one of those days

By Robbie on November 17, 2010

I went to O'Hare this morning to catch a flight to Houston. It's been almost two months since I've flown, a long time for me; and over that time I've been stewing over what is being called the "Federal dick measurer," that new Chernobyl-meets-Chuck Berry security tool that snaps a nude photo of you, sends it to a salivating functionary secreted somewhere nearby, and irradiates you into the bargain. The national opt-out day proposed for next Wednesday, where we angry citizens are encouraged to bypass the mechanical dick measurer in favor of the human ball stroker, must be the product of insane minds. Who is going to feel the pain of that? A better idea would be for gentlemen flyers to achieve erection just before entering the checkpoint, and then to request a pat-down, during which they would moan erotically and loudly. This would irritate the people who need to be irritated and entertain all the others.

But I wasn't directed to the device today, only to the good old antique metal detector, the one your dad enjoyed daily while attending grade school in Boston back in 1974. What did happen were several little snafus, each one setting me back just a few minutes, but which added up kept me from making my flight.

1. Remote parking lot full. That was a new one on me, and I was directed to a farther lot, double-secret remote remote parking, from which you wait for a bus which take you to the shuttle that takes you to the airport. 10 minutes.

2. This prevented me from checking my bag at the skycap, by, if my watch was accurate, one minute; bags must be checked 40 minutes prior and I was at 39. I got in the security line at this point, but a TSA employee saw me toting three things and booted me. The gate agent checked my suitcase onto a later flight and pointed me toward a checkpoint she thought would be faster and closer to the gate than the one I had tried to Jim Rockford into a couple minutes earlier. But you can't pick your security line anymore. The TSA guard there directed me to a third line, far down the terminal. About 8 minutes.

3. What happened in the last two months? Are the belts at the checkpoints now running on wind power? Whatever it is, something has slowed security line movement substantially, and a line of about 25 people now takes as many minutes to clear the checkpoint. Maybe what happened to me in the line happened to everyone else in it. At the ID check, the TSA agent, who looked to be in his early seventies and a bit worse for the wear, looked troubled by my driver's license and asked me whether it had expired. I didn't understand the purpose of the question, because on our Illinois licenses they do the usual thing -- print the date of expiration -- and since my license was unmistakably current and valid, and said so, why was I being asked? If I had said "no," would my word be taken over the document's? He called in a supervisor, and after a delay of only about 20 seconds I was permitted to move on. I had to go through the metal detector twice, reason unknown. I was then singled out for special screening, and a Band Aid-like strip was run over my hands. My carry-on was run through twice before my Neumann mike was discovered, held up to the light, and given back to me. The bag was then scanned a third time, while a TSA lady mentioned a guitar she was thinking of getting her son for $150. I was looking anxiously down the terminal toward my gate, where my flight was scheduled to depart in about 2 minutes.

4. I ran valiantly but as I got within sight of the gate I could see the door, slowly, dramatically, closing; and of course it snapped shut just as I reached the counter. The next flight (the one with my clothes and merchandise on it) was booked solid, so I got onto a flight eight hours later, for $50 extra.

You may look at the time increments described above and, doing the math, point out, quite fairly, that I don't leave ample time at airports for things to go wrong. I generally arrive at an airport an hour and a quarter in advance of the flight, unless I'm in L.A. or travelling on a holiday or some other unusual condition applies. That's slightly tight, and while it hasn't bitten me before, I can't act very victimized over this banal hassle. As a matter of fact, I'm telling the story mainly because it's a happy story, as will soon become clear. When I got back home, my son called and I told him what happened. "But," he said, "you're at home now with Donna, aren't you?"

"I am," I said.

"Then the Voltaire dictum holds, and you are in the best of all possible worlds." (Note: I read Candide aloud to all my kids at a tender age. Takes a while to pay off, but it always does.)

"Assuming the best outcome with my bag, which is in Houston right now -- yes, I am. Everything's fine."

"Oh -- but the gig. You won't make your date," he said.

"Aha!" I said. "That's why it's truly a Voltaire day -- the ultimate capstone. Tonight's date was made with a promoter who has a silly little drinking problem. A few days ago I found out he had blanked on the booking and filled in the date with someone else. I couldn't change the flight at a reasonable cost, so I had been travelling today for no reason. There is no date to make."

"Truly," said Nick, "the best of all possible worlds for you." Sort of. Right now I'm back in the O'Hare lounge, and the gate agent just announced first-class boarding. So it was one of those sort-of-okay days, after all.