Christmas in LA

by Herb Scribner

  Three soft beeps play out from the loudspeaker.

  “Ladies and gentleman, we have confirmed with our officials here that Los Angeles is experiencing its first major snowfall since 1962! You can turn your attention over to the western and eastern sides of the airport and see it for yourselves.”

  Snowfall?

  In Los Angeles?

  What are the chances?

  Not very good. I don’t remember the last time I heard about potential snowfall in Los Angeles. Maybe once or twice they freak out about a monsoon or rainstorm. But snow? How often does that happen? This can’t be real.

  And what do Californians know about snowstorms? All of us born in New England know the true power of snow. Those blizzards pour down on us like someone’s trying to dump the heavens of the clouds. California is probably marveling over just a few flakes, a flurry that I’m used to seeing closer to September or October. Heck, even Montana has those sort of storms on the regular. Nothing to worry about.

  I have nothing else to do, and it never hurts to see some white powder before your holiday break. Rumor has it that we won’t have a white Christmas this year, so this might be the only chance I have to see snow before Santa arrives.

  Plus, a historic California snowstorm? Can’t pass up the opportunity for an Instagram shot.

  I set my pack onto my seat and slide my phone back into my pocket. A rush of cold washes over me as I step closer to the window. It must be freezing out there if Los Angeles is suffering from its first snowstorm in close to a century. Well, snowstorm is a little too big of a word for probably what’s actually happening out there.

  The crowd gathering at the windows is impregnable. People are jumping and shouting, whelping and hollering. Wish I could slide my way in, but I’ll have to play the waiting game.

  A middle-aged woman who definitely bought her coat at JC Penney says to her husband, “I hope this doesn’t delay our flight.”

  “Better not,” the gruff man replies, “or else I’m going to pitch a fit. I’ll be refunded. No questions about that.”

  “Oh Marv, you don’t have to be so aggressive.”

  “I want my flight. I didn’t pay for this snowstorm.”

  Get over it guy. It’s just a flurry. It will not delay your flight. I’ve been on planes that have taken off in weather much worse than this. Frozen wings, iced runways. All of that happens.

  But as the crowd decreases in size, my eyes stretch to their limits. There is a lot more than just a few snowflakes drifting in the wind. The sky, black as night, is shaded over by thousands and thousands of falling white diamonds. The glistening flakes flood the entire window pane. The ominous airplane outside the gate is blanketed in white powder, and the runway is now just a white tarp of snow. The vehicles outside roll along, leaving track marks in the snow. Flakes soak each piece of luggage being carted to the plane.

  The loudspeaker beeps again.

  “Ladies and gentleman, we’ve just received word from the air tower. We’ll be delaying more flights in the coming hour because of the weather. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

  4,

  The vultures waiting in line at the airport kiosk stretch from the front of the desk all the way to the window where the snowfall is still on display. I wait patiently at the tail-end of the line, my eyes locked on the movie theater screen that displays a flurry of snowfall. It’s so thick and furious there might as well be a white sheet of paper over the window.

  The snaking line moves almost like we’re at an amusement park. Not surprising since probably all the families here just got back from Disneyland. People slowly scoot up the line, talk to the airport desk clerk, receive their words of wisdom or refund, and then skirt off back to the window, where they marvel at the snow.

  It’s only snow, people! It’s just snowflakes. Get over it.

  Maybe I can only say that because I’m sick of all the snow I’ve seen in my life. There’s no limit to how many flakes you’ll see in a traditional Connecticut winter. Montana’s winters are a distant cousin. This year has been especially snowy, what with the flurries we saw in Helena just last week and even a month before that. Snow seems to follow me wherever I go.

  Oh, wait. Maybe this is all my fault! Maybe the snow is following me home and it wrecked havoc on Los Angeles for the first time in history! Maybe I’m cursed!

  No. I’m not cursed. I’m just bored waiting in line. Someday this line will move. It is as immovable as a neck in a turtleneck sweater. It’s frigid in this airport too. I could use one of those sweaters.

