This was my first time through airport security at Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport (CVG) since the full body scanners have been put in place. I dutifully got in line and started the drill. I show my boarding pass and picture ID and put those away. Next I take off my shoes and put them in the container to be scanned. I take anything metallic out of my pockets and put it in the container. Next I drag my laptop computer out of my bag and put it in a container. I take off my belt and put it in the container and remember to hold up my pants. I remembered to take any liquids out of my bag and put them in a container. Then I start the containers and my bag through the scanner.
One must wait for the command and then enter the scanner. Instructions are given to face to the right and hold your hands up over your head with your palms out. Oops, there go the pants. After a few seconds I was instructed to step out of the scanner and stand on a mat with the exact spots to place my feet indicated. About six inches in front of me stood a very pleasant TSA worker blocking my path. She told me to stand right there and informed me that my body image was being assessed at this time by a person in another room. Now I can't swear this is exactly what happened next, but I am pretty sure she looked me over and snickered. There was a look on her face that said to me, "This is one of those times I am so happy my job is out here and not in there." She didn't say anything, but that was the message I received.
Perhaps, if you have never met me, you wonder why I would think such a thing. My discomfort makes more sense if you realize that back in my playing days I was six feet tall and weighed 180 pounds. Now, several years later, I am one inch shorter and almost 100 pounds heavier. Needless to say, the TSA workers are not in some back room arm wrestling for the pleasure of working in the scanner room when I pass through the system. So, I endured the snicker.
I arrived in Raleigh and found my way to the rent-a-car pickup place. At the counter I was served by a very nice man. He asked for the required photo ID and credit card and looked up my reservation. He informed me that I was signed up for a mid-sized car and just stared at me. I stared back. He then asked, "Will a mid-sized car be sufficient for you?" Sufficient for me? What does that mean? Cool enough for me? Stylish enough to suit a cool dude like me? Do I have so much luggage that I need a car with a bigger trunk? What? "Yes," I said, "a mid-size car will be fine." He shook his head and continued the paper work. He explained all the options available to me that would cost more money. I said no. He shook his head and continued the paper work. Finally he handed me a packet of paper and sent me in search of my car that awaited me in slot C-8.
I headed out into the lot looking for a mid-sized car: a Honda Accord; a Toyota Camry; a Buick or a Volvo. I didn't want much, just something with some leg and head room and a radio that works. I found the C row and started down the row at space 1. A Honda Accord. Red. Nice. But not my car. As I got nearer to C-8 I started thinking the clerk had made a mistake. It didn't look like there was a car in C-8. It wasn't until I arrived at my assigned slot that I could even tell there was a car parked there. I stood there, looked the car over and thought, this roller skate with an engine they are leasing me is a mid-sized car? You have got to be kidding. No wonder the clerk had stared at me. He wasn't worried about my luggage fitting in the car he was renting me; he was wondering if I would fit in the car I was leasing.
I crammed myself into my "mid-sized" rental car and off I went to my speaking engagement. North Carolina was beautiful. The Barton College campus was beautiful. The people in North Carolina are beautiful. I had a wonderful time. In all too short a time, I was back at the airport for more screening and humiliation.
After dropping off my rented roller skate/mid-sized car, I was bussed back to the airport. Like everyone else I rushed back into the security screening line - you would have thought they were giving out free gifts - where I joined hundreds of other travelers as we obediently entered into the security shuffle routine. Boarding pass and picture ID – check. Metal out of pockets, belt off, shoes off, laptop out of baggage, liquids in a separate container – check. Step into the scanner, hands up and hold still. Upon leaving the scanner this time another pleasant TSA worker informed me that I had failed the scan and would need to be patted down. That is TSA speak for frisked. Failed the scan - I thought, what does that mean? I have a tumor? I broke the machine? My naked body was too much for the screener to endure? How I could I fail the scan. As it turns out, I had left some paper in my pockets that came up on the scan. I was still going by the old metal only technology and didn't realize that EVERYTHING had to come out of my pockets. So, I was going to get the famous TSA pat down.
The large pleasant man blocking my path called out for "male assistance." Obviously TSA speak for a male worker to come over here and pat this guy down. And nothing happened. We waited about a minute and then he got on his radio with the same request for "male assistance." Nothing. We stood there for a couple of minutes and stared at each other. I finally said, "It's a good thing this isn't an emergency." He agreed and again called out for "male assistance." Looking around at the several dozen TSA employees in the immediate area I begin thinking, nobody wants this job – nobody is interested in frisking bubba. We were waiting and it was getting embarrassing. Two more pleas for "male assistance" were sent out before help finally arrived. The guy who showed up to frisk me was just plain scary looking. He was scruffy, wearing a wrinkled shirt, unshaven, wild eyed and spoke with slurred speech. Where, I wonder, do they keep this dude locked up between frisks? On the bright side, he did look extremely pleased to be there.
Well, I got frisked. Boy did I get frisked. I flew home on the plane rolled up in fetal position and rushed home and took a shower.
Fortunately I don't have to fly again for a couple of months. I think I will get ready for my next trip by joining the gym.
Copyright © 2011, William T. McConnell, All Rights Reserved
1 comment:
Oh Man, that's just not right. The guy uber-frisks a pastor for kicks. And then he gets paid for it! Then it's likely he spent his government paycheck on booze, drugs and... oh yeah taxes!
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