Dating : Stranger than nonfiction

Have you ever thought about how you can fly across the country in five hours, but spend double that time stuck in airports?

There’s a breakdown somewhere, a point at which we’ve turned the pinnacle of transport efficiency into a hellscape of long lines, overpriced everything, and recycled air.

The last time I opted for a flight with a stopover, I said it would be the last time. Yet here I was, dragging through hour eight in the vacuum that is the Detroit Metropolitan Airport.

By now, I should have been wheels down at LAX, texting my dad that I had arrived, and could we stop at Miguel Jr.’s to get some burritos on the way home?

Instead, I watched my phone battery tick from 4% to 3% over a brownish $14 salad. The one time I thought I’d found an open outlet, I realized too late that it was a sticker some hooligan had stuck on a wall.

Giving up on the salad, I set out on my fourth loop of the terminal. Would I spot a new store this time? An unexplored hallway? Be mystified by the elevated tram that seemed altogether unnecessary for a relatively compact airport?

No — I’d seen about everything to see in the terminal. Air Margaritaville, an especially odd theme choice for a midwestern airport. National Coney Island, the hot dog stand that was not even trying to mimic Nathan’s. Common Grace, a seemingly Christian-themed coffee shop.

The thing about airport concessions is that nearly all the food comes from the same supplier and is made in the same kitchens. Sure, Starbucks uses their own beans and still offers some pastries and breakfast sandwiches. But check out the cold case, and you’ll see the same pre-packaged sandwiches sold for $7 more down the hall at The Palm To-Go.

Lost in the economics of airport concessions, I almost missed it: Purgatory. Tucked between a Hudson News and one of those massage places (who did that at airports?) was a small bar.

Okay, I thought, well played with the name. I’d long considered airports to be a sort of purgatory, especially during extended delays.

The odd thing was that I hadn’t noticed Purgatory on any of my previous laps of the airport. Granted, I’d been up at 4:15am to get to JFK, and it was now nearing 5pm. Situational awareness could be a challenge even after a full night of sleep.

Had I manifested this generic sports bar? The one with a single open stool?

“You going to sit, or no?” The bartender, a mid-fifty-ish blonde-haired woman flapped her bar rag at the stool.

The last thing I needed right now, in my travel-induced stupor, was a beer.

I slid onto the stool and glanced at the row of taps.

“What’ll you have, sweetie?”

Stupidly, I asked for a menu, as if the taps directly in front of me were hiding some secret brew. As if I wasn’t just going to order what I always ordered at airport bars: a Stella.

The bartender blinked at me, weighing her response. Probably on hour 8 of her shift, tired of dealing with tired people, her patience thin. I must have looked terrible, because she just tipped a dripping pint glass towards the taps and said, “that’s it.”

“I’ll have a Stella, thanks.”

“Pint or a 20-ounce?”

Let’s be honest: I was going for an anxiety-dimming buzz, that pre-drunk state that would allow me to settle into a stiff terminal seat and stare blankly at the gate noticeboard waiting for an update, music too loud and sad to hear the announcements.

Yet: What was worse than warm airport beer? In Europe, the beer sizes are far smaller. A regular pour is 10 ounces, but it’s common to have two or three or four of those. The smaller pour means you get an ice cold beer from start to finish, which I found so smart and quaint compared to the American ideal of “bigger is fuckin’ better.”

Rather than share this useless ephemera with the unamused bartender, I asked for a pint. She slid a glass under the tap, flipped it forward, and turned to attend to some other barkeeping task. I watched the glass fill, tension rising as the beer neared the rim of the glass. Right when it hit max capacity, she turned and snapped the tap back.

“She’s done this before, eh?”

The man next to me nodded to the bartender, who scowled at him as she set the beer in front of me. Reaching under the bar, she pulled out a bag of crackers and tossed them at me. “You look like you could use a snack.”

Read: “You look like absolute shit and the last thing you need right now is a beer, so please at least eat something.”

I pulled my phone out to check my flight status. The screen flashed on and then off. Dead. Just as well.

Above me, an NBA game neared the 4th quarter. A hometown game, it appeared — the Clippers were playing the Detroit Devils. Odd — wasn’t Detroit’s team the Pistons? Was this a B team? Playing the Clippers?

Unable to look up this oddity on my phone, I accepted the fact that Detroit’s NBA team was called the Devils (which, admittedly, had a nice ring to it). And they were bad — sitting on 6 points (in the 4th!) while the Clippers (the Clippers!) cruised on 66 points.

