Hoops

(Part two of the backpack saga begun in "Lost")

Our drive to the airport was uneventful and just like the driver had promised; we came to a stop in front of the airport at 1pm…exactly 30 minutes. I paid him his fee and a generous tip, grabbed my bags (after carefully checking that I had everything) and hurried inside.

I had flown the 1:40pm direct flight from Reagan National Airport to Knoxville’s McGhee Tyson Airport many, many times. Rarely did it leave exactly on time, and almost never did they begin boarding thirty minutes early like they say they will. Still, despite my good fortune in finding my back pack, I did not feel I could push my luck. There was no time to waste.

I turned the corner to find that there was only one person in line at the First Class check in counter. Let me stop here to make a brief explanation: One of the few benefits of excessive travel is the accumulated appreciation of airlines and hotels for your return business. The more you fly, the higher your status rises within their particular program. For several years I had been a Gold member with USAir, but this year, for some reason, I was bumped up to Chairman…their highest level. This sounds much more extravagant than it is. My primary perk is getting to step up to the First Class check-in desk (which I was also able to do with Gold level) and bypass the longer lines. The First Class desk is more about status than seating. The small commuter jets that fly back and forth to Knoxville do not have “First Class” seats, so usually I end up sitting in the back near the smelly bathrooms. It’s extremely glamorous.

I used the available self-service kiosk to confirm my seat and print my ticket, but then had to wait for the agent at the counter to check my bag. The person in line in front of me was not happy. Apparently his flight had been delayed from its original departure point due to mechanical problems. Personally, I have never understood why people get so bent out of shape about Airlines having to fix an airplane before flying. I hope I am never in so big a hurry that I am willing to get on a plane that isn’t in near perfect working order.

This gentleman wanted an explanation for the delay and some kind of compensation for his time. The extremely patient lady behind the counter tried to calm him down while also explaining that since he had made his connection to his next flight, there was nothing the Airline could do. I wanted to tell him that his complaining might cause me to miss my flight and would he compensate me for that, but I remained silent. I had my backpack. I was happy.

The man finally walked away, sulking and growling under his breath. I put my suitcase on the scale and quickly showed my ticket and photo ID. “You’re a little overweight,” the lady said. The words stung like a slap. I couldn’t help but be offended, despite the fact that saying I was only a “little” overweight could have been considered a compliment. I started to say something when I saw the digital readout on the scale reading 56 lbs. The weight limit for checked bags was 50 lbs. each.

I took a step back and realized that I had placed my carry-on duffel bag too close to the scale and a corner of it was adding extra weight. I moved it aside and the weight dropped to forty seven. I smiled and apologized, hoping that the agent had not noticed the red on my face when I thought she was making a personal comment about my size.

Once my bag was checked (with the assurance of the agent that it would make it on the plane), I rushed down to the security checkpoint. If there is one thing that I have learned from my years of air travel, it’s that you never know when there will be a long line. I’ve been there at the same time on many different days and sometimes it’s insanely crowded and other times it’s a ghost town. I had two minutes until boarding time, so I was hoping for the ghost town.

There were no tumbleweeds or boarded up storefronts, but the lines were shorter than I had seen on many days, and best of all, each of the six security lanes were open. I jumped into a line with about five people in front of me and smiled at the thought that I just might make it. After each person stepped up to the TSA agent and presented their ticket and ID, they were moving quickly and efficiently up to the conveyer belt. There did not seem to be any “amateur travelers” in this group. Everyone was taking off their shoes before going through the metal detector. Those with laptops were removing them from their cases and putting them in a separate bin. It was like a training video on proper airport behavior.

An attractive, but stern looking redhead stood in front of me, wearing a dark, blue business suit and a look that said that she might be late for her flight as well. Just as she handed the agent her ticket and ID, another agent came past us and began sliding the doors closed to the two security lanes we had expected to use. The woman grabbed her ticket and rushed forward, but it was too late. The door was open only enough for the agent inside to put his face through and say, “These lanes are closed, please use one of the other open lanes.”

“Are you kidding me?” the woman said, although I think I was the only one listening at that point. The agent who was now checking my ticket and trying to decide if the face on my ID matched the one on my head did not seem to hear her or care. I’ve learned not to argue or question TSA agents, and I think they’ve learned not to care if anyone is late for a flight.

I stepped forward, ticket in hand, and tried to decide whether to choose the two lanes on the right or the two lanes on the left. I couldn’t tell that the lines on either side were any shorter, and so I chose the right. The redheaded lady made the same choice.

Because we had been in line together, I think she thought we were bonded in a common goal. “Do you think we made the right choice?” She asked.

“Probably not,” I responded, laughing. I didn’t really seem to care as much as her. I had my backpack. I was happy.

We moved forward slowly until I could peer around the corner and see the conveyer belt, x-ray machine and metal detector. Then the line was stopped cold. At the front of the line was an older gentleman in a wheelchair. Two TSA agents were beside him, trying to figure out how to get him through the security system. First, they tried to get him to stand up so he could walk through, but after a few wobbly moments, it was obvious that it was not going to work.

I had to wonder what was so important that it required this man to fly somewhere; when his portable oxygen tank, wheel chair and physical debilitation made it seemed more appropriate that he should be under a doctor’s care. I was, however, impressed by his determination.

The redheaded lady was not impressed. She whispered, “Why is this taking so long?” I did not answer. She could see the older man as well I could, so the answer as to why we were not moving should have been obvious. I was more concerned with who the man was travelling with, because it was not readily apparent, and from the look of things, he had no business being alone.

After coming to the realization that he would not be able to make it through the metal detector without his wheel chair and oxygen tank, TSA finally rolled him through the bypass gate on the side and took him on for further screening. The line began to move once again.

I got to the conveyer belt and swiftly placed my shoes, laptop and cell phone in bins and put my duffel and backpack through the x-ray machine. As I stepped through the metal detector the alarm began to beep and I did a quick pat down of pockets to make sure I had not forgotten anything. I found nothing and shrugged at the TSA agent who was looking at me with sullen suspicion. “Are you wearing a belt, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “but I wear this belt every time I come through here. I was wearing it last Friday when I came through this security line and it was fine.” As I finished talking, I knew I had simply wasted my breath and more time. You don’t argue or try to explain anything to TSA agents. They do not care.

“Take off the belt, sir.”

I stepped back through the metal detector and grabbed one of the small white bowls they have for change and small items. I pulled off my belt and wound it around my hand so that it would fit nicely in the bowl and sent it through the machine. When I returned to the metal detector, the TSA agent pointed me to the larger machine next to it. “Go through the body scanner, sir.”

I had been fortunate enough to avoid the newly installed body scanners for the last couple of months, but my belt had betrayed me, so I stepped into the large plastic tube and put my feet on the yellow painted feet outlined on the floor.

“Raise your hands over your head and don’t move until I tell you,” said the TSA agent controlling the scanner. My next thought was, “How loose are my pants?” I was pretty sure that the final straw for my day would be the humiliation of my beltless Khaki’s falling to my ankles in front of hundreds of people at the Reagan National Airport while my off in the distance my flight lifted peacefully into the skies on the way to Knoxville.

I took my fingers off my belt loops and slowly raised my hands over my head. I held my breath and hoped I wouldn’t feel a sudden cool draft of air on my legs.

“You’re clear,” the agent finally said, and I dropped my hands quickly to secure my pants and shuffled over to where my bags and personal items were waiting. I grabbed the belt first and cinched it tight around my waist, then carried everything over to a nearby bench to get out of the way. As I sat down to put on my shoes, I heard my name being called over the loudspeaker. “…please come to gate 35A immediately for final boarding of flight 2553 to Knoxville.”

I gathered my stuff and hurried through the crowds in the terminal, making one brief stop at the water fountain to take my motion sick pill, which I was grateful I didn’t forget. I ran down the moving steps of the escalator that led to gate 35A, finally reaching the gate agent, who looked up and smiled. “Mr. Warford?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m late…it’s been a crazy day.”

“Don’t worry about it. We knew you were here. And we wouldn’t leave without you.” She took my ticket and scanned me into the system. She handed my ticket back. “You have a great day.” I had been sent another angel.

Gates 35A and B are not gates in a typical way. They are doors that lead out to shuttle busses which then take you to a waiting zone of midsize commuter airplanes. Some people are thrown by this when they leave the airport for the first time, but I was very used to it. I did my walk of shame (reserved for the person who has made everyone sit on the bus while the announcements are made to get the lost and late to check in) and climbed the stairs into the shuttle.

The shuttle was not full, but the only empty seats were in the back. Unfortunately, these were completely blocked by the people sitting in the front two rows who were (to put it kindly) “over extended” into the aisle. I’m a big guy, and I’m pretty aware that I’m a big guy. I know my limits and what space I can fit through (and how much space I take up). The people who were blocking the aisle-way of the bus did not seem to be aware of the space they inhabited, because they looked at me with the childlike expectation that I could somehow slip right through the half inch of daylight between the person on the right and the person on the left.

“I guess I’m standing,” I said, and waited for the driver to come on board and take us out to my carpet ride home. As he did, I happened to notice that I was at least a foot and a half in front of the infamous yellow line (the one that all riders are supposed to stay behind), but thankfully he didn’t say anything to me. He just sat down and started driving.

I was the first one on the plane, thanks to my position on the bus, and I would have hugged the flight attendant, but I was afraid it might get me arrested. I collapsed into seat 12D, just in front of the bathroom, and was asleep before we crossed the Potomac. I was happy. I had my backpack. More importantly, I was finally on my way home, where the four angels God has blessed me with awaited me…and there’s nothing better than that.