Carry On!

Okay, I promised something a bit lighter this time:


Carry On!

Has anyone tried to get on a plane lately? I think a lot of the security panic is passe, and now these guards / inspectors / whatever are just plain bored, nosey, and looking to hassle paying customers. Case in point - I try to board with a perfectly harmless carry-on, it’s a normal size, it can easily be stowed in the overhead bin or under the seat in front of me. And what do I get? First it’s x-rayed, then grabbed off the conveyor by a woman wanting to search it by hand. Of course, the search is optional - I can always walk to JFK, if I’d prefer.

“You don’t have any checked luggage, sir?” Unaccustomed as I am to this mode of address, she must mean me.

“No, just this.”

“I see....”

“Is there a problem?”

“You don’t have any shirts with a collar,” she points out. Somehow, this sartorial faux pas has her at a loss.

“Vacation, you know,” I explain politely.

“But you have four neckties.” Forty thousand airport workers, I get a budding Agatha Christie. “You could tie up a flight attendant.”

“Mmmm. Been known to happen.” Not the response she was looking for. Better not joke around too much. “I wear them as a belt.”

“But you have a belt. Four, in fact. A brown one...” Yes, my thick wide western-style belt. “Two black...” One elegant, one casual... “And a red one?” Her eyebrow arches into her bangs.

“That’s a leash.”

“I see,” she repeats, and what she sees is my hairbrush. Holding it dangerously, she stares pointedly at my head. Hey, I'm not bald! Of course, the bristles are longer than my hair is...

Choosing her battles, she retreats, and returns the hairbrush to its rightful place. “Only one of these gloves?” Now she’s come up with a thin leather glove, right-handed.

“Yes. It’s for golf. Or - baseball? Maybe weightlifting.” Stick to the vacation motif, I tell myself.

“One plastic coat hanger,” she continues. There appears to be a pattern.

“For my bowling shirt,” I supply cheerfully.

“And it looks like someone lost a sandal,” she informs me helpfully, holding up one woman’s sandal - straight, flat, wood, rubber soled, and mateless.

“Yes - I’ll bet she regrets it already.” I look full at her, challenging her to challenge me.

Before she has the chance to do so, the gate agent stalks over.

“Tanya, is he clear or not? I want to close the door and go have a smoke.”

“He’s alright,” Ms. Backpack Cop concedes.

“Then stop being a brat and let him on the plane.” If it weren’t for nicotine, I’d probably still be there, discussing the brands of lotion I’m carrying. Yes, I need all six.

Grudgingly, she repacks my carry-on.

“You’ve made a wise choice, young lady,” I reassure her, but she doesn’t seem mollified.

“You’re all set,” she declares, glaring at me one last time. I return her look expectantly. “Sir.” She slides my pack gingerly across the table, as if it might bite her. Always a chance, I suppose. “Have a good flight.”

“Have a good stay,” I offer with a smile.

“Oh and sir?” It’s easy once you get used to saying it. It’s my turn to arch an eyebrow. “Round-trip ticket?”

“Sunday night return. Are they searching the outgoing passengers these days?” Even with the Fourth of July warnings, that seems excessive.

“New policy, maybe. Just a precaution. I’ll see you get through.”