I thought they had me this time. I was coming home via DCA Tuesday night and in every security line stood the full-body scanner, dead ahead. Either that, or the pat down, no way around it. I was resigned to my fate.
It was a late evening flight; there were few people ahead of me in line, so if I opted for grope, it wouldn’t hold anyone up. I’d promised to think through my decision beforehand, so I could look cool when the moment came (as cool as one can look – either with one’s hands up over one’s head in the glass booth or while getting one’s privates massaged – an unhappy ending? – in front of other travelers).
Now, in real life, it was different. So few people around, the tail end of a Tuesday evening, plenty of TSA staff around, the whole thing set up to move you toward the scanner. If you want the grope, you have to take the initiative, make a fuss, etc.
I was tired. Exhausted, actually, I’d just put in a string of very long days over the holiday and just wanted to go home. I was almost ready to submit to the scanner. On the other hand, I was early for my plane, so there was time to put up a fuss and endure the pat down.
Then for the first time in my life (that I’m aware of) I was saved by a bumbler.
He was a middle-aged businessman, portly, expensive suit. The kind of person I see all the time in airports and the kind of person I choose to get behind in the security line, because these guys often travel frequently and have the whole security dance down cold.
Not this guy. Way too much going on. He took four gray bins from the stack, got them all lined up on the tables and didn’t move them forward when the space in front opened. Tripped taking off his shoes. Dropped a handful of change on the floor. Couldn’t find his laptop in his carry-on bag. Knocked one of his bins off the conveyer and had to turn around and pick it all up.
Usually, I hate the bumbler. He’s the person in line in front of me who can’t make up his mind at the sandwich shop, the one I’ll go to when I need to grab something quick and get back to work. He stands there, mouth agape, staring up at the menu board while the clerk and I exchange glances. It’s a sandwich for God’s sake. Even if you make the worst choice in the world, the experience is over in 15 minutes.
I know, I know. I place too high a premium on efficiency. It’s the German in me. Adrienne reminds/nags me how these are good opportunities to practice patience.
Finally, the bumbler gets all his gear fed into the x-ray machine and heads for the scanning booth. And manages to mess that up. I don’t know how one can screw up a full body scan, but he managed to do it. (Couldn’t keep still? Didn’t lift arms high enough? Was concealing something?)
Whatever it was, he stayed in the booth and stayed and stayed. The TSA employee who was keeping me in place, waiting to put me through the scanner (or hear me say I wanted the pat down) finally rolled his eyes one last time and with a disgusted air waved me through the metal detector.
I suppose the metal detector is what the pat-down folks pass through before their ordeal, but they couldn’t pat me down because I hadn’t refused the scanner; I was bungled out of it.
For at least one more flight, I remained unscanned and ungroped. How long can my luck last? Depends. From now on when I hit the airport, I’ll be following the bumbler.
© Mark Floegel, 2010
Thank You, Bumbler
I thought they had me this time. I was coming home via DCA Tuesday night and in every security line stood the full-body scanner, dead ahead. Either that, or the pat down, no way around it. I was resigned to my fate.
It was a late evening flight; there were few people ahead of me in line, so if I opted for grope, it wouldn’t hold anyone up. I’d promised to think through my decision beforehand, so I could look cool when the moment came (as cool as one can look – either with one’s hands up over one’s head in the glass booth or while getting one’s privates massaged – an unhappy ending? – in front of other travelers).
Now, in real life, it was different. So few people around, the tail end of a Tuesday evening, plenty of TSA staff around, the whole thing set up to move you toward the scanner. If you want the grope, you have to take the initiative, make a fuss, etc.
I was tired. Exhausted, actually, I’d just put in a string of very long days over the holiday and just wanted to go home. I was almost ready to submit to the scanner. On the other hand, I was early for my plane, so there was time to put up a fuss and endure the pat down.
Then for the first time in my life (that I’m aware of) I was saved by a bumbler.
He was a middle-aged businessman, portly, expensive suit. The kind of person I see all the time in airports and the kind of person I choose to get behind in the security line, because these guys often travel frequently and have the whole security dance down cold.
Not this guy. Way too much going on. He took four gray bins from the stack, got them all lined up on the tables and didn’t move them forward when the space in front opened. Tripped taking off his shoes. Dropped a handful of change on the floor. Couldn’t find his laptop in his carry-on bag. Knocked one of his bins off the conveyer and had to turn around and pick it all up.
Usually, I hate the bumbler. He’s the person in line in front of me who can’t make up his mind at the sandwich shop, the one I’ll go to when I need to grab something quick and get back to work. He stands there, mouth agape, staring up at the menu board while the clerk and I exchange glances. It’s a sandwich for God’s sake. Even if you make the worst choice in the world, the experience is over in 15 minutes.
I know, I know. I place too high a premium on efficiency. It’s the German in me. Adrienne reminds/nags me how these are good opportunities to practice patience.
Finally, the bumbler gets all his gear fed into the x-ray machine and heads for the scanning booth. And manages to mess that up. I don’t know how one can screw up a full body scan, but he managed to do it. (Couldn’t keep still? Didn’t lift arms high enough? Was concealing something?)
Whatever it was, he stayed in the booth and stayed and stayed. The TSA employee who was keeping me in place, waiting to put me through the scanner (or hear me say I wanted the pat down) finally rolled his eyes one last time and with a disgusted air waved me through the metal detector.
I suppose the metal detector is what the pat-down folks pass through before their ordeal, but they couldn’t pat me down because I hadn’t refused the scanner; I was bungled out of it.
For at least one more flight, I remained unscanned and ungroped. How long can my luck last? Depends. From now on when I hit the airport, I’ll be following the bumbler.
© Mark Floegel, 2010