Insecurity
When I got to the airport on Tuesday for my weekly commute to Burbank, there were a lot more people in line for the security screening than there usually are. I mean, a lot. Maybe it was because of the looming three day weekend, or maybe people just wanted to get out of San Francisco.
Lately, I have been travelling a lot. I have put a lot of energy and thought into making my travel go as smoothly as possible, mostly because I am desperately afraid of my plane exploding, causing me to end up on a post-modern island where I am stuck endlessly wandering in circles, wondering who the hell is following me and why they seem to be wearing the samed sized shoe as I do, and without all of the proper charging cables and connecto-dongles for my laptop. I have a special travelling backpack that allows me to whip my laptop out without any unzipping. I have a tiny wallet pocket on the strap of my bag so that I can present my government issued ID in the blink of an eye. And I don’t wear shoes… ever.
Also, I don’t like waiting in line. In fact, waiting in line at the airport is one of my least favorite things to do, definitely up there in the top five with: fleas, rats who chew holes in expensive and difficult to reach pipes, Republicans and worthless stock option grants. Waiting in line at the airport makes me feel extra stressed out about travelling because it makes me feel like I am going to miss my plane and/or get busted with a condom full of heroin in my anus. Not that I carry heroin in my anus. But you never know.
The line at SFO was long, stretching from the actual security gate all the way to the end of the terminal. I’m talking about Terminal 3, for you locals out there who care. And for those who don’t, the key message here is that it was a long line, and more than that, a long line filled with grumpy people who were really stressed out by all the heroin in their anuses.
As I walked down the line towards the end, a strange calm came over me. For some reason, my normal attitude of aggression and animosity towards all things airport was replaced by a feeling of confidence in and unity with the various travel workers. Yes, the line was long, but these people know their stuff! They have got it down, yessir! Bags through the x-ray, people through the metal detector, keeping it moving, keeping people happy and on time and stress free.
The people around me did not feel the same way. “OPEN SOME MORE GODDAMNED LINES,” said a man in front of me to a woman in uniform who was directing traffic. “This is soooo inefficient,” said the guy behind me. A baby, riding in one of those weird baby sling things, stretched out his baby hand and flipped a baby bird at the old man checking IDs.
I just smiled. And the line moved ahead. And it moved ahead at a pace that reassured me that the TSA employees really did have it down to a system, that they really were going to move all of these people through at a record pace. Security! Convenience! Racial profiling! All wrapped up in a convenient package.
Within about ten minutes, I was at the security gate. Bag in the scanner, boarding pass in hand, I walked through the metal detector without so much as a ping, let alone a pong. TEN MINUTES, holy shit! Hundreds of people had gone through before me, and I was still through in just ten minutes! I had been calm and had faith in the system, and I had been rewarded. I felt so happy, not only because I had been proven right, but because everyone around me had been proven wrong!
I walked towards my gate with a renewed pride and an enhanced sense of how much better I am than most people. Whereas normally I would scurry nervously towards my plane, I strolled casually with my head held high - mostly so that I could recognize and sneer at the people who had been complaining just moments before. I felt so happy and relaxed that I decided to put not one but both of my hands into my pants pockets, as people who are being casual and stress free frequently do.
And that’s when I discovered that in my pockets, I was carrying several coins, my house keys, and my official Merlin Mann limited edition talking space pen — all made of metal. I stopped dead in my tracks. What had just happened? Had I broken the rules? Had the system failed? I’d seen people stopped at the metal detector before for less than this! Had the security staff decided to reduce the sensitivity of the metal detector in order to usher more people through?
I stood in the middle of the airport staring at the pile of lethal (pen mightier than sword) metal tools in my hand, mouth agape. Who was right? And who was wrong? And more importantly, had I made any sort of mistake in my personal judgement as to who was right and who was wrong?
I stroked my beard, and made a hrrrm-type of noise. No, I concluded, I had been correct in my original assessment about the people in line being stupid, doodie- faced jerkholes. It was just that the scope of my judgement had been too limited. It wasn’t just the customers at the airport who were small minded idiots bent on destroying our society… it was everyone! Except me!
I continued to my plane, confident in the knowledge that I was and always have been right about everything.
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