After taking of my shoes and belt and jacket so I could walk through a mysterious white plastic arch watched over by an underpaid Federal Security guard who held an equally mysterious squeaking wand in his left hand, I put my sandwich bag full of trial-sized toiletries back in my bag and walked up the stairs while trying to keep my pants from falling down. “Keep Moving” the sign says. I do my best to obey for fear or being tagged, labeled, or questioned further. I arrive to the gate with over an hour to spare, and the anxious are already standing in line, pretending to check messages, emails, and business memos while trying to look as important as possible.
A graying man with a bluetooth headset in his ear throws a candy wrapper at a trash can and misses, but makes to effort to pick it up after watching it fall to the carpet. A fifyish woman with over-sized sunglasses and over-injected lips talks to her husband louder than necessary so that everyone will hear her travel plans. Two young men, both with retreating hairlines and expensive suits, pull out their laptops and Blackberries; not a moment left unproductive. A mustached man with snug jeans pulled neatly over his cowboy boots and his head topped neatly with a cowboy hat keeps pulling his ticket out of his front pocket to inspect it, checking to make sure he is in the right place at the right time. A young woman with jet black hair, too much makeup, and giant golden hoop earings races by in a pink sweatsuit with the word Juicy written out across her ass while dragging a matching pink suitcase on wheels. Two teenage boys argue with each other about who gets to plug their iPod or PSP into the only available electrical socket in the entire terminal.
I stay in my seat, afraid to wander more than two feet from my bags; not because someone might steal my camera, socks, and shirts, but because my dirty underwear might be mistaken for a suspicious package and taken away to be disarmed on the tarmack while I take a leak.
