Airport Security
Two days ago Lauren and I headed to LAX to take a flight to Denver. The majority of the conversation on our drive to the airport was about the new security process. We really did not want to be one of the “chosen ones” who are selected to pass through the body scanner that reveals your naked body to the wonderful people of TSA. While they may be just the most friendly of individuals, I prefer that they don’t see my perfectly sculpted body in the nude. So when we finally got to the airport and reached the security line we were both pretty nervous about what may happen at the looming metal detector - the machine that determines whether you pass or whether you move on to the nudifier. So we spent a good five minutes making sure our pockets were emptied of any metal items. I stood on the other side of the inevitable machine looking at the wand-waving security personnel over in the promise land. I was shoeless, beltless, keyless, phoneless, glassesless, changeless, and respectless. Needless to say I already felt naked. So there I was, inches away from the machine that would determine whether the “boys” and I would be exposed to the kind gentleman in the blue shirt with the tie and rubber gloves. Just then he raised his hand and motioned for me to pass through. Step by step I moved forward. “Am I sure my pockets are empty?” I thought to myself. “What if there’s something I forgot? It’s too late know.” My foot passed over the line and then there I was on the other side - beepless. “What is he going to do?” I asked myself. “I didn’t beep but is he going to let me move on?” And just like that he nodded and said I could go ahead. I passed! So I grabbed my bags and watched as Lauren too had passed. We were in the clear. Or so we thought.
As we passed through the airport we pushed our way through mobs of people boarding and unboarding planes. We were able to find two seats in a little corner, so there we sat. Lauren decided to get some water and I agreed to stay behind and watch the bags. I sat there minding my own business when a Southwest employee got on the intercom: “Will an Alexander Hottman please come to the desk.” “Oh no,” I thought to myself, “This is it. I’m screwed. Security is definitely after me for some reason and I’m going to be exposed in the nudey contraption.” But I couldn’t just get up and go because who would watch all of our bags? So there I was on the edge of my seat, waiting for Lauren to return so I could confront my already determined fate. A good 30 seconds passed and still no Lauren. The Southwest employee gets on the intercom again, this time a little less patient, “Will an Alexander Hottman please come to the desk.” At this point I was ready to just jump up and run. What do I do?! Finally, after 30 seconds or so Lauren shows up with the waters. So I jump up and push my way through the sea of traveling zombies. I turn the corner when I hear another voice come on the airport intercom, “Will Alexander Hottman please come to the Southwest terminal desk.” I was, at this point, terrified. “Oh I’m definitely screwed. They used the airport-wide intercom. This is serious business.” I pushed through the masses to see, at the Southwest desk, a police officer waiting for me. “Oh boy. This looks worse than just the nude machine,” I thought. “I’m probably going on a terrorist watch list.” So I stepped forward and was greeted by the police officer, “Are you Alexander Hottman?” I wasn’t sure what to do. Do I pretend like I’m not? “Oh no, officer. I’m actually just here at the desk because… uh… I wanted to tell you guys what a great job you’re doing.” I couldn’t say that. I had to admit who I was, “Yes, officer. Can I help you with something?” “I’m gonna need you to turn around,” he said. And right then and there he handcuffed me. Threw the shackles on my wrists. Bound my hands with the chains. He then proceeded to explain to me that I had packed a knife in my carry-on. They had decided to let me on my way for a short while so they could check my background, to see what type of individual they would be dealing with. So there I stood, arrested. A criminal. Ready to be sent to jail.
Actually that last part isn’t true. I wasn’t arrested. And there was no knife involved. The reality is that I left my ID at the security gate and the nice officer had decided to come and find me to return it, but that’s not really a good conclusion to the story. So the moral of the story is don’t believe all stories, I suppose. And police officers can be real nice guys. So there’s that. I hope it wasn’t too much of a waste of your time. Happy Thanksgiving!
