"I have a confirmation number, is that the same?"
"I need your 6 digit reservation number."
"6 digits? I have more than 6 digits." I start looking through my other papers to see if I have anything else.
"You should have a reservation number that was emailed to you." He walks away, whistling.
Where the hell is he going? Why can't he check my name, instead? I just looked at his list - all the names are there. What the hell is he doing? He leaves me standing there while he checks everyone else in and ignores me. He's whistling and singing stupid songs out loud. Clearly he wants me to feel like an idiot. I do, but I will never admit it. I hold my head up, realizing what I've done. I printed both my reservation confirmation, which acts as my receipt for tax purposes, and I printed the emailed reservation number - and then I unfortunately switched them and filed the email by mistake, bringing with me the confirmation. Why the frack is there two different ones anyway?!
He finally makes his way back to me with his overgrown beard and too long hair sticking out under his cap. "Did you find it?"
"No, I didn't find it, I don't have it." I stand my ground. I'm not letting this asshat make me feel stupid in front of all these people.
"Oh, I see what you did," he says. He leans over the confirmation I'm still holding, wields his stupid yellow highlighter, circling a paragraph on my paper and says, "See here? It says we'll email you a reservation number to bring with you."
"I see that. I printed the wrong one."
"Do you have your passport?"
"Of course I have my passport, I'm crossing the border." I hand it to him. He reads the numbers out loud with his sing-song, over loud voice.
"Okay, there you are." He hands it back. Finally, he takes my suitcase and puts it in the luggage compartment with the others.
And then? Then we get on the bus and he checks everyone's passport - the same group he's just checked in - against the same list he checked them in with, and hands us our customs form to fill out before we get to the border. And then he sings some more.
Over the next three and a half hours, he manages to talk down to everyone on the bus, and tries to play it off as friendly with his singing and whistling.
I'm sure that he deals with a fair amount of difficult people in his job. But I am not difficult. I simply have the wrong piece of paper. But I have a passport and a NAME that matches the fourth name on his freaking list. It's not rocket science. And it doesn't have to be any more difficult than he is making it.
Apparently this is how he entertains himself. At other people's expense.
For the record? On the return trip, a different driver was pleasant, friendly, nice and a sweetheart. It really doesn't have to be difficult.