  My mind floats between best and worst case scenarios for this waiting in line thing. Let’s think. Best case scenario — they find a way to transport me to another airport in the state, where I can catch my flight to Connecticut. Worst case, I’m stuck here until New Year’s Day. That would suck. But it’s so unlikely. Then again, I thought the chances of snow in Los Angeles were small.

  Somehow my thoughts run away from me, soaring off into the abyss of absent mindedness. Images of my family pop up. Pop in his needlepoint sweater vest, complaining about the president as he chows down on ham. Mother in her ugly Christmas sweater with her Santa hat hanging off her head. Aunts and uncles milling about with cups of eggnog in their hands. All of them gathered around Christmas dinner, cutting the turkey, slurping down egg nog, both virgin and not, opening presents.

  And then there’s Derek, hanging out with his stuffy conservative family out in North Carolina. Everyone’s probably wearing a sweater vest, talking about their plans to go boating in the ocean the following week. Derek, and his beautiful eyes that remind me of oceans. Derek and his kindness. His heart. His safe, lovely heart.

  Still, he’s living a summer life right now. Maybe that’s why I decided not to go to Derek’s home for Christmas. There are few places less Christmas-esque than North Carolina.

  Well, that’s not true. I guess everyone’s got there only little slice of Christmas. Alabama and Georgia probably do the holiday their own special way and that’s Christmas to them. Christmas is what you make it.

  Aww. What a Hallmark special.

  “Next!” the desk clerk belts out.

  Here we go. Time to get a ball-busting response that will annoy me for a few hours. There are few better feelings than heading home when you’re already pissed off. Family has a knack for calming you down.

  Just kidding!

  “Yes, hi, I was on the flight to Bradley and I just want to see what’s next now that we’re stuck.”

  “Indeed,” the clerk says, his name tag reading his name as Matt. “As you can see from the window, it’s snowing pretty badly out. And if you’re at all familiar with California, you can probably surmise that we never have these sort of events.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard,” I say with a smile.

  “From who?”

  “What?”

  “You said you heard. Who told you?”

  Do they not get sarcasm is California?

  “No one. It was a joke.”

  “Oh,” he says, the lightest glimmer of a smile popping up from the corner of his lips, “I see what you’re saying.”

  This guy is probably so boring that he thinks puns are always clever, even when they’re dumb. I bet he goes home, plops down on the couch and watches some random network TV shows while his wife does all the cleaning, cooking and washing. Just your typical lazy, bone-dry dad. Surprised he’s not wearing ‘80s aviator glasses.

  “Anyway, do I get a refund?”

  “We will certainly refund you, but I imagine you’ll still have to get somewhere eventually. So we’ve been bumping passengers to their ultimate destinations. Of course, it depends a lot on where you’re headed.”

  “Connecticut. Bradley. Like I mentioned earlier.”

  “Ah yes,” he says. “Let me get your name.”

  “Noelle Cole.”

  Matt types furiously into the keyboard. The screen blinks twice. I can see it in the reflection of his eyes. When the screen sits st
ill, he types another line of keys and then he clicks away again. When he’s finished, he shakes his head and breathes so hard I feel like his lung might fly out of his throat.

  “Alright, so it looks like the next flight to Connecticut isn’t until Christmas Eve.”

  “Christmas Eve? So, like, two days from now?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, what? I just stay here for two days? Just stuck in this airport?”

  “Well, we can put you up in a hotel. We’ll have to see about reservations. We know we’ve already had a bunch of delayed flights, so it might be hard to find you a room. I might suggest Airbnb if that’s the case. We’ll cover the cost, of course.”

  I can’t handle this. So the airline cancels my flight, bumps me for two days into the future and now here I am, without a hotel reservation. He literally just told me I have to spend two freaking days in an airport while I wait for my flight.

  I can’t.

  Can.

  Not.

  This is not going to happen.

  “Ugh,” I tell him. “Not cool, man. Not cool.”

