It is several mammoth structures joined together with runways and sidewalks, counters and revolving doors. It, reportedly, engulfs and devours innocent, and not-so-innocent, travelers. O’Hare has been the last known whereabouts of everything from fugitives to luggage. Many an unsuspecting businessman has cracked under the pressure to get out of Chicago because of too many trips into and out of O’Hare. Many have entered, some have passed, but most won’t last in Chicago’s O’Hare Field. It’s a wicked, evil, nasty place, I was told. I didn’t believe until…

I was going home to Connecticut from Phoenix one day via New York. I would fly from Phoenix to New York with a connection, a change of planes, at Chicago’s O’Hare Field, then drive to Connecticut. I was working for a ‘major’ airline at the time, and was flying non-rev. Non-rev’s are non-revenue passengers, usually airline employees or travel agents, who pay little or nothing for their tickets, and fly stand-by on a first come, first served basis. Since non-revs are not guaranteed a seat, I had to call the reservation’s office regularly to check the availability, the number of unsold seats, on my preferred flights. I called before leaving for the airport and was told that there were plenty of seats available into and out-of Chicago. No problem. I went to the airport in Phoenix to catch the 9am flight headed for Chicago.

I hopped on the plane and was on my way. Fantastic. I got to Chicago at 12noon-on time, no less. Things were looking good. I checked my bag to New York at the ticket counter and headed for the gate. It looked as if it was going to be a red letter day. I whistled while I skipped along to the gate. I got there ten minutes before boarding time and handed the gentleman my ticket.

“That flight is full,” said the voice from behind the counter. “They’re all full.”

I was in shock. They had told me just three hours before that there were seats available. Well, I could wait; I had no choice. My airline had flights every hour on the hour from 6am until 10pm between Chicago and New York. I was sure I’d get on one of them.

I waited around until 1:30pm with no luck. The gate agent told me that he would page me for the next available seat. I was hungry, so I headed down the corridor to one of the many snack shops. I ate three well-done, wrinkled hot dogs, an order of grease (they called them French fries), and two glasses of brown colored sugar water with a little carbonation in wax covered paper cups labeled “COKE”. It was one of the most gross and disgusting meals I’d ever eaten. I felt sick.

I headed back to the gate hoping for some good news. The flights were still full. It was 2:45pm. Fine, I’ll just take a nap. I lay down across three chairs and hung my legs, from the knees down, over the arm of the end chair. I fell asleep and dreamt that the airport was a huge monster. It was chasing me around and wouldn’t let me go. It was destroying the city and wanted to suck my brain out. O’Hare wanted to do to me all the rotten things I’d heard it had done to millions of poor defenseless and otherwise unsuspecting people.

I was so scared that I woke up. There were people, lots of them, standing everywhere, and those within a ten foot radius of me were staring at me. I wondered why. Was I talking in my sleep? Had they heard my dream? Was I snoring? Did they want my seats? Maybe all of the above. I was so embarrassed!!!!!

I couldn’t have been sleeping long, I was still tired. Where did all the people come from? Oh, well…fighting monsters doesn’t give a person much rest. What time is it? My eyes didn’t want to work properly, so I squinted and looked for the clock. OH, SHIT!!! It was 8pm. It couldn’t be. The third time I looked at the clock, it still said 8:00 and since it was dark outside, it had to be pm. I had been asleep for five hours.

I gathered myself together and fumbled my way over to the gate counter. I asked the man there how many flights I’d missed.

“None,” he said. “They were all full. If there’d been an opening I would have awakened you, but you were sleeping so good, I couldn’t.”

“Thank you,” I groggled. Such a sweet, kind, thoughtful soul, I thought to myself. He should be given a merit or something. I’ll write a nice letter.

“That must have been some dream you were having,” he mused, as I started to walk away.

Then he chuckled and giggled and clucked.

“Boy, what a creep,” I mumbled under my breath. No nice letter for you, buddy. He managed to inform me of an opening, one seat, on the 10pm flight, between giggles and clucks.

People like him should be shot. I went to the ladies room to try and re-compose myself. As I stood there, dazing at myself in the mirror, it occurred to me that the people at work were right. O’Hare wasn’t going to let me go. There was only one seat open on the very last flight out tonight and it would more than likely end up with someone other than me in it. I would be forever left and lost in Chicago, never to be seen or heard from again.

I was working myself into a panic when the reality of going bananas in a public restroom hit me. I’d never be able to regain any dignity if I did that. I decided to fight back. It was me against O’Hare. I knew the odds were against me, but if I was ever going to be able to face myself in a restroom mirror again, I’d at least have to give it my best shot.

I opened the bathroom door, stepped out into the corridor and headed for the ticket counter. I paid the difference in price between my airline discount ticket and a full-fare coach ticket. I had bought my release from O’Hare, my freedom to the world, and that last seat on the 10pm flight all with one lump sum. With a sigh of relief, I headed back to the gate to await my departure.

I arrived home relatively safe and sound with only a minimal amount of emotional trauma. However, Chicago O’Hare had other plans for my luggage. It left me a grim reminder of its incredible power and demon-like obsession for destruction. It tried to eat my luggage. I’m sure that indigestion is the only reason it gave up most of the contents and the mangled skeleton of my suitcase.

I have never gone to or through the Chicago O’Hare Field airport since. When I call to make a reservation and the person on the other end of the phone tells me there’s a connection through Chicago, I simply reply, “I spent a week in Chicago one day. You can connect me through Dallas, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Hong Kong, or Timbuktu…anywhere in the world except Chicago!!”