Strike up a conversation

—“You made my day,” my contact said.
Yrs Trly finally got around to calling back the deposit I made for a future Amtrak trip.
Almost a year ago I reserved an Amtrak trip to Fort Lauderdale to visit my niece. The trip was in April, and I canceled due to COVID-19.
Empire-Service across NY had been stopped. Amtrak performed the service.
Instead of requesting a refund I decided to turn that into a deposit for a future trip.
But as my stability degraded a future train-trip seemed impossible.
Amtrak to Fort Lauderdale involves changing trains in New York City. This would be frightening to me.
Penn Station in New York City is a zoo.
I made the trip two years ago, but barely. I almost missed the train back to Rochester.
Without my wife I am lost. She covered for me, stroke survivor that I am. —She died over eight years ago.
My brain works well enough to be ascertained as normal. But I’m no longer the font of confidence needed to navigate Penn Station. I remember how terrified I was that other time.
I don’t like making telephone calls. I used to let my wife do ‘em for me.
I always have to deliver my “speech” to my contact: “You’re talking to a stroke-survivor. I do okay, but I may hafta ask you to slow down or repeat. I also may lock up = unable to get my words out.
It’s called aphasia; Google it! Mine is slight, but I have it. If I didn’t warn you, you might get mad at me. I’ve had it happen.”
So, “call Amtrak” into Siri on my iPhone.
I got a machine, of course, and it couldn’t crunch more than five words. “I need to refund the deposit I made for a future trip” is way more than five words.
After three attempts: “I give up!”
Apparently the machine could crunch that: “we’ll connect you with a service-rep” — a human-being I hope.
I drove that poor lady nuts. “Reservation number?” she asked. “No idea,” I said.
Around-and-around we went. “I’ll hafta research,” she said.
“Please hold during the silence: BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA!” Some unbearable rap-racket that passes for music nowadays. (At least Little Richard could hold a tune.)
I ambled to this desk to rifle through my steaming-pile of accumulated papers.
VIOLA! There it was, my long ago Amtrak reservation. She could identify me with that. I thought that Amtrak reservation was gone.
“I detect a slight Philadelphia accent,” I said
“Yep, born and raised in Philly,” she said.
Business my foot; it’s more fun to talk. So let’s talk!
“I’m from south Jersey,” I said. “But I been up here since late 1966.”
“Where in south Jersey?” she asked.
“Are you familiar with Haddonfield?” I said.
“Heard of it,” she said.
“Go out State Route 70, the Marlton Pike from Camden, toward the Jersey seashore, and you’ll pass north of Haddonfield.
Are you at 30th Street?” I asked. (That’s Amtrak’s Philadelphia station on the Northeast Corridor.)
“Nope,” she said. “Amtrak Service-Center up near Levittown.”
“North of Philly,” I said. “The farthest north of Philadelphia I been is Willow Grove, and that was the air-station back in 1951!”
“That airbase is closed now,” she said.
Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada. More than half of our phonecall was just shootin’ the breeze.
So now my Amtrak deposit goes back onto my credit card, and “you made my day,” she crowed, obviously smiling.
Proof yet again that striking up a conversation so often goes over extremely well.
If it doesn’t, try someone else.