  The printer at the desk buzzes and screams until it spits out a new ticket. Matt picks it up from the machine and then hands it over to me. I shake my head from end to end, and there’s a part of me that worries my neck will snap. Steam must be lingering out my ears. I rip the ticket out of my hand, probably leaving a paper cut in his hand. I storm away, leaving a breeze and wintry wind of air.

  Guess I’ll have to find somewhere else to stay tonight.

  5.

  So it looks like there are a few thousand options on the table.

  Right now I’m just pouting with my arms across my torso, my left leg crossed over my right, my right leg shaking under my left. My lips are pursed and my eyebrows are raised. I might appear calm to other people in the airport, but inside I am a boiling pot of anger and rage. I’m like Santa Claus after some Jack Frost tomfoolery, or a North Pole elf after the union gets shutdown. Seriously. Someone give me a sugar cookie so I can smash it … or stress eat.

  Fine. I’ll take two.

  The airport has silenced to a hush. There’s still some shuffling as people travel from end to end toward their gate or desired eatery of choice. I’m sure there are people who have to leave their gate for another, but none of us are leaving the airport tonight. We’re all stuck here like burned gingerbread cookies glued to a baking plan. No one’s going to lift us out of here.

  So I guess I’ll be sleeping on these uncomfortable airport chairs for the next few days. Ugh. The thought of that exhausts me. I’m already overly tired, so adding a few sleepless nights caused by the hum and buzz of an airport won’t help me at all. It’s going to be a mess. I’m going to stroll into Christmas dinner with bags under my eyes, dragging my feet, smelling like an airport. Too bad Santa can’t pick me up in his sleigh.

  This sucks. This really, really, absolutely, one-hundred percent sucks. Good thing Charity got out of here in time. I love my best friend, but being stuck in an airport with her for three days would be absolutely maddening.

  Okay. Time to figure out my plan. Time to compartmentalize. Let’s start with where I’m going to sleep. I can probably pick a chair or two or three and layout for a few hours. Claim them for the next three days. Then I can wake up, find a new place to buy breakfast and coffee. Eat that up while reading a new book. Maybe there’s a cheap Christmas romance novel I can buy at the magazine shop. Once that’s over, search out my next meal and the one after that. Maybe I should just make this one expansive reading vacation. I could probably bang out a bunch of books from now until I get home. At least I’ll show up to Christmas dinner well-read. Maybe not well-fed, but I’ll take what I can get.

  The roll of luggage wheels wake me up from my momentary daydream. Another woman, not too much older than me, rolls her luggage down the row. I guess I’m not alone. Why did I think I was the only one here? Weird how lost we get in our thoughts.

  The woman sits down across from me. Brown thin hair, brown eyes, slender and adorable. She’s basically the better-looking version of me. The only different is our nail color. She chose black. I chose Christmas red and green. Call me festive.

  “Stuck here?” she asks.

  “You bet.”

  “How long?”

  “Christmas Eve,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Lucky. I’m stuck here until the day after Christmas.”

  “Seriously?” And now she has my attention. I can’t believe they’re delaying people that long. That just doesn’t seem realistic.

  This is probably one of those moments where I should be thankful I can still get home in time for Christmas dinner. But I won’t. I’m still upset to the brim. I’m still raging inside.

  Then again, I guess it could be worse.

  “Yeah. But it’s okay. I’m going to spend a few days here just hanging out in Los Angeles. I rented an Airbnb out in the city,” she says. She introduces herself as Clara.

  The Christmas lights wrapped around my brain twinkle. An Airbnb sounds nicer than any airport lounge. Airports are stuffy, smelly and overly-populated. There’s no way I’ll sleep eight hours in here. Maybe renting out a room or a condo somewhere will provide a better rest. But then again, isn’t it snowing like Jack Frost’s tears outside?

  “How are you going to get there? I’m sure the cabs and Ubers are going to be few and far between with this weather.”

  “Oh, I drove to the airport and left my car here,” Clara says. “I’ll probably just drive out in a little bit. The storms’ supposed to calm down in about an hour.”

