I thought they might smile; maybe even laugh. But the 9 TSA agents at the airport were regarding me with the enthusiasm usually shown by diners who have found used dental floss in their angel hair pasta.
I got to the airport, as I always do, 45 minutes before my 7:45 flight to Atlanta. I’m on this flight frequently and I know that if I get there at 7 AM there is virtually no one going through security but if I get there at 6:45 or earlier, the line snakes around the terminal, filled with all those loathesome leisure travelers who make travel unbearable: Middle-aged children with elderly parents in wheelchairs; young parents with squalling children in strollers; snippy society women with yippy little dogs and thousands of Canadian tourists who act like they have never been in an airport before which begs the question: How did they get here in the first place? Greyhound?
Now, as I headed for the screening area I saw there was not a single person in line. That’s when I noticed the 9 TSA agents staring at me. I started to walk to the podium to show my ID but the TSA agent held up her hand in a classic “STOP” gesture.
“Not so fast, Mr. Man,” she said. “I’m not ready for you.”
I looked around the area; there was not a passenger in sight; she held up a finger in warning. “You can just wait your turn,” she said. “If you’re in such a hurry you should have gotten here sooner.”
She and her colleagues chose that moment to go into a kind of huddle and then they fanned out in a straight line, staring at me. Annoyed, I looked pointedly at my watch. As if on cue they all did the same.
The impasse continued for a long moment and they stared at me as though a middle aged man in a “Gap” hoodie was an obvious security risk. I cleared my throat. “I guess you’re wondering why I called you all here today,” I said. But no one laughed or smiled.
Eventually I was called to the podium. I presented my ID and started to scan the boarding pass on my smart phone, but the agent snatched the phone out of my hand. “That’s my job,” she snapped.
“Sorry,” I said, “just trying to speed things along.”
“Well, smell you,” said the agent.
I was confused. “Excuse me?” I said.
She repeated herself loudly and slowly, as though she was speaking to a small child or an especially dim dog. “I said, ‘Well – smell — you.”
I thought this was some hip new greeting, like a fist bump. “Well, smell you too!” I said brightly.
“I’m not paid to be disrespected,” she said, waving me through.
“No,” I thought; “you’re paid to disrespect me.”
When she waved me through she must have given the other agents some kind of a signal because as I went through the metal detector, predictably, the buzzer sounded. Three TSA agents immediately surrounded me. “Random security check,” said one. “I need to swab your suitcase,” said another. “I’m going to pat you down with the back of my hands,” said a third, as if I should be delighted that he would not be groping me with the front of his hands.
The person reading the x-ray monitor stopped the belt and, looking concerned, called over a heavy woman with a bad haircut and many ear piercings. “Large and in charge” was my assessment.
“What’s this stuff in your briefcase that looks like loose change?” She demanded, in a tone that clearly said, “We could be doing a cavity search before you even knew what hit you.”
I was in a n awkward position. I was standing with my legs spread and my arms outstretched for the pat down that was considerably more thorough than I would have expected. “It’s loose change,” I told the heavy TSA agent. She looked at me curiously. “It’s a bad habit,” I explained. “I travel a lot and I throw all my loose change in my briefcase.” Generally the change accumulates until the briefcase gets so heavy I can barely hoist it, and then I empty it.
“We’ll see about that,” she said, pulling on a latex glove with an ominous snap. She rummaged through my briefcase and grabbed a large handful of coins, glaring at me as if convinced that my plan was to fling coins at the cockpit door until the cowering pilots let me in.
Eventually she decided I was no security risk but then I still had to re-dress and repack my suitcase. Now I really had to run for my gate because I could see that the plane was almost fully boarded. I glared at the agent as I passed.
“We’re doing this for your own good, you know” she said triumphantly, with the air of a woman pleased with herself for a job well done.