Humbly doth I, a mere country-dweller from the Ohio River Valley recently wayfaring from Gate B12, submit this petition to you, Lord Craig, Earl of the Hertz Car Rental Counter, with a single modest and most unworthy query. When may I reach thy counter?

I beseech thee, Lord Craig, that I do not appear impertinent, yet I confess confusion. This humble queue does not move toward thy noble counter. Even as the sun has stood high and has begun to set, thy fingers ceaselessly dance upon the enchanted black slate, composing a melodious clacking requiem. I humbly observe that from time to time thou dost squint at the glowing box and sigh. But thou dost not beckon any wayfarer to move forward.

Periodically doth I hear the screeching of a beige mechanical beast that vomits thin scrolls of parchment marked with judgments. What, My Lord, do these missives contain? From my vantage point at queue’s end, thy humble petitioner can only see the words INSURANCE and GOLD PLUS REWARDS. Why dost thou anoint these parchments with yellow highlighter? Do you reveal the names of those fortunate pilgrims who will receive their 2024 Hyundai Tucsons?

But nary do my fellow petitioners move forward. No midsized sedan hath been saddled. No stable boy hath so much emerged from Lot A.

Ah, a harried traveler and her brood has made it to thy counter and sufficiently prostrated themselves to thee. Pray tell, My Lord, why are you asking for her credit card and driver’s license twice? For what mystical reasons dost thou need from this wearisome wayfarer “confirmation of identity continuity”?

Word reaches thy humble petitioner from a fellow traveler who traversed beyond the water fountain that there exists a second queue and, beyond that, yet a third queue. The traveler has regaled us with rumors of rows and rows of motionless steeds, waiting for us, their knights, to adjust one or more mirrors to our respective heights.

Lord Craig, why dost thou keep the queue stagnant? Thy humble petitioner abhors bloodletting, but is it not time to order the execution of the pilgrim at thy counter who insists—at increasingly raucous intervals—that he has a reservation number on the Hertz 24/7 Mobility App available for download on all Apple and Android devices?

Pray, my Lord, what goes in the realm beyond the side door? Is this where the keys are forged upon anvils by hulking journeymen? Is this where learned monks transcribe on parchments our driver’s license numbers in the Book of Reservations? Is this where My Lord eats his leftover Jersey Mike’s Big Kahuna Chicken Cheesesteak in prayerful contemplation?

What of your noble squire, whose yellow herald identifies him as Gary? He scuttles in and out of thy realm, horseless, armor-less, yet his visage evinces a scowl that thy humble petitioner can only interpret as fear of an invasion from the Alamo armies. Is our safety at risk? Must we cower behind thy counter? Willst this delay the arrival of the midsized sedan—a wagon increasingly one of legend?

We weary pilgrims beseech thee, Lord Craig, to take the elegant Lady Tanya—whose golden herald proclaims her Assistant Supervisor—as a model of alacrity. Her queue runs as swift as the mighty Thames. She metes out credit card transactions like thy humble petitioner imagines the good Sir Gawain would do if he had a slightly different skill set.

Ah, but what luck! Her queue is for Hertz Gold Plus Rewards Members, those noble castle-dwellers. Their silken garb and their TUMI roller suitcases reveal lineages stretching uninterrupted to Charlemagne. In this late hour, with Vespers upon us, I implore thee that My Lord takes a cue from the Lady Assistant Supervisor—lest we, thy humblest petitioners, succumb to the elements here amidst these mineral fiber ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights.

Three harvests have passed since I have entered My Lord’s queue on Michaelmas last. More fields lie fallow than is advised and I fear retribution from my direct liege lord, Area Two Assistant Manager Bruce Moore. My own vassals in Schenectady require my presence.

I beseech thee, Lord Craig, should my wagon not be prepared, I am willing to accept a mule, a donkey, or one of those courtesy buggies roaming Terminal B upon which sit our elders, our diseased, and the most voracious of feast partakers.

A final request, My Lord. Should I perish in this queue, I ask humbly that my eldest son receive my place in line, my second son my reservation number, and my third son the 2025 Toyota Camry XL (with prepaid premium gasoline) promised in the Book of Reservations.