  Oh my goodness. It’s finally here. My escape route! I can finally get out of here. This woman has appeared in my life out of nowhere. This must be a sign from my guardian angel. Clara! Where you at? Okay, maybe those don’t exist. But come on. Just think about it. I was alone, all by myself, ready to spend the rest of the week all by my lonesome. And now, here comes this random woman named Clara! To save the day!

  She must observe that I’m also interested in leaving because she leans forward and looks directly into my eye.

  “So did you need a ride out of here?”

  “Seriously? You’d give me one?”

  “Depends where you’re going.”

  I guess I don’t have anywhere to go. Maybe I can set up an Airbnb in Los Angeles.

  “I’ll probably be in Los Angeles,” I say. “I have to double check my reservation.”

  “Great idea. I swear, it’s going to be lightyears better than staying in LAX. I’ve had to have layovers for a couple days in airports. It’s always a drag,” Clara says.

  “Yeah, I bet. I can’t imagine falling asleep here.”

  “Yeah, definitely get an Airbnb. That’ll save your life.”

  Who acts so nicely to strangers? This woman named Clara, apparently. Maybe I’m just jaded. There’s a large part of me that sees the world as an only negative place, where people don’t do anything to help you or your life. How many people would offer a ride in a snowstorm? Not many in this impassive culture.

  “Give me thirty minutes and then we’ll ride,” she says.

  “Sounds great.” I say, extending my hand out toward her.

  “So what car do you drive?”

  “Oh, I think you’ll like it.”

  6.

  The key to driving in a snowstorm is having a car that can handle the pressures of heavy snowfall, the whipping winds and the meandering, curvy roads.

  Clara Hackett’s ride is a thick white Toyota Tacoma. Solid wheels about as tall as me, a thick body that can take a hit or two, and a revving engine that she admits is souped up on plenty of products that her husband installed.

  The highway around the airport is baron, a ghost town hidden under a snowy carpet. I’ve never seen the exit and entrance area so diluted of people and cabs. Normally it’s stuffed from end to end with Uber drivers, taxi cabs and shuttle buses. Los Angeles traffic extends to the airport on most days. Now it’s a baron wast
eland, the road a fluffy blanket of white. Some might call it a haven. The glowing orange streetlights cast a Halloween glow upon the snow. It reflects on the sky. Something spooky about nighttime snow.

  We trudge through the snow step by step. I count myself lucky that I’m a Connecticut girl and fully prepared for the weather that wrecks my home every winter. My UGGs absorb the slush and the snow with pleasure. This isn’t my first rodeo. When I’m back to Montana, I should watch a real rodeo. Maybe then I can be honest about that comparison. Apples and oranges.

  Clara drags her flat sneakers through the snow a little slower than me. She didn’t anticipate the snow, not even close. Nor did she expect her final destination to have fluffy white flakes either. Strange.

  How did no one see this storm coming? I think about it now as we cross into the open parking lot outside the airport, a long stretching wasteland of cars and trucks layered in snow. When was the last time I actually watched the news? I haven’t checked my weather app. And the times I did, I probably focused on Connecticut, not Los Angeles. How did no one see this coming?

  Everyone who lived here probably expected the norm — beautiful weather with a glowing sun, perfect blue skies and a temperature so warm that walking down Rodeo Drive in shorts isn’t anything close to a stretch of the imagination.

  Now that’s all ruined. This place is a winter wonderland.

  Her truck is covered with a tarp of white snow. We use our arms to bat away the clumps of snow, which fall on the ground beside us. The wind garbles up some of the snow and flicks it into the air. I wrap my hand around my jacket sleeve to pull open the door and then I slide into the passenger seat. Inside it is freezing cold. The air escapes me in a fog and my throat dries up. This is raw cold.

  Clara enters from the other side and ignites the car. It teeters on the line before it ignites fully. She flips the temperature knob all the way to the right, letting the knob’s line lean near the blood red marks on the other end. A furious blast of cold, biting air escapes from the vent. Here we go. Facing the cool temperatures while we wait for the heat. I hate that about cars. Just figure it out already! Get the heat going.