Don't Walk on the Grass

Well, I am home after a fairly exciting trip. In fact, I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if the someone from the FBI drops in this afternoon.

In these times of intensified homeland security and especially since the good people in the great state of Oklahoma experienced the ravages of terrorism first-hand, asking for wheelchair assistance at the Will Rogers International Airport can get you processed quickly and probably a little more thoroughly than an ambulatory passenger.

As a “special assistance” traveler, I was wheeled through elevators and back door entrances to a processing unit that dealt with airport staff and those of us who may not be able to pass a metal detector or required some additional searching for some reason or another. In my case, it was the fact that I wore the black knee high “walking cast” securely held with Velcro straps, and they didn’t want me to remove it for processing. "Not a problem!" I was told by a cheerful young woman from the Transportation Safety Administration, in a sweet Okie drawl.   “Ma’am, if you can take off your shoe, then walk through the metal detector we’ll just check that cast on the other side!”

My designated wheelchair pusher, who obviously had extensive training in the finer details of wheelchair mechanisms, locked the wheels in place as I pushed myself to my feet and proudly walked through the metal detector without it emitting so much as a peep! I was then told to sit back in the wheelchair, which had been rolled through to where my carry-on items, including my purse and tote bag had arrived at the end of the conveyor.

The TSA agent approached me with what looked like a cattle prod, with a Stridex pad attached to the end and told me she was going to swab the palms of my hands and my “boot” as she called my cast. I watched with great interest as she took her samples, then she headed toward the machine that would test the samples for traces of explosive material.

I began to collect my belongings from the gray plastic box that held them. The trip through the conveyor caused some of the items in my purse to spill out. I noticed that my highlighter was uncapped, possibly opened by the security people, and as I picked it up my hands became stained a pretty florescent yellow.

It was then that I heard the bells and whistles go off and the TSA agent frantically told her boss, “I’ve got an alarm!”

I looked her way as I worked feverishly to remove the yellow highlighter stains from my hands with hand sanitizer, and noticed every TSA eye turned toward me.

Me.

MOI?

I gulped, and with my eyes nearly bulging from their deep-set sockets, I imagined that I probably looked downright suspicious as I wiped the substance off my chubby mitts!

Immediately, her boss; an ample sized Black man with an intimidating deep voice said sternly, “Ma’am, I need to see your photo identification and boarding pass, NOW! And, where exactly is your final destination?”

“Ummmmm.” I searched my quickly fading memory bank, not knowing whether I still knew my name, considering the circumstances.

“Bakersfield, California” I replied, wondering if I took too long to figure out where I was going. Just my luck that would be another part of the profile. The TSA training guide probably says…“Look for dumb shits who can’t quickly articulate their destination.”

I figured next I would escorted to a small room outfitted with bright lights, with armed interrogators and tape recorders and be required to explain the reason I was in Oklahoma.

Pleasure? Business? Neither, honest. Sick 88 year old Grandma. Plain and simple. Honest. Visited my son in North Carolina for a few days. He’s an Army Helicopter pilot who was home from Iraq for his mid-tour break. ::beaming proudly:: Then I paid about a million dollars more to make this here stop in Oklahoma to see my Grandma.

The bad guy interrogator would cross his arms over his chest and say, “Yeah right lady. YOU have a grandmother at your age?” Then he’d laugh sarcastically. The good guy interrogator would smile, tell me not to pay the other guy no mind, pat my arm and tell me how much easier that this whole thing will be if I would just cooperate with them and be truthful.

I snapped back into reality when the TSA agent told me that I would need to submit to a “pat-down” search. I saw the boss man making telephone calls and writing down my identifying information figuring I’d now be scrutinized every step of the way. I asked the TSA agent if that would be the case as I had two layovers/connections on this flight home.

She informed me that I had probably just walked through a yard that had been fertilized and that caused the sample from my “boot” to test positive for explosives, yet they had to take things like this very seriously, as she proceeded with the pat down search of my person.

Understandable, of course.

I was then allowed to proceed to the gate, where I was early enough to watch the crew board the early morning flight. Two Pilots, several Flight Attendants, and two burly handsome men in plain clothes who held brief cases and newspapers, used their security codes to pass through the locked doors and on to the airplane.

As a special assistance passenger, I was allowed to board the aircraft in the first wave and then I saw him. It was one of those handsome guys that boarded with the crew. As I passed him, he was sitting in the First Class section. He lowered his newspaper, just below eye level and took a l-o-n-g, hard look at me.

I’m thinking it was because I look p-r-e-t-t-y hot since I lost that 20 pounds!

What d'ya think?