Terminal Living 

Like an Orwellian novel, I had been sent to Korea in 1984 to help defend democracy, crossing the International Date Line on Valentine’s Day where the clocks were all striking thirteen o’clock. 
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After six months in Korea, I had decided to catch a flight home to get married in Marquette, Michigan.  One of the perks about being in the service is that you can fly free, but as you may have guessed there is a catch.  And the catch is what this near nonfiction tale is about.  

Catching a free flight from Osan Air Base to Yokota, Japan was easy.  The flight took only about an hour, but once there, time took on another dimension. Terminal time had begun and things would never be the same after that.  The first thing I saw inside the Yokota Terminal was this woman pushing a shopping cart across the checked tiled floor.

“She’s a dependent.” One of the uniformed airmen waiting for a flight out told me as I got comfortable in the plastic seats, “She’s been here the better part of a week.”

“A week?” I was shocked.

“Yeah, some people can get stuck here for quite a spell.” He flipped open a magazine he had bought at the base exchange (BX) shop in the terminal.

“How long have you been here, Sergeant Long.” I asked after reading his name tag.

“Only two days.” He nodded.

“Two days?” I had not expected to be faced with such a long wait.

“Sure.  I’m down to a single digit on the SA list.” He shrugged.

“SA?” I shrugged.

“Yeah, space available. It’s the most important number in this place.”  He nodded.

I looked at my number, “212.” 

“You figure they usually go through about fifty stand-by passengers a day.” He informed me, “But that poor woman is a dependent which means she is the lowest possible priority.  She will be one of the last people called.” 

I swallowed hard.  The reality of this whole experience was beginning to settle in on me.

“I’ve been bumped five times.” He continued.

“Five times?” I gasped.

“Aw, that’s nothing.  See that guy over there?” He pointed to a man sound asleep in these uncomfortable chairs. 

“Yeah.” I nodded.

“He’s been bumped a dozen times.” 

“A dozen?” Another gasp.

“Two more and he’s got the record.” Long smiled. “They will give him some kind of certificate. Some of the planes fill up in a hurry.  They get filled by guys on orders or some kind of special assignments.” He coughed, “Next call, I should be on board headed home to Cleveland. Where are you headed?”

“Michigan.” I swallowed hard.

“Good luck.” He nudged me.

“Calling Flight F-222.” The overhead speaker sounded.

“That’s me.” Long stood up and put his magazine in his bag.

I watched him stride over to the counter where a woman in an army uniform looked at his ticket. With a tip of his hat, Long began his walk to the terminal gate.  I looked at my number, “212.” 

Dressed in my Class A uniform as required by the travel regulations, I felt the uncomfortable material rub against my sensitive skin.  

“Psst.” Someone sounded like a leaky tire and when I looked, I saw the guy who Long pointed out trying to get my attention. “I’m Sergeant Finnigan.” 

“I’m Sergeant Nicholson.” I responded since he seemed friendly.

“Newby.” He laughed.  His laughter seemed to mock me.

“Yeah.” I tried not to sound annoyed. 

“I was a newbie several days ago.” He shook his head.

“Why?” 

“Why, what?” He sat next to me.

“Why have you stayed here so long?”

“It costs over a grand to fly to the west coast from here.” He shook his head. “I ain’t got a grand, do you?”

“No.” 

“So, I sit here and wait.” He bowed his head, “It’s terminal living.  You either get used to it or you go home. I’ve got too much time invested to give up now.” 

“I’m going home to get married.” I sniffed.

“Really?  Lucky man.” He smiled. “I just want to go home and tell my brother not to enlist.  He’s about to graduate from high school and he wants to be a big bad marine. I am a big bad marine.  I wished I had listened to my guidance counselor and went to college.”

“What’s your number?” 

“Fifty seven.  I figure that will be at least one more day.” He pulled out his ticket, it was bent and appeared as if it had gone through the washing machine.  “What is your number?” 

“Two-twelve.” I did not want to say it out loud.

“Oh maaaannnn, I feel sorry for you.” He hissed, “You could be here quite a while.  Stick with me, I’ll teach you the ropes of terminal living.” 

“Ropes?” 

