 |
Head to toe A Suspicious Character? Search Me.By Rick Horowitz
The man with the electric stick wants to poke around inside my pants. Be my guest, I tell him. He wants to run his fingers down my spine. Absolutely. Anything he wants. Welcome to the joys of flying, revised version. I'm traveling from Wisconsin to Connecticut this morning; at least that's what I'm hoping to do. Instead, it's my fellow passengers who are filing onto the plane, while I stand there at the boarding gate, doing my best impersonation of a scarecrow. "Due to heightened security concerns," the gate agent had announced a few minutes ago, "we will be conducting additional searches of random passengers." These additional searches involve metal detectors, she had warned us, "and will include a body pat-down." So I knew it was coming. I just didn't know it was coming to me, until the man with the electric stick asked me to step out of line. "Random wanding," they call it, and Wayne (his name is on his shirt) is handling the duties this morning. "Would you take off your jacket and empty your pockets, please," Wayne says. I take off my jacket and empty my pockets. Wayne runs the wand -- actually, it looks more like a small chain saw -- along my arms, across my torso, up and down my legs. Sometimes it moans, sometimes it doesn't. Wayne seems to understand the difference. "Would you unbuckle your belt, please," Wayne says. I've heard of people who've hidden blades behind their belt buckles; the wands moan, but the wand wavers assume it's just the buckle, and the blade sneaks through. Nobody's making that assumption anymore. I loosen my belt. For good measure, I also unbutton my slacks. I want to be cooperative; I still have a metal zipper, and just in case Wayne is wondering if I might be hiding something down there -- He makes a quick pass inside my waistband. The wand remains silent. (I'm so glad.) "I'm going to move my hands down the small of your back, if that's OK," Wayne says. This is not, strictly speaking, a request. I'm sure I can say no if I want to. I'm also sure there's no way I'll be allowed onto this plane if I do. Then again, I'm perfectly happy to say yes -- yes to the small-of-the-back search, and yes, too, to the down-around-the-ankles search that follows it. Wayne has his hands on my ankles now, and on my shoes. Wayne has his hands inside my shoes -- poking, prodding, searching for that sharp and dangerous something I might have hidden there. I haven't hidden anything there, or underneath my wristwatch either. (Wayne looks underneath my wristwatch.) He's perfectly pleasant -- we chat amiably as he goes about his duties -- and he's perfectly methodical. When he's done inspecting me, he turns his attention to my carry-on bag. He peers into every pouch and pocket. He removes every ballpoint pen, clicking it open to make sure that it is, in fact, a ballpoint pen. He riffles through the pages of the book I've brought along, and the pile of newspapers. At this point I figure I should explain about the baseball. Wayne is all ears. "Just in case I have to throw something at someone," I tell him, only slightly embarrassed. I've been reading stories about pilots urging passengers, should trouble break out on board, to throw whatever they can -- shoes, books, whatever -- at the troublemakers. It's been a while, but I figure if it ever comes to that, I'm still better at throwing a baseball than a shoe. Wayne chuckles appreciatively. Has he come across other passengers arming themselves with sporting goods and the like? Not personally, he says, but he has heard a few stories. We're getting along so well, Wayne and I, that I have a story for him. I tell him about the time I passed my bag through the X-ray machine, only to have the inspector notice the large pair of scissors I was carrying and ask me to explain myself. I did, and thanked her for asking, and she seemed surprised. "Lots of people get annoyed," she said. "You're only trying to protect us," I told her, tucking my scissors back into my bag. That was September 10th. Wayne is finished searching me; I've been under his wand and his hands and his watchful eye for nearly 10 minutes. He thanks me for my patience and wishes me a pleasant flight. I'm cleared for takeoff, and I hustle aboard feeling just a little bit safer. My fellow passengers, on the other hand... Posted 10/23/01.
Click to "Rick's" for fresh commentary twice every week!
|
  |
Rick Horowitz
