I disembark from the Parking Spot shuttle at the American Airlines terminal, dazed, confused and more than a wee bit frustrated, for my 6:05 a.m. flight to New York City had just been delayed to 3 p.m. because the government decided to take a break that day — bringing air traffic control to a dead halt.
The current time is 4 a.m., and I am at a loss for how to spend these next 11 hours.
Shoes: off. Computer: unloaded. Hydroflask: emptied. Ridge wallet: still in pocket — metal detector didn’t like that. Okay, second time’s the charm.
I plummet to the depths of the American Airlines terminal. The fluorescent lights illuminate the liminal hallway with a greenish-yellow glow that reminds me of the putrescent 90s aesthetic from “The Matrix.” Displaced passengers crowd the entrance to the Admirals Club Lounge with the promise of complimentary food and drinks, a clean bathroom and, most importantly, a full bar despite the fact it’s only 4:30 a.m. — but who said “five o’clock somewhere” can’t mean 5 a.m.? My meager main cabin ticket doesn’t grant me access to this exclusive club; however, in perhaps my first rare stroke of luck that day, the American Express card I got for my 18th birthday does get me into the Centurion Lounge in the Tom Bradley International terminal — a lounge that, unfortunately, doesn’t open until 6 a.m.
90 minutes pass like the slow drip of an I.V. as opposed to the quick hit of a syringe, for the stores are not yet open, leaving me with nothing to do but marvel at the empty landscape, aglow with neon advertisements that beckon out to me, “You look lonely… I can fix that.”
The Centurion Lounge finally opens, and I ride the elevator down, descending further into the labyrinthine depths of LAX. While I appreciate the lovely bathrooms with floor-to-ceiling stall doors, the breakfast buffet and “Mickey Mouse Club House” playing on the soul television, I only manage to stay there for two hours before I start going stir crazy. It’s only 8 a.m., but I’ve been up since 2:30 in the morning.
I ascend back to civilization, where I am met with a cluster of commotion from too many people and not enough seats to hold the overflow of delayed flights. Shops finally open; I wander into Book Soup to do something I’ve only ever heard about in legends — buying a book at an airport.
Perhaps my second stroke of luck on the day the government decided to take a nap is the fact I find something I actually want to read. Two days prior to my supposed departure, my friend, Avital, told me about her favorite book and as luck would have it, I found it prominently displayed on the “Best Seller” shelf — “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck” by Mark Manson. I lay down my debit and try to follow the title’s advice by not giving a frick that the book ran me $29.99.
As I ride the (hardly) moving sidewalk, I ponder the dystopian nature of the Rolex-branded clocks, which remind me it is only 10 a.m. and how this private company controls the perception of time across the United States’ airport system. I stroll back and forth between the International and American terminals, stopping every once in a while to gaze longingly at the rare flight I watch take off — envious of the airborne.
Needing a good toilet, water not from a fountain and complimentary food, I find my way back to the Centurion Lounge, where I am met with yet another stroke of bad luck; my 3 p.m. flight just got moved to 4 p.m. It is at this point I start to panic. The decision hits me: I can either wait it out and hope my flight boards or hang it up and salvage what’s left of my fleeting holiday weekend.
Between the hours of noon and two, I am in a frantic fury of contradictory phone calls with Hilton, trying to explain the situation and get a refund on my stay.
“Is your flight canceled?” No, but I missed my check-in because it was delayed.
“Can you prove that you haven’t checked in?” Check my room? Am I there?
“You have to fill out the form if you want to try to get refunded.” Then why did you tell me to call back?
Aggravated, time wasted and even more stir crazy than before, I call it quits at 2:47 p.m., less than two hours from my alleged departure on Friday, Nov. 14 — the beginning and end of my Veterans Day weekend.
I get my flight refunded from American and points put back on my account for the Parking Spot — Hilton is still a holdout. I flip on my sunglasses despite the fact I’m underground and sling my overnighter across my shoulder with all the “devil-may-care” attitude of someone trying too hard to seem like he’s following the subtle art from that book he picked up only four hours ago. As I reach the elevator to ascend back to ground level, the host calls out from behind the desk, “Have a nice flight.” I look back at him and let out a sick, manic cackle, thankful my Ray Bands are protecting this innocent man from my dagger-piercing glare. All I say to the attendee is “Ha, no,” before the elevator doors open, and I begin my departure from LAX — my first, final and only destination of Veterans Day weekend, 2025.
Epilogue:
I’m on the 405. My iPhone chimes. It’s my dad.
“Your flight just got delayed to 7 a.m. tomorrow.”
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Featured Image Photographed by Gavin Meichelbock/BruinLife
