CAREFUL,
SOMEONE MIGHT THINK YOU ARE ANGRY AND TATTOOED or MOM IS ALWAYS RIGHT ABOUT
SNIDE REMARKS
My mistake(s)
- I took the A not the E train (from Manhattan to JFK) and due to Ôan earlier
incidentÕ as the train operator referred to it, the train and itÕs passengers,
including me, were late – arriving barely 45 minutes before my scheduled
flight to SFO. So I ran, and made it into the corral by presenting my home
ink-jet boarding pass and my driverÕs license. IÕm really not sure how the
situation deteriorated so quickly; I wasnÕt pushing anyone or even sighing in
frustration. It seemed to be going OK, I had fed my belongings to the machine
in the proper tubs and such - until when emerging from the metal detector a TSA
employee asked me ÒSir, do you know where your property is?Ó to which I
mistakenly responded without thinking about whether I was carrying luggage or
property, ÒUh, I think itÕs right there, where else would it be?Ó –
pointing in the direction of the x-ray machine and itÕs related treadmill
apparatus.
Well, that was
apparently probable cause because after another TSA person turned to say looks like we got live one, or something
to that effect, I was shifted into a holding pen, in which, in retrospect, I
realize I was to Ôcool offÕ – despite the fact that I had 5 minutes or so
to board an aircraft, or miss it. After a couple of minutes another TSA
employee ran the hand wand over me for a few minutes, patted me down and
informed me that he would need to touch
some areas. Then I was told to follow the first 2 workers to another area
for the dig-through-everything session, where I was told to sit down and first
man (who IÕll call Mr. Moustache), and who I was learning liked to ask
far-reaching and seemingly irrelevant questions, asked me ÒWhy are you so
angry?Ó At this point, my traveling companion, who also became suspect because
of my insolence, was also being searched, and reported that three different
people spent some time sniffing her bag of chocolate brownies. Meanwhile, my
digging went on, with a series of other questions about where I live, how many times do I come to NYC, whatÕs the difference
between NY and California, etc. Then Mr. Moustache became very concerned,
while spreading my sundries all over the table, to find a small bag of powdered
laundry detergent. Well, you can imagine my colossal blunder in thinking I
could get away with this. It of course could be fertilizer or at least cocaine.
Let me just state here and now that it is not lost on me that carrying this was
idiotic. And that the soap has probably gone all over the world in my travels
of the last 10 years, and prior to 2001, and been examined numerous times by
security personnel – including a flight 6 days prior.
Anyhow, I was
in for it and running down the jet way was out of the question. So after 2 or 3
more TSA personnel and some 5 or 6 of NYCÕs finest took good looks at the
laundry soap, asking me what is was, what
would I do laundry soap, what kind of laundry soap it was, etc. Then Mr.
moustache asked me again ÒWhy are you upset?Ó, pointed
out a number of times that ÒI shouldÕve left earlierÓ and then asked for my
phone number, ya know, in case Òwe need to call you.Ó
Of course the police needed to know my contact information as well, I assume so
if I ever travel again I can go straight through to the detention center. Then
we all sat or stood there for a while, I guess to make sure my airplane took
off without me. Only after I asked the droopy-eyed notebook cop if we were
waiting for anything in particular, did he inform me that we were waiting for
the bomb and/or narcotic sniffing dogs.
Some time
later Mr. Moustache asked me if I had any tattoos, which although I guess he
expected me to rip off my shirt to reveal NRA and KKK logos on my chest, at the
moment the question struck me as absurd to the extent that I sort of went on a
mini-rant, wondering if it was likely that IÕd turn up in the east river and he
would be present to identify my body. That exchange was over when he shared the
fact that he didnÕt have any tattoo when I inquired. I came to realize that he
mustÕve been ÔtrainedÕ somewhere that people in a hurry are angry men with
tattoos and violent schemes.
Some time
after that I asked if the dogs were coming over from Manhattan, hence the
delay, but surprisingly they werenÕt offended by that remark either.
Finally in an
appearance of 30 seconds, the lanky German Sheppard showed up, was set upon my
things that were strewn out on the examination table and was excited enough to
fling the grey tub that contained my shoes and jacket onto the floor. At least
it wasnÕt the tub with my laptop in it. The handler cop then said He ainÕt
got nothinÕ or something to that effect and led
the dog away.
Mr. Moustache
went on to call me ÒSirÓ, inviting me to reassemble my bag, suggested that I
have a nice day, if possible and the droopy-eyed notebook cop looked at me and
said ÒItÕs just standard procedureÉÓ and then left me with this amazing
offering, ÒÉyou can just write your president.Ó
IÕm not sure
that I have president or if I do whether he would care about my airplane
problems or laundry soap. But feeling like I would prefer that the cop had said
You are powerless, you may as well forget about
it, I slinked on to my gate to figure out how to get home.
gibbs chapman
SF CA 2/2008