Terminal Five

“You’re going to miss your flight.”

The man behind the counter frowned at me. He was wearing a navy blue United Airlines uniform and a smug look on his face. “This boarding pass is for British Airways, not United. You need to get to Terminal Five.”

Instantly, my pulse quickened and I began to panic. “Where’s Terminal Five?” I asked. Fuck. This is not happening.

He pointed to his left. “That way. You’re not going to make it.”

A wave of cold prickles washed over my entire body and I started to sweat.

With his index and middle finger he slid the boarding pass across the counter. I snatched it up, spun around, and weighed my options. I could call my parents and cry; admit to them and to myself that I’m incapable of actually doing something huge with my life - that I will inevitably fuck up whatever it is I set out to do. But suddenly I stopped and listened to a tiny voice in the back of my mind - a tiny voice that reminded me of the dozens of movies I’ve seen in which mad dashes across airport terminals result in last-minute confessions and passionate embraces mere seconds before lift-off. The voice got louder.

I can do this.

I can.

Run, Mary.

Fucking RUN.

I scurried back to the seat where I’d thrown my thirty-pound backpack, hoodie, hat, scarf, coat, purse and bottle of water. As a cluster of other travelers looked on, I heaved the backpack over my shoulder and struggled to distribute the weight evenly across my back. I considered securing the waist and chest straps but decided that there was no time for proper fastening and slung my jacket, scarf, hoodie, and hat over my forearm instead. I threw my purse over my neck, grabbed my water bottle and took off running.

Terminal Five, Terminal Five, Terminal Five, Terminal Five. Where the fuck is Terminal Five? I scanned signs and followed the arrows pointing toward Terminals Three through Five.

Run.

Run.

Run.

I pushed my way past gobs of people, weaving through and around them. I can’t breathe. Why is this airport so fucking long? What time is it? Am I running for nothing? The United Airlines guy would know better than me how long it takes to get from terminal to terminal. What if he’s right? What am I going to do? Will I have to buy another ticket? What happens when people miss their flights? Do the gates of hell open up and instantly swallow them whole? Am I going to have to go stay in Chicago? Or worse, am I going to have to go HOME? Oh dear god, no. I can’t go home. I just had a fucking GOING AWAY party. I HAVE to go to Europe. I have to get on this flight. There is no way around it. I HAVE TO GET ON.

Gasping for breath, I reached the end of a long hallway of concourses, terminals, and gates. My lungs were on fire. Sweat poured down my face and onto my chest and back. My hair was drenched and matted against my forehead with big, fat droplets clinging to the ends.

I began to panic and my mind went blank. Which gate was I looking for again? Which terminal? C’mon, brain, don’t fail me now. I stopped in the main entryway that joins the concourses and stared at the sign above my head.

CONCOURSES B, C, D -->
Restrooms <--
Ticketing -->

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where do I go? I glanced around me and spotted a man wearing what appeared to be an airport uniform, pushing a luggage cart.

“Excuse me sir,” I said, holding up my boarding pass. “Do you know where I can find Terminal Five?”

“Terminal Five?” He looked at my pass. “You need to get on the train. Go up that escalator and you’ll see a red doorway. Go through that doorway and follow the signs to the train. Get on and take it all the way to Terminal Five and your gate is right there.”

“Thank you!” I yelled over my shoulder. I was already halfway to the escalator.

Run.

Run.

Run.

“Excuse me … excuse me … sorry … coming through.” I shoved past everyone in my path. Giant men with huge rolling suitcases, small clueless children, slow-moving shriveled old ladies, all of them. People saw me coming and jumped out of the way. I didn’t care who got hit with my backpack or how crazed I undoubtedly looked – I was going to make this flight if I had to trample through a sea of rabid, ankle-biting kittens.

After running down a series of escalators and startling more than a few unsuspecting travelers, I reached the platform and saw a train with its doors open to my left. There was a group of people filing off and heading up the stairs. The only other person on the platform with me was a uniformed man standing off to the side.

“Terminal Five!?” I wailed, giving him a look of utter desperation.

He pointed to his right and I turned just in time to see the train doors begin to close.

I lunged forward and wedged myself in between the doors, causing them to close on my backpack. Inside the train stood several people. They all stared at me. A girl near the window snickered. I pulled my backpack fully inside the train and leaned against the window, trying too cool off.

My lungs hurt. I started coughing uncontrollably. There was a burning tickle in the back of my throat that wouldn’t go away. I haven’t run like that in years.

Everyone in the train stared at me as I gasped for breath and coughed. Sweat continued to trickle down my temples and I knew that my t-shirt was completely drenched. Within seconds I was crying and had to use my hoodie to mop up the mixture of tears, snot and sweat that covered my face. I made a conscious effort to avoid my reflection in the train window because I knew that my face was beet red and my eyes were puffy and tired.

The train arrived at Terminal Five after a five minute ride across the airport. I burst through the doors and raced toward the nearest elevator. Pushing people out of my way, I tore up the stairs and found myself in a ticketing area. This meant that I would have to go through security again.

Fuck.

I ran to the nearest security entrance and happily, was the only person in line. The security officer working the X-ray machine was unfazed by my sweat-soaked clothing and inability to breathe.

“Do you have a laptop?” she barked.

“Yes.”

“Take it out and put it in a separate bin. Take off your shoes and belt and put them in a bin as well. What’s that?” She pointed at my moneybelt, which was peaking out from underneath my t-shirt.

“Moneybelt,” I said.

“Take it off.”

I fumbled around, threw my coat, hoodie, purse, belt, and backpack onto the moving belt, then bent down and yanked my shoes off my feet without untying them. I crammed it all through the X-ray machine and handed the lady my boarding pass. She took it, glanced at it, and nodded me through. I grabbed my belongings as they came out the other side, but didn’t bother putting everything back on. Instead I threw my thirty-pound backpack over my shoulder, clutched the rest of my belongings to my chest, and took off running again.

This time I didn’t have far to run. Mine was the first gate in Terminal Five. It was empty except for a man wearing a navy blue uniform that looked slightly different than that of a United Airlines attendant. He smiled at me as I stumbled up to the desk, arms full of shoes and clothing.

“Did I make it?” I asked. “Is this flight going to London?”

And then he uttered the magic words.

“Yes, it is,” his soothing British accent validating everything I had run so long and so fast to hear. “And you’re just in time.”