Spirit's Inferno

Making Frederick Wiseman proud at the airport.

Frederick Wiseman passed away on February 16th, and in his honor, I wholly attest to his life’s thesis: People, even when boring, are interesting.

On Thursday, I arrived at O’Hare at 8 a.m., ready to board my 10:45 a.m. flight to Orlando. I had never been to Florida, and I was going to see my boyfriend again, so I was excited. I barely read as I sat at the gate, content to just sit and watch the people around me. Then, something interesting happened, or maybe something uninteresting happened: the minutes ticked on. 10:30. 10:40. 10:50 We had missed our boarding time, and now, our flight was supposed to be taking off, but we were all still sitting. Then, one of the flight attendants made an announcement.

“Flight 1705 has been delayed until 10:55 p.m.”

There was a beat, and then a man said, “You mean a.m., right?”

Pandemonium ensued.

The flight attendant grabbed the microphone and said, “Please go to the front desk. I don’t have any more answers for you.”

Several of us picked up our things and dashed toward the Spirit front desk. We commiserated in line, slowly realizing that our flight had been delayed 12 hours for no reason. This was before the big snowstorm, and it would miss us entirely, anyway. If we wanted to board another flight to Orlando that morning, the price was a mere $800—just a little more than the $78 I had paid for a 3-day round trip.

Realizing that keeping my flight was the only way I’d arrive in Orlando somewhat soon, I accepted my fate and negotiated a cheaper, later returning flight.

Quietly, I wandered around the airport for a little bit. I felt like crying, though I didn’t know why. I have control issues—I’ll be the first to admit it. Things outside my control exacerbate my anxiety. I felt like it was my fault. Why didn’t I just book a slightly more expensive American Airlines flight like a normal person? Why was I so bad with money? Why was I always so sad and alone?

I finally decided to go home for a little while so that I could shower and eat something. I got home but couldn’t relax. A few of my friends encouraged me to go back to the airport, though, in case they moved my flight up. Around 3 p.m., I kissed my cat goodbye (again) and took the train back to O’Hare.

When I arrived back at my gate, I noticed a few people who looked familiar—people I had seen before our flight was delayed. I wasn’t the only one tethered to this delayed flight. I tried to read, but felt my thoughts wandering, worrying that they would cancel my flight, and I would be stuck in Chicago, out $200 from an Orlando Airbnb, and wasting vacation days.

After an hour, a young man went up to the flight attendant at the gate. I heard him ask about that night’s flight to Orlando.

“Right now, we’re not sure if the plane will make it in tonight,” she said. “It’s about 50/50.”

I felt sick at the thought that I could possibly be stuck at the airport for 12 hours, only be told that the flight was cancelled. I am a person who likes to optimize every second of every day, and yet, I was trapped in a cage of aimlessness. It feels impossible to do anything at the airport but wait. It’s too loud to really focus on any one thing. I paced around a bit, calling my boyfriend every 30 minutes like a crazy person. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty; I simply existed in this transitional space, waiting with bated breath for the next thing.

After a few hours, I started listening to the people around me. There were a lot more Orlando people than I thought. There were two main pods. Behind me were two families with several kids who were on their way to Disney World. There was also a gay couple and a young woman on her way to a work conference. The second pod was next to me. This group was more cynical, probably because no one had kids. There was a young couple, two brothers, and two older women. Every so often, someone from one of these pods would approach the flight attendant and ask about the Orlando flight. She never had any answers, only that it was scheduled for 10:55 p.m.

Then, another flight got delayed for a few hours, and everyone started comparing scars as if in some kind of war.

Fort Myers, three hours? That’s nothing, I’ve been here since 9 a.m.

We all became part of the same conversation, trading updates and talking about what we were even going to do in Florida. I was sitting next to a sweet couple on their way to Fort Myers when their flight was delayed. They asked about my boyfriend and gave me some recommendations. They told me they started dating before the pandemic, and once it happened, they depended on each other for sanity.

Around 6 p.m., one of the men behind me was complaining that he hadn’t been outside to smoke in hours, and he was antsy.

“Do you want a Zyn?” said the man next to me. He then proceeded to explain how to use it, and the smoker shyly took one.

There were a lot of little moments like these throughout my time at O’Hare. One of the moms agreed to take everyone’s kids to the small play place. Others occupied their time by coming up with new slogans for Spirit Airlines. Spirit Airlines: You’ll get there eventually. Maybe Wednesday?

A lot of people just looked defeated. It’s a silly thing—to have your vacation flight delayed—but meaningful. When everything is more expensive and less fulfilling, it feels like the final nail in the coffin to have joy stolen so anti-climatically. The reason our flight had been delayed so long was mismanagement. Spirit Airlines had filed for bankruptcy again and couldn’t afford the planes or the crew. They simply didn’t have enough resources for everyone. One of the Spirit desk attendants was working the gate desk the whole time we were there: a 12-hour shift. Coupled with the fact that airline employees were being laid off by the hundreds due to Trump’s travel bans, the situation felt indicative of the time we were living in. I don’t know about trains, but Trump certainly isn’t making the planes arrive on time.

As it grew later, our flight started to get pushed back incrementally. Some of us rejoiced at this slight communication, while others grew more cynical. When we were supposed to board for maybe the third time that day, they announced that they would be boarding a previously delayed flight to Miami next.

A Latino wearing a “Make America Great Again” hat and holding a Louis Vuitton bag pushed his way to the front of the boarding line.

“What’s he doing flying Spirit, anyway?” said a woman next to me, “Spirit is for the poor. Go fly Delta!”

Around 10 p.m., I started to realize I had become a main character. My anxiety made me almost confident in my hunger for information. I proudly butted into conversations and accosted whoever was at the front desk. I would relay information to my compatriots, and we would strategize. All of us agreed that we would never fly Spirit again, and that Disney was too expensive, and Airbnb owners were leeches.

At 11:30 p.m., something magical happened: Everyone fell completely silent as a big yellow plane pulled into our gate. It was finally ours.

You may not believe me, but people cheered. Perhaps it was because there were a lot of children around, but in that semi-empty terminal, it felt like we were the last people on Earth and we had just been rescued. Overcome with joy and relief, I called my boyfriend and told him that I was coming and that I loved him. I had never said that to him before, and I think he was stunned, but I didn’t care. In that moment, I truly felt it. I’d have to love him to wait this long for a trip to Florida.

We speedily boarded the plane in the hopes that we could make it out of Chicago before midnight. There were no boarding groups or baggage hassles. For a moment, it was utopian. Everyone was quiet as the gate attendant scanned our boarding passes and wished us a safe flight. The plane was a little empty because not everyone had stayed for the delayed flight.

A woman I had spoken to by the gate exclaimed, “You made it!” when I passed by her seat, and I smiled. I had the whole row to myself and finally dozed off about halfway into the flight.

I have always loved Frederick Wiseman because of his sharp, unobtrusive eye. He was gifted because he was a ghost, empowering us to sit back and observe. He remains alive in our decision to wake up, look around, and keep moving toward progress. I know he would’ve been proud of the way I uploaded my $20 airport meal voucher into the Dunkin’ Donuts app so that I could use it for longer.

After a short, dreamless sleep, I awoke during the flight’s descent with the realization that I was somewhere new, somewhere exciting, and most importantly, somewhere with someone waiting for me.