When You Become “Those People”: Spending Christmas on an Airport Floor

“What’s wrong with the plane?” This is my husband’s response as I put my hand on his arm. He says it in a way that you would ask, “What’s wrong with the chair?” Or, “What’s wrong with the bread?” With a dull and exhausted inflection.

“The left engine isn’t getting power so we’re landing in El Paso in 15 minutes.” I yell in his left ear as the screaming child next to us who hasn’t stopped crying for the last three hours gasps for air.

I oddly can’t identify an emotion. The absolute absurdity of this entire trip has left me feeling both numb and frustrated to the point of hysterics. Having spent the last 3 ½ days in a crouching position underneath the kitchen table of my in-laws house in New Hampshire rifling through stacks of junk mail that would make you want to just cancel the USPS altogether, our vacation was not a typical vacation. It was more of a digging out, tripping over, and trying not to inhale layers of dust type of vacation. Yes, we had somehow entered a world that I had only seen on TV in a little reality show called Hoarders. Barely able to walk and learning what glutes are, I dragged my navy blue rolling bag to the airport dreaming of our little home. A home that we can walk around in.

So here we are, it ‘s Christmas day...at some middle of the night hour. I’ve lost track of which time zone we’re in. All I know is, we’re about to land in Texas and my dream of arriving back home is flickering, just as the lights in the plane are flickering.

“Well folks, we’re in El Paso. We’re not sure how long this will take. If you’d like to get off the plane, you can but please take all of your items with you.”

“Are we getting off the plane?” I ask my husband, his face utterly expressionless.

“Yes. I need to get off the plane.”

And everyone is standing up, their hairdos mashed from attempting to sleep. But no one is moving. I always wonder about this. Why people choose to stand for 15-20 minutes when nothing is happening. 

We’re now filing into the airport. Everything is closed. No food courts, no TV, no store to buy souvenirs or magazines, no TSA so we can’t leave even if we wanted to. Just chairs and floor and screaming children. So many screaming children. Where the hell did they all come from? And why are they all screaming at the same time? Announcements are being made but I can’t hear what they’re saying. My husband has positioned himself with his back on the floor and his legs up on a chair. He seems to be getting comfortable, accepting that we’re here for a while. But I’m still holding onto some hope. They’re going to fix it. We’ll be back on the plane in less than an hour. That’s what they said. Less than an hour. But, as I’ve learned about the man next to me over our 17 years of being together, his instincts are always right. He knows. He knows we’re totally and completely fucked.

“I’m gonna move closer so I can hear what they’re saying.” I tell him, grabbing my bag weighed down with trail mix, an iPad, a coloring book, colored pencils, and two Boston hoodies that I bought just a few hours ago at Logan airport. An airport where I could buy things...stupid and useless things.

“Okay.” He says. His eyes closed.

I sit down in a black seat next to the woman on the microphone and decide to play solitaire for the duration of this wait. I think, this isn’t so bad. I mean, I do the same thing on the sofa every night.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have an update on the flight back to LAX. We need to wait for another plane to fly in which will be in 5 hours. That plane will take you back to LAX.”

People begin yelling. “Five hours???” And the children are screaming and their poor parents are cradling them, walking around the tiny airport. And I have never been more grateful to not have children. Those poor fuckers.

“I need to go sleep somewhere. I just need to sleep.” My husband says.

“Okay. I’m just gonna stay here.” I honestly don’t know what the hell to do with myself, as I’m now realizing that we’ve become those people.  Those people that you see on the news who are trapped in the airport stuck sleeping on the floor for hours. But there’s no one here to film us because it’s fucking Christmas!

During my 220th game of solitaire, my eyes burning and fingers cramping, I get a text from my husband.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“Walk towards the bathroom. I found a great spot to sleep.”

Looking at my watch, it dawns on me that we still have three hours. Oh my god. We have three hours. And I walk towards the bathroom stepping over families who have somehow managed to fall asleep, children curled up in their father’s armpits, babies face down on their mother’s stomachs. I see a man wearing a black beanie and I smile. His blue Huskie eyes still popping even at this ungodly hour and his groomed silver goatee looking pretty darn sexy! Awww...he’s still hot!

“Look sweetie. I found this great bench. You should’ve heard people fighting for these spots.”

Oh my god. This is so...awful! Bodies just strewn all over the place.

“Do you wanna sleep?” He asks.

With three hours left, sleeping is really my only option. It’s 3:30 in the morning either in Boston or El Paso, I’m not sure.

“Here. Lie here and sleep. I’ll be right next to you on the floor.”

So I do the unthinkable. I lie down on this padded bench...a woman’s feet touching my head intermittently through her parka she has draped across her legs but I don’t care. It’s freezing so I take out the navy blue hoodie from my bag and rip the tag off.

I wake up and can tell from my tongue that I've been sleeping. I check my watch and it's two hours later. It's quiet. No screaming...just a dark space with silent bodies in every direction. And then an announcement comes.

“We’ll now begin boarding for flight 717 to LAX.”

No shit. We’re the only flight in this airport! My body feels disgusting. I peel myself up off of the bench amazed that I slept two hours. I look at the woman whose feet tickled my hair.

“Did this really happen?” She asks me, her red hair pointed in multiple directions.

“Yes. Yes it did.”

We’re boarding and in two hours we’ll be home. It’s the last twenty minutes of the flight and that kid is still spewing blood-curdling screams and it’s dark and we’re hitting massive turbulence. I begin to launch into one of the craziest laughing attacks I’ve ever had. I pray that I don’t pee my pants. My husband is right there with me and pulls out his phone filming the entire scene.  It’s just too much. The whole thing...it’s too much to even process. So the laughter takes over and tears are dripping down my cheeks.

It’s 7:30 am and we’re home. The cat hasn’t quite decided whether to be happy or pissed to see us. He’s contemplating what it all means. I sit in my corner of the brown leather sofa, put on some 30 Rock and look at my husband.

“I’m so happy right now. This is the best moment of my life. I’m so happy.”

“I know. We made it.”

“We made it. We fucking made it.”

I grab the cat who starts purring the moment I touch his furry body. For the moment he loves us. And everything is perfect.