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We had four suitcases stuffed with clothes, half of which we probably wouldn't wear, but - dang it! - we were prepared. Our breathing was labored as we pulled them through the winding line that led up to TSA security. We were a little behind schedule and worried about catching our flight. As we rounded the last curve of the line, the suitcase I was pulling tipped dangerously and then righted itself. We came to a full stop in front of a sign. The sign said, "Please remove ALL undeveloped film from your luggage. The security equipment will damage it."
I had packed my film and camera because on the flight we had taken the day before, we were assured that the security equipment would not damage my film. Clearly that was a different type of security device, because it had been a small one the size of a Xerox machine. The machine now in front of us was the size of a garbage truck and was making grinding noises that were none too comforting. I panicked. I stopped and began digging through our bags, while Sharron guided irritated tourists around us. An agonizing minute later, I found my camera bag and began removing the detachable film holder. I heard a clunk behind me. While I had been messing with the camera bag, the suitcase had fallen over and nearly squashed the foot of a man behind us. He gave me a dirty look and as I apologized - "Sorry! Sorry!" - Sharron continued to direct traffic. I scrambled to get everything back under control and eventually we were ready to have our bags inspected. Sharron gave her bags to the security agent, and as I moved forward to do the same, he said, "Whoa! Whoa! Slow down. We can't take all this at once!" He gave me a smarmy little smirk and I was beginning to see what happens when insignificant worms suddenly get a taste of power. I waited and then proceeded when he authorized me to do so. Okay, we had survived that. Now that our bags were checked in, we headed towards the escalators to the boarding terminals. I checked my pockets to make sure I had everything I needed, and as I pulled my hand out of my right product, a quarter fell out, landed on its edge and began rolling across the floor. I chased after it, not running, but walking at a pretty good clip. I finally caught the quarter and stood up. It seems that in my single-minded quest to catch the quarter, I had reached under a divider and come within inches of a security guard's butt. My wife had, for some reason, distanced herself from me, and was watching. Her eyes were wide open. The security guard was eyeing me suspiciously. I looked around and backed up. Perhaps I should have let that particular quarter go. When we finally gave the security guard our boarding passes he took a little extra time examining them. As we rode upwards on the escalator, I suspect that he was radioing ahead. I was now truly flustered. I apologized to Sharron. It was our third flight that weekend, and the first two had gone off without a hitch. But, somehow, I had instantly been transformed into Inspector Clouseau. The final security screening, which involved removing your shoes, emptying your pockets, taking off your jacket, and having your boarding passes ready, once again, came upon us far too quickly. I was not ready for it and ended up wearing my belt through the metal detector. As it beeped loudly, I was escorted off to the side for an additional search while Sharron watched from the distance and called on her cell phone to see how much a cheap divorce attorney was. There was some confusion about when I was supposed to lift my arms and when I wasn't supposed to and when I was supposed to sit down and when I wasn't supposed to, and the whole search procedure went like a game of "Simon says" gone terribly wrong. The security agent was glad to get rid of me. I'm sure he made a mental note to complain about me when talking to his fellow guards in the breakroom about just how stupid the American public is. I slunk away, put my clothes back on, and asked my wife if she had a ski mask I could put over my head so no one would recognize me. "Uh, maybe that's not such a good idea." I thought about it for a second. "Ah. Good call," I said. We caught our flight and I was soon able to regain my composure and the suave debonair attitude that I usually possess, which causes women to flock to me and other men to be in awe of my confidence and charisma. When I woke up from that happy dream, our flight was landing in Florida and all was well nonetheless. A week later, as we left Florida and went through the security checkpoint, the lady in line in front of us took a severe browbeating from the security agent there. The agent grabbed the lady by the arm and literally pulled her through part of the process. That was only one of several instances of uncalled-for rudeness. It's no coincidence that the Transportation Security Agency and the Tourette Syndrome Association have the same initials. There were several times I was tempted to blurt out obscenities. (On the other hand, it is a coincidence that the Transportation Security Agency and the Turtle Survival Alliance have the same initials, so, if you were going to try and draw any parallels from that, don't bother.) Not too long after we returned home, I had the pleasure of answering a Gallup Poll regarding the quality of TSA service. It isn't always true that "what comes around, goes around," but this time, there was some karma taking place, and it had a round trip ticket, first class. |
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