The 6–66 score was not lost on me, watching the Devils play in a bar called Purgatory. For a brief second, I questioned whether I had fallen asleep and this was all just a fatigue-induced fever dream.

“Shit game, huh?” The man next to me said without looking away from the screen.

Okay, I’ll play. “Yeah, not much of a match up,” I said, then added: “For some reason I thought Detroit’s team was called the Pistons.”

“Never heard of them. Maybe you’re thinking of an old team name?”

I could tell by his tone that he thought I was crazy. Or drunk.

“Probably. That must be it,” I conceded.

“Where are you headed?”

“California. Los Angeles. I’m from Orange County. But I live in New York, not Detroit, my flight’s just delayed.”

Jesus Christ, I thought. He asked a simple question and I responded with my life story.

“Ah. From one interesting place to another.”

“I guess, yeah. What about you?”

“Here.”

“Oh — “ My brain struggled with this information. Hadn’t he asked me where I was going? Meaning he was going here, to Detroit?

“Cool. Where did you come from?”

He looked at me like I was stupid. “Here.”

My head hurt. Maybe he worked at the airport and was grabbing a beer after work. That was logical, right?

The bartender, whose name tag said Martha, asked if I wanted another beer. Yes, sure, why not.

I drained the last of the Stella and slid it toward the back of the bar.

In an attempt to avoid further conversation with my neighbor, I glanced around the bar. Every stool was still occupied, and it didn’t seem that anyone had left or arrived over the course of my first beer. Odd, but I suppose everyone was faced with similar weather delays, and it was the 5 o’clock hour.

Last I checked, my flight had been rescheduled for 9pm — ample time to do absolutely nothing. Still, I wished I could charge my phone and at least check that it hadn’t moved up — or back.

Halfway through my second beer, I looked up for a time check. Glancing at the TV, I saw that the game was still on.

Wait, what the fuck? It had to have been an hour, and I’ve never heard of a 4th quarter lasting that long. Had the game started over? No, there wasn’t nearly enough time to cycle through an entire game.

The current time sat at the far right end of the chyron. 5:05pm.

I struggled to process this information. I double-checked that the game was being held in Detroit, in our current timezone. The screen said “live.”

This must be the post-game highlights show. Completely logical! There were no closed captions, but I assumed that over this replay were talking heads discussing this or that play and how funny it was that the Devils were sitting at 6–66.

“Another?” Martha had a look on her face that said very clearly: “You do not need another beer, but I know you’re going to order one.”

“Yeah, I guess, thank you so much. Also — could you let me know what time it is? My phone is dead.”

Without looking at anything, Martha said “5:05.”

Excusemewhat.

I’d been analyzing the TV for far more than a minute. Glancing back up, I saw that the screen still showed that time, too: 5:05pm.

I stared at the time until I saw just pixels, daring the 5 to flash into a 6.

Maybe if I looked away — maybe then it would change. I looked up as a Devils player stole the ball and sprinted toward the basket, going for a dunk, missing. You’d think the hometown team would groan — not that it mattered at that point, but any additional points would surely be welcome.

The crowd was motionless, and although I couldn’t confirm, silent as well. Rows of spectators sat stiffly, staring at the court, unmoving. Disconcerting to say the least.

The clock! I looked over and groaned audibly. 5:05pm.

“You okay?” Neighbor here seemed concerned.

“What time is it?”

He glanced at the TV, said: “5:05.”

“Do you have a phone or something? I think this is a replay, I came here around 5 and I’ve definitely been here for an hour.”

I was getting frantic, trying to convince myself I wasn’t crazy, that perhaps I’d come here around 4pm and was just confused.

He flipped his phone over and gestured to the screen.

Five-oh-fucking-five.

“Thanks, I guess I’m just tired.” I attempted a laugh but it came out more like a defeated cry.

I had to get out of here.

“How ya doing, sweetie?” Martha slapped her hand on the bar in front of me.

“Good, I’m good, thanks. Just the check, please.”

“You sure?” I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or giving me shit for having three beers.

“Yeah, thanks, I should go check my flight.”

Martha lingered for a beat too long. The sense of dread I’d been pushing down rose in my throat. Suddenly, the name Purgatory seemed less funny, and I began to consider that I really was in some black hole alternate universe situation.

Or maybe that was the gimmick? A fun airport inside joke, a bar that makes you feel like time has stopped and you’re stuck somewhere between hell and sitting in a metal tube in the sky.

