We all get it – airline safety is important. We know, too, that most security agents are decent, hard-working folks just doing their jobs and that we’d all rather be at the movies or a bar or anywhere else.
I do what I can to make my part of the process easy. I’m a card-carrying member of TSA PreCheck, Global Entry and Clear. I always wear slip-on shoes just in case. My belt has no metal. My liquids are in clear sandwich bags, carefully positioned on top of my neatly-folded clothes. I smile, say thank you and, if asked, do exactly what they tell me to do. I’m an obedient first-grader, eager to comply and attentively awaiting instruction on what to do next.
But on this particular super-early, chilly, rainy, grey morning at London’s Heathrow, things aren’t quite going my way. British Airways has lost my reservation, including my paid-in-full preferred seat with extra legroom. And of course, I can’t find my carefully printed confirmation to prove that I had what I had.
I’m still polite, if a touch unenthusiastic, but getting fussier by the minute. Flu bugs are percolating in me like fizz in a vigorously shaken Dr Pepper bottle. My head hurts, my nose is runny and I have a cough that rattles coffins. In short, my typically sunny and chipper disposition has, like my reservation, disappeared.
After 45 minutes of keyboard clacking and hushed discussions among airline personnel with furrowed brows, my reservation is found. So I stroll to security, where I’m happy to see hardly any line at all. I’m looking forward to boarding one of BA’s cool old 747s shortly, where I can stuff Kleenex up my nose and don my germ mask. Nobody wants my germs, least of all me.
My bright blue carry-on bag and cheery, cherry-red backpack roll through the X-ray machine. Then the conveyor stops, backs up and my happy bags, stuffed with books, chocolate and tea, get another gander. Then another. A short, balding, teapot-stout, heavy-lidded, frog-faced security official looks at the screen with interest, then growing astonishment and finally, incredulity. He orders the technician to run both bags through yet again, and then a fifth time for good measure.
“Whose baggage is this?” he shouts. With just four words, his venomous tone manages to do the impossible for me – strip the charm from a British accent. Perhaps he hailed from the small Welsh coastal town of Vomit-on-Toast, whose citizens famously dine on boiled grass and sheep ticks.
In any event, I raise my hand and he barks at me to move to a small area reserved for more thorough inspections. Quickly and efficiently, I unzip my bags, present him with the contents and take a respectful step back. He glares at me balefully, as though I’m one step away from Jason Bourne-like flight, then pokes and prods. Still dissatisfied, he announces to all within earshot of his vile gargle that I must completely unpack both bags right now.
I can feel his visceral animosity simmering like the low-throated growl of an angry and underfed junkyard dog. I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve his loathing, but it’s palpably, unmistakably, inexplicably, there.
Fully aware of people looking-not-looking at me, I put the contents of both bags onto the well-worn inspection table, arrange them for easy searching and step back once again. Squinty-eyed, he leafs through my seven books from Foyle’s, visibly disappointed that there’s no heroin or explosives hidden inside. My ten Harrod’s chocolate bars (they’re gifts – well, a few) come under intense scrutiny. Even my bag of dirty clothes merits an accusingly arched eyebrow.
As he rifles through my clear plastic toiletry bag, his bulging amphibian eyeballs light up in triumph. Villainy is about to be thwarted and fiendish Iago punished. He fairly shouts at me in victory and by shouting, I mean SHOUTING.
"WHAT IS THIS?"
"Toothpaste."
“IT'S UNOPENED."
"Yes."
"WHY HAVE YOU NOT OPENED IT?"
"It's a souvenir."
"You bought TOOTHPASTE as a souvenir?"
"Yes! I liked the name, Euthymol, it’s funny. See the old-timey design and green squiggles?"
"I WILL HAVE TO OPEN IT AND RUN A TEST."
"Okay, but it’s just toothpaste."
"SIR, WE TAKE THE SAFETY OF OUR PASSENGERS QUITE SERIOUSLY."
"I can see that and we’re all grateful."
(Above: the offending dentifrice)
Grudgingly, he informed me about the upcoming test process.
“I will have to remove the tube from the box and open the tube, then run a sample of the contents through the machine.”
"Okay. Just curious – how long will it take?”
"It will take as long as it takes."
"I see. Then I have a suggestion. Let's just throw it away."
"Sir, I cannot throw away your possessions."
"How about I throw it away, then?"
"I cannot hand it back to you."
"Then it's really not mine anymore, is it?"
“Sir, if you persist in arguing with me, I will have to call my supervisor.”
Just then, a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged British gentleman with a distinct James Bond air, leaned across the table to Inspector Clouseau and said, "You know, sir, you might try being a bit more customer friendly to this gentleman." With a jaunty nod, 007 smiled at me and departed with my “thank you” ringing in his ears.
I’d certainly enjoy having a license to kill right about now. Inspector Gadget must have read my mind, for he was openly scowling.
"I will now test the toothpaste."
"Yes, test the toothpaste, by all means. In the meantime, may I repack my bags?"
"NO. My examination is not yet complete."
"Well, this may come as a bit of a surprise, considering we’re at an airport and all, but I have to be on an airplane soon. About how long will it take?"
"Again, it will take as long as it takes."
“Okay, how about I stand over there and take a cough drop and blow my nose because I'm really not feeling well..."
"YOU MUST STAY RIGHT HERE."
"For how long?"
"For as long as it takes."
Okay, I’m done with all this milk of human kindness crap. This is ridiculous, ludicrous and all other adjectives ending in “ous” denoting absurdity. But I know if I raise my already not-insubstantial voice, I’ll be carