Then back at her phone.
Without another word, she huffed, stuffed her things into her bag, yanked the dog’s leash, and stormed off.
“Stupid airport,” she barked as she disappeared into the crowd. “No one knows what they’re doing!”
No one stopped her.
Not the gate agent. Not the weary travelers. Not the moms or the elderly or the coffee guy.
She was gone.
I sat back down. The gate was calm. No barking. No shouting. Just the low hum of boarding announcements and clinking water bottles.
The screen still read:
ROME – ON TIME.
She didn’t come back.
There was a beat of silence.
Then… laughter. Soft, shared, cautious at first.
A man across the aisle nodded at me. A mom smiled and whispered, “Thank you.”
Somewhere near the food stand, someone clapped—once, lightly—then again. A few more joined in. Just enough to mark the shift in energy.
A little girl hugged her stuffed animal and whispered, “Yay.”
The gate agent returned, took her place behind the desk, and blinked like she’d stepped into a new world.
JFK only flies to Rome once a day.
And that day, it was peaceful.