The Woman Who Treated JFK Like Her Throne — Until I Made Her Leave

She let her dog poop on the floor, blasted music, and screamed at staff like JFK was her personal kingdom. By the time we reached the gate, everyone was emotionally drained. So I sat next to her with a smile—and gave her a reason to finally walk away.

JFK was chaos. Delayed flights, long security lines, groggy travelers running on caffeine and irritation. Standard stuff. Then came that voice—shrill, relentless, impossible to ignore.

"Yeah, well, I told her I wasn't doing that. Not my job. I don't care if she cries. Let her cry."

Everyone turned to stare.

There, by the Hudson News, stood a woman in a bright purple trench coat, FaceTiming at full volume without headphones. Her phone was held flat in front of her like a mirror, and she was yelling into it like she was on stage.

Behind her, her tiny designer dog—a fluffy white thing with a rhinestone collar—was squatting in the middle of the terminal, leaving a very public gift on the tile floor.

A kind-looking older man in a fishing hat approached her gently. “Excuse me, miss? Your dog…”

He gestured toward the mess.

“Some people are so damn rude,” she snapped—at him. Then she turned back to her phone. “Now this old guy’s acting like I committed murder or something. Get a life, Gramps.”

Gasps echoed. One mom clutched her child protectively. A few people just stared, open-mouthed.

Another traveler called out, “You’re not gonna clean that up?”

Purple Trench Coat Lady waved her hand dismissively. “They’ve got people for that. Janitors. It’s their job.”

And she walked off, music now playing from her phone speakers like a portable club—still no headphones.

I saw her again at TSA. She muscled her way to the front of the line, dropped her tote bag loudly, and said, “I have PreCheck. Move.”

“Ma’am, this isn’t the PreCheck line,” said the TSA agent calmly, pointing her elsewhere.

She huffed. “I’m going through anyway. My dog has separation anxiety.”

Then came the shoe debate.

“You need to remove your boots,” said the agent.

“They’re slides.”

“They’re boots, ma’am.”

“I’ll sue.”

Eventually, she took them off, muttering curses under her breath. Her dog barked at a baby, a man with a cane, and a suitcase. He had no chill. Neither did she.

At the coffee stand, she shouted, “No, almond milk! Are you people deaf?”

“We only have oat or soy,” the barista said softly.

“I said almond!”

“We can refund you—”

“Forget it. Ugh. You’re all incompetent.”

She snatched her drink and stomped off, music still blaring from her phone.

Eventually, I reached Gate 22 for my flight to Rome—and of course, there she was again. Sprawled across three chairs, dog included, legs up like it was a lounge. Still on FaceTime. Still no headphones. Still barking dog.

A man across from her muttered, “This can’t be real.”

Nobody dared sit near her.

Except me.

I sat down beside her. She looked over at me like I might try to steal her oxygen. I smiled. “Long day?”

She didn’t answer. The dog growled at my sneaker.

“Cute pup,” I said.

“He hates strangers,” she grumbled.

“I get that,” I replied. “Airports make us all cranky.”

She resumed yelling into her phone. Something about suing a jeweler over a missing bracelet.

I stayed still. Calm. I could feel people watching me, watching her, like they were waiting for something to snap. That’s when the idea sparked.

She reminded me of a woman I once dealt with during my customer service days—let’s call her Karen 2.0. She used to toss her returns on the counter like grenades and say, “Do your job,” like it was a slur. Always demanding to speak to managers I secretly hoped would quit.

My mom once said, “Bullies hate it when you stay calm. Just smile and outsmart them.”

I was tired. It had been a long week, a longer month, and this felt like the perfect moment to listen to Mom.

The woman beside me—let’s call her Tiffany—screamed into her phone again. “Tell him I’m not paying for that! Take it to court. I have receipts!”

The dog jumped down and barked at an elderly couple sitting quietly near the windows. The woman flinched. The man leaned on his cane and whispered something to her. They stood and walked away.

That was it for me.

I stood and stretched.

Tiffany glanced up. “What now?”

“Just stretching,” I said with a peaceful smile.

I wandered a bit, stood near the windows, let her think I was gone. Then came back and sat beside her again. This time, I had a plan.

“You flying to Paris?” I asked casually, glancing at the gate monitor.

She frowned. “No. Rome.”

“Oh.” I tapped my phone. “Weird. Just got a push alert from the airline. They moved the Rome flight to 14B. This one’s Paris now.”

“What?” she barked.

“Yeah. They do that sometimes last minute.”

She stood up in a fury. “Unbelievable!”

She stuffed her things into her tote, yanked the dog’s leash—finally—and marched away, muttering curses.

No one stopped her. Not the gate agent. Not the people around us. Everyone just watched as she disappeared toward the distant gate that did not exist.

Silence.

The first real silence that gate had heard in an hour.

A few seconds passed. Then a chuckle. Then more. A ripple of soft laughter spread through the waiting area.

Someone clapped. Another gave me a thumbs-up. A mom mouthed, “Thank you.” The little girl who had been hugging her bear said quietly, “Yay,” and beamed.

Even the gate agent cracked a smile when she returned to her desk and saw the peace.

Rome only gets one flight a day out of JFK.

Tiffany never came back.