“Yeah, you gotta sit around in that monkey suit on these chairs that are the worst, especially if you have to sleep in them.  There is no way to get comfortable. Enough for some shut eye.  You’d be better off in some foxhole in the rain.  There ain’t no air conditioning and there’s nothing worse than Japan in the summer.  Hot and humid.” He snickered. “Where are you stationed?” 

“Kunsan.” I answered feeling a bit queasy. 

“I’m at a base near Tokyo.”

“How is Tokyo?” 

“Crowded beyond belief.” He laughed. 

About six feet from where I was sitting, I noticed the woman with the shopping cart staring at me. She did not look happy. 

The humidity began to stick to me before I realized there was no air conditioning. The air became heavy and thick as I began to sweat through my uniform.  I removed the jacket.

“Sarge, yeah you.” I heard someone call. When I looked up, I saw an officer calling to me.

“Sir?” 

“You have to keep your jacket on while you are sitting in the terminal.” He pointed to a sign on the wall that read, “All personnel waiting for transport, must remain in uniform.” 

“He’s right.” Flannigan nodded, “You have to remain in uniform.” 

“Are you kidding me?” 

“I wish I were…” 

Night came and mercifully so did the cooler air, but the humidity stuck to me like a second skin and Flannigan was correct, there was no way to get comfortable in those chairs.  The floor was no better either even though it was cold, but it was hard and unforgiving. Some of the guys were playing cards since sleep was not possible.  At three o’clock, I gave up and joined them.  I was known as the rookie as the rest of them had been there at least three days while one of them was logging his seventh day. Meanwhile the lady with the cart pushed on by us as I ran the spades to win the game.  There was no money involved, so my victory was only a moral one.  A Japanese janitor pushed a cart by shaking his head at us uttering “Baka gaigin.” 

“Kurutta rujin.” One of the card players uttered in response.
 
“Bah!” He waved his hand and walked away.  

“Calling Flight 077.” The loudspeaker sprang to life. 

I walked to the desk.

“We have one hundred available seats.  It’s a 757.” The Japanese woman behind the counter informed me in perfect English. 

I took my placeholder and sat down thinking this wasn’t so bad.  I could be out of here in less than twenty four hours.  Suddenly a company of uniformed army soldiers showed up at the counter.  After an hour of processing these men, I went to check on seating availability (SA as I was becoming savvy in terminal lingo) and the lady told me, “We only have five SA.” 

My heart sank as I watched five weary looking GI’s shuffled to the counter. From my vantage point in the chair, I could see the plane take off as I fanned myself with a magazine. 

“I broke the record!” I heard Flannigan shout as he waved his hands jubilantly above his head. No one had to tell me what record he had broken.  The woman rolled by me with her shopping cart.  

The rest of the day the loud speaker announced flights stateside, but each time I went to the counter, SA had been filled and I would return to the terminal.  Some time during the day,  Flannigan's unlucky streak ended and he was put on a flight. I missed him.  The terminal seemed empty and vacant without him, but the woman kept pushing the shopping cart.

I washed my socks in the restroom sink.  There was no shower otherwise I would walk into it wearing my uniform and let the hot water remove the crusty second skin that was developing on my second full day in the Yokota Terminal.  

At the end of my second day, there was A plane with one hundred SA seats.  At this time 212 had moved close to the front of the line.  It had become a lucky lottery ticket that was the envy of A new batch of stand by newbies.  

"You are clear to board this flight." The attendant said the words I had longed to hear.  With my boarding pass in hand, I climbed on board the jumbo jet.
"Only seats left are on the second deck." The stewardess told me.  The second deck was what was known as first class on a real flight.  Being escorted to the empty seat equipped with controls for my comfort on the international flight, I pushed the buttons that made me more comfortable than I had been in two days.  The air conditioning blew down in me as the engines began to fire up. The captain welcomed me to this small slice of heaven.

The jumbo jet began to move toward the runway as I was bathed in the cool jet stream of air conditioning.  My stressed mind was preparing to leave my tired worn out body.  Life was very good.

Then I heard my name announced over the intercom.  I hadn't noticed the plane's forward progress had stopped and the engines had come to an abrupt idle.  They called my name again and I raised my hand.  My heart sank as the flight attendant came toward me.

"So sorry, but a platoon of marines have bumped you.  They have priority.  They need your seat." She informed me, "You must deplane." 

