Story Time - Airport Security
Once when I was travelling from San Jose to San Diego, I was stopped for a body and bag search. Nothing out of the ordinary; I did the shoe thing, stretch thing, look casual thing. They took my bag and rubbed a circular disc of cloth around the outside and inside. I think this is supposed to pick up particles that could be drugs, explosives, poisons, etc.
As the person checking my luggage (Mr. America) turned the bag around to access the outer pocket, he looked up at me.
“Oh no,” I thought. I knew what this was about. The outer pocket has a busted zipper. Many years ago, someone managed to zip it up with the zipper on the inside of the pocket. So there’s no way to open it. Obviously, I never put anything in it, but the person rubbing the bag couldn’t know the difference between that and me hiding dynamite in an inaccessible pocket. He called over a vest-clad, firearm-wielding, squinty-eyed friend of his.
Mr. America and Dirty Harry examined the pocket for a while. They emptied my bag and tried to push the zipper up, down, left, and right from the inside of the bag. It didn’t work of course. Short of cutting open the pocket, there was no way they would ever find out what’s in there. They patted the bag to make sure nothing bulky was in there, and that was that.
But wait, there’s more.
Don’t forget about the circular disc Mr. America was rubbing along the sides of my bag. They have to have this piece of cloth analyzed by their robot. The robot recognizes the dangerous particles and tells Mr. America what’s up.
So I’m repacking my bag as the robot starts to beep.
“Oh no,” I thought. I knew what this was about. The clothes were all laced with dried gunpowder, which I planned on igniting once I got in the plane… Wait, no I wasn’t! What’s this all about? My bag is clean!
Seriously, though, I wasn’t planning anything of the sort.
Mr. America told me to step away from my bag and called over Dirty Harry again. They spent some time with their backs to me talking to the robot. Then they rubbed my bag again with a fresh disc and had it reanalyzed. It beeped again.
Now they’re getting a little interested. I’m sure they were thinking they would finally have something more interesting to say at dinner than, “Yea, no terrorists attacked today…” They began picking through my stuff with what seemed to be Jack Bauer intensity. They carefully removed article after article of clothing as they reached the bottom of the bag. Then one of them stopped suddenly. He looked up at his buddy with a serious look on his face. Was it relief? caution? glee?
No. It was dissappointment. He’d found my cleats. The grass on the bottom of the shoes contained fertilizer which contains many of the same ingredients as some bombs.
They talked to the robot some more and together determined that I was free to go. Believe it or not, I made my flight and had a great time home in San Diego.
Add comment April 18th, 2006