Martha had returned with the check and a mint. I slipped my card into the folio and handed it back to her. Better to not know how much those beers were.

“You leaving already?” The neighbor had swiveled to face me.

“I am, I figured I’d check my flight and maybe stretch my legs.” My attempt to sound casual seemed lost on him.

“Ah, that’s a bummer. We’ll miss you.”

We’ll miss you? Who was the we? Martha? The other bar patrons? I glanced around, realizing that, while I hadn’t indexed every face at the bar, no one seemed to have left or arrived.

Get me the fuck out of this place.

Martha was back, handing me the folio, thanking me for my patronage, wishing me safe travels. Gruff as she may have been, she too was a “sweetie,” so I grabbed my card and left a $20 on the bar for her.

My head spun as I walked out of the bar. Too much beer, too little food and water. I must just be drunk — there was no way I had been there for less than a minute. There was no way the Pistons had transformed into the Devils, playing a 6–66 game in front of a frozen audience.

What a funny trope! A mind-trip of a bar. How many had they fooled?

I felt better as soon as I crossed the threshold into the too-bright terminal. Across the hall, travelers huddled in front of a status board. I shuffled over and was beyond relieved to see the time was 7:15pm.

Of course! Just as I’d thought — two hours had passed. I felt silly for believing I had somehow found myself in an alternate universe.

“Attention travelers on flight 416. Air traffic control has notified us that there is a brief window of time during which we can take off. With that, we will begin boarding in 10 minutes, at 7:25pm. Please make your way to gate 5 as soon as possible to ensure we can get everyone on the plane in a timely manner.”

Finally, finally I would be out of this place. But I had to move quickly — gate 5 was at the opposite end of the terminal. Would I have to take that stupid tram?

I needed to use the bathroom, and I desperately needed some water and food. Realistically, if boarding started in 10 minutes and I was in group C, I should have about 20 minutes to get to the gate. Plenty of time!

I turned and started walking back to the Hudson News. As I neared, eyes locked on the cold case near the back of the shop, a woman from the massage place gestured to me. “Honey, you look like you could use a massage! It’s just $40 for 15 minutes…”

“No, thank you, my flight’s leaving soon.”

Wait.

She was standing between the massage place and Hudson News, which were — now — right next to each other. There was no bar. No Purgatory.

That’s it, I thought, I’ve lost it.

Accepting the fact that I had been hallucinating or confused due to sleep deprivation, I grabbed a sandwich and drink, found a bathroom, and ran the length of the terminal to gate 5.

“Flight 416 is now boarding Group C. If you are in Group C, please join the line.”

Once onboard, I plugged my phone in and waited for it to get enough of a charge to power on.

At the front of the cabin, a flight attendant closed the door. One step closer to getting in the air and on the way home.

The Apple logo popped up on my phone screen. In the dim cabin, it was nearly blinding. I flipped my phone over in my lap while it started up.

“Ladies and gentleman, thank you for helping us board so quickly,” the head flight attendant said. “We will push back momentarily, and then need to de-ice the plane. Barring any further delays, we should be in the air in about 25 minutes.”

I checked my phone.

The time was 5:05.

Whatthefuck.

I blinked. The screen read 8pm.

Just my imagination, right?

Eventually, we made our way to the de-icing pad. I watched as one of those purpose-built airport vehicles crawled over and extended a cherry-picker arm. The operator rotated a nozzle and began spraying down the plane. I watched him douse the wings and fuselage in a methodical, sweeping motion, before switching off the spray. As the vehicle backed away, the operator turned to face my window. Underneath his jacket, I saw a red sweatshirt.

A red sweatshirt that said Detroit Devils.

No. Nope. This was not real. I was seriously losing it now. I just needed this damn plane to take off so I could fall asleep, wake up in Los Angeles, and get the hell home.

I closed my eyes as we finished de-icing, taxied to the runway, and — thankfully — took off. Once we hit cruising altitude and the lights dimmed, I faded into a sort of half-sleep state, not quite conscious but not asleep.

I was jolted fully awake when the plane touched down.

Glancing out the window, I saw patches of snow between the tarmac. Airport workers shuttled around in heavy high-vis coats, breath visible on the air. It could get cold in Southern California, but not like this…

I jumped as the intercom crackled to life.

“Welcome to Detroit Metropolitan Airport. We hope you had an enjoyable flight and apologize again for the delays. The local time is 5:05pm.

“To those arriving at home, we say: Welcome home! And to those visiting, we say: Welcome home!”