Airport Security Pre 9/11
Our family utilizes air travel so infrequently it is usually fun and adventurous when we do. John was 5 and we were all flying from New Orleans to Kansas City to visit my family and go to a couple of baseball games.
It is always hectic preparing to leave for a few days. To compound things, I had selected an early flight. My reasoning at the time was we would get to our destination earlier and not spend the day waiting to leave. All of the last minute things were getting done. Setting the thermostat, turning off the ice maker, watering the plants, feeding the fish, blah, blah, blah. I was tending to that stuff and Barbara was getting John ready. We were scurrying around getting everything completed and though hurried, got everything done and out the door in time.
Barbara hates to fly. She worries we will all die, but mostly she worries she will die. My logical attempts to comfort her are ineffective. Her fear is not what I would call a phobia, but close. She learned that a Xanax or a glass of wine made flying tolerable. I usually say things like, "if we crash and burn, I want you to know I love you." This technique is an attempt to use exaggeration to get her to see her fear humorously and a way for me to exercise my sadistic side.
The drive to the airport was about 30 minutes. We left the car at a "Park and Fly", then hopped a minibus to the departure area. A sky cap checked our bags at the curb and we walked inside. Airport security in those days was painless. They did not even ask questions like, "did any terrorists give you a bomb to blow up your flight?" or "did you leave your bags unattended, but still manage to notice a stranger implant some explosives into your things and you forgot to remove them?" In New Orleans, like most other airports I suppose, one places their carry on items on the conveyer belt then walks through the metal detector doorway. There was a short line at the security area. As we were standing waiting our turn, Barbara said almost as an afterthought, "I hope that gun in John's bag does not cause any trouble." "WHHAAAT!", I replied. Now I was getting nervous. We were about two people away from the x-ray conveyer. "Just before we left I grabbed the toys he was playing with and put them in his backpack. One toy was his cap gun," she said. "Are you crazy," I asked rhetorically. I was thinking to myself - "this could be bad." To my amazement the purple Sesame Street backpack rolled right through without so much as a raised eyebrow. "There, you see," she said, "they can tell if it is a toy or not." Amazed, I agreed and we continued to the gate - which was the farthest geographic point in the airport from the curb where we were let out. In those days, John liked to be carried part of the time, so going a distance with a kid in your arms and all of the carry on paraphernalia made that trek a form of exercise on a par with a spinning class.
John was still at that "cute age" that drew attention from strangers. On the plane the flight attendants made a small fuss over him and showed him the cockpit and gave him the plastic wings to pin on his shirt. He was mesmerized and over stimulated by the whole experience. The take off was like an amusement park ride and the view was something he had never seen. I love to look out the window of the plane. I especially like it when it is overcast. The plane takes off and at some point breaks through the clouds. The bleak, dark day ends and all of a sudden you are enjoying sunlight and looking down at a white, fluffy, cotton like carpet of clouds.
The flight from New Orleans to Kansas City usually has a stop somewhere and today it was Memphis, Tennessee. Usually, when one has to change planes it is the next gate over, but since I had to carry John and tons of carry on luggage the gate was in another concourse. That meant having to go through security again. For a Saturday, the Memphis airport was pretty busy. We had just enough time to get to our plane, but I was nervously checking my watch anyway.
Finally, we got up to the x-ray conveyer. We set our things on it and waited for them to pass the scrutiny of the security official. When John's purple Sesame Street backpack entered the machine the conveyer belt stopped. The lady at the controls said something to the male official next to her. He turned to us and said, "I must ask you folks to step over here." He was motioning to the side of the area where there was a table and a couple of chairs. He led the way while talking on his walkie talkie. I heard his last two exchanges. "We have a code 7", (can't recall the exact number) then he said simply, "it's a gun."
I knew it. I knew it was a bad thing to bring anything resembling a gun to an airport. I knew you could not even joke about guns or bombs, but here I was being detained by security because of a toy gun grabbed in haste. I said to the security official, "It's a toy gun, my wife put it in there not thinking." I rolled over on her fast. I would take a bullet for her, but I did not want some dude thinking I would be dumb enough to bring a toy gun into an airport. Let me be clear. I am not saying she was dumb because she did it. This is one of those things where if a guy does it HE is dumb, but a woman gets a pass - oh she did not know. Conversely, if a guy ruins a load of laundry he is just a guy, but if a woman did the same thing she would be an incompetent woman.
The security official said in his monotone cop voice, "sir, we have to check it." I like the way police can be so polite. Sir, I am going to have to arrest you. Sir, here is a ticket. They have you thanking them for locking you up and having to pay a $300 fine. This man was polite. Well, in about 30 seconds there were five or six more polite policemen at the scene. They were all wearing those big coats with huge yellow letters spelling the word POLICE. So here we are in Memphis, a line growing longer because the family over there has something suspicious in the x-ray machine, six cops and other security officials around the machine. One brave officer slowly reached in the machine and pulled the purple Sesame Street backpack out. It looked so small and unthreatening in his hand. What a contrast - cop, gun, police coat, and little purple backpack. He unzipped it and pulled out the weapon. A pearl handled six-shooter no cowboy would be without.
Fortunately, John was oblivious to the whole thing. He could have been crying for his backpack, but there was enough stimulation to keep him busy. The security staff quickly assessed the situation as more of dumb travelers than a terrorist threat. They resumed the line saving us from certain lynching by the ever growing restless throng of travelers. On top of all of this we had a plane to catch. The polite security official continued his monotone conversation,"sir, you are going to have to come with us downstairs and fill out some paperwork." "Is this going to take very long," I asked, "we have a connecting flight leaving in twenty minutes." The security guys talked for a moment out of ear shot then returned. "If you want to surrender the weapon you can place it in our amnesty box or you will have to go downstairs and fill out some paperwork. The weapon will be returned to you when you arrive in Kansas City." "I'll go with the amnesty box," I said, "just don't let my son see you throw it away." We were released on our own recognizance.
I had Barbara so good I could sit back and not even have to say, "I told you so." She apologized all over the place and I let her. But it wore off pretty quick. Thank God that happened pre 9/11 or I would be writing this blog from "Gitmo".
Until the next time
John Strain