It was one of the hardest things I've had to ever do.  I watched my bag being tossed from the cargo hold, hitting the runway solidly as I walked down the deplane stairs hearing my inner voice say, "Tis a far, far better thing I am doing than I've ever done before."

I picked up my bag, jettisoned unceremoniously from the cargo hold and slowly walked back in total humiliation to the terminal.   As the automatic doors hissed open, I was greeted by the humid air and the sight of the woman pushing her shopping cart across the floor in silence.  

I collapsed in the chair fighting off the urge to openly weep as I watched the jumbo jet take off.  

There was good news later in the evening of my third night in the terminal, the janitor had opened a secret room inside the large open terminal that had three shower stalls.  I waited my turn which came at one o'clock or thirteen hundred hours in military time.  I did what I had dreamed of doing, I stepped into the running water still dressed in my uniform.  The tepid water washed over me, removing the growing stench of my crusty second skin. As it did, I began to remove each item bit by bit. First my tie, then my jacket, dress pants after my shoes and socks, white long sleeve shirt, under shirt and then skivvies until I was naked for the first time in three days.  The water revitalized and rejuvenated me.  Towering off, I hung my wet uniform on the hangers in the shower room.  I figured they would be dry enough in the morning.  Reaching in my bag, I pulled out my pajamas and walked out into the dark terminal.  Exhausted, I slept like a baby that night.

I was awakened by the loudspeaker announcing an early morning flight.  Dressed in my pajamas, I knew I would not be ready in time to board.  Much to my horror, I saw the shower room was locked.  I could put on my  civvies stuffed in my bag, but until I could dress In my class A's, I would not be able to get on a flight.    

I saw the old janitor at the coffee bar drinking tea.  I asked him if he could open the shower room, but his comprehension of the English language was tentative at best and he did not care that some pajama wearing GI had dared disrupt his tea break. As I spoke he waved me off with a guttural sound that had a universal meaning of refusal.

"What about my uniform?" I asked as I saw some officers begin to notice me dressed in my pajamas.

"I have the key." It was the woman Pushing the shopping cart. "Last week one of them fell asleep and I lifted his key.  They open that room every three days to cut down on the odor."

"Thank you so much-"

"Tanya Owens." She nodded.

"Miss Owens." I took the key from her hand.

"I need it back when you are done." She said in a firm voice, "It's the only way I can take a private shower." She said,

"How omg have you been in this terminal?" 

"Two weeks." She answered, "My husband is on temporary duty and I wanted to surprise him." 

"Hardly seems worth the effort." I shrugged.

"Oh, it's worth it, believe me it's worth it." Her evil smile told the story.

I got my uniform even though it was not as dry as I had hoped.  The dampness charged my skin in places I'd rather not talk about, but at least I was in uniform and it did not stink any longer. I returned the key to Tanya Owens as she continued pushing her shopping cart.

Two hours later, they called SA on a flight to Travis Air Force Base, California.  It was a coast away from my destination, but at least I'd be in the good old USA.  I would check SA once I got to Travis, but cross country flights were hard to come by flying SA.  Chances are I would have to pay for a commercial flight to Michigan.  

The last thing I saw in the terminal was Tanya Owens pushing her shopping cart past all of the newbies waiting for SA stateside.  I felt sorry for each of them, because terminal living was rough.  In a way, it had changed me and my way of thinking.  The harshness of terminal living was not apparent at first, but as the time ticked by in increments that seemed almost torturous, you come to an understanding of how tenuous life can be as Tanya Owens completed another lap in the terminal pushing her shopping cart.

The agent behind the counter handed me my boarding pass, but I held one before only to be snatched from the comfort of the second deck and left to walk back to the terminal.  

This time there wasn't an announcement that included my name.  The flight to Travis was anticlimactic.  I slept through most of it dreaming about Flannigan and Tanya Owens who had been held hostage in the terminal.  I was lucky in comparison as my sentence turned out to be two hours shy of four days.

The United ticket agent got me a flight to Michigan and within hours I had reached my destination. It cost me most of what was left in my savings, but this was a special occasion and there was no quibbling on the matter. 
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A few hours later, I was on my way to Michigan.  The journey had taken five days, but it was coming to an end in a few hours.  I had survived terminal living and now I had something to tell everyone when I landed.