Hey, America. Thanks for coming in. Look, I realize it’s been a tough couple of years lately, and I understand you’re having a little trouble getting back on your feet. I’ve been cutting you some slack, letting little things slide… I don’t mean to get all up in your face, but I think I have to say something about the airport.
I understand, America, that travel, and air travel in particular, has a mystique. There’s a sense of wonder, of unbridled possibility, of the unexpected. But here’s the thing, people: the security checkpoint shouldn’t be unexpected.
Can there really be anyone out there who doesn’t know that they’re going to have to put their bags through an X-ray machine and walk through a metal detector? Even someone who’s never been on a plane before – and there’s no way that all of the people I’ve been in line behind have never been on a plane before – must have some notion of how the security works. And yet, standing in line behind many of you, impatience turning to frustration turning to rage, I begin to doubt whether some of you get it. I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to call out two of you in particular.
Cell phone lady? Red hair, too much makeup, too little pants? Providence? Yeah, you. Look, I don’t know who, exactly, you were talking to, but I overheard your half of the conversation, and believe me, it could have waited the two minutes it would have taken for you to just hang the damn phone up and go through security. Do you not see the forty people standing in line behind you? Yeah, we’re waiting for you. Yup, still standing here. It’s your life, certainly, but it’s easier to put your oversized faux-Louis Vitton bag on the belt if you take the phone away from your ear for two seconds. God! Hang up the damn PHONE!
Ok, sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to snap at you, cell phone lady. Because, really, you were nothing compared to old guy in Nashville. Sir, seriously. I get it, you’re old. You’re slow. You have a cane. But does age necessarily have to mean a proliferation of pockets? Because you, sir, had many, many pockets. The two side pockets of your pants. The two back pockets of your pants. Your jacket had two side pockets and one inside pocket. And of course, your shirt breast pocket. Each one of these pockets, believe it or not, had something metal in it that had to go into a little tub on the conveyor belt: keys, change, pens, gum wrappers, paper clips, I don’t even know what. The thing is, you must have put these things in your pockets. It can’t have been a SURPRISE to you that you had thirty-seven pockets full of CRAP, so why did you have to stand there, patting each one in turn, looking satisfied and then remembering that wait, yes, most pants have pockets on BOTH sides, and I’d threaten to stuff you headfirst through the X-ray machine if I didn’t think that would be suspicious behavior.
Seriously, people. We all know the security check is coming. Take the crap out of your pockets, and put it in your bag. Yes, even your keys and your change and especially your cell phone. It’s not hard. It takes fifteen seconds while waiting in line. When you get to the scanner, throw your bag on the belt, put your shoes in the tub, do one last pocket pat just for show, smirk at the rubes emptying their pockets behind you, and then march through like a champion!
And then your belt buckle sets the thing off. But really, at that point at least you’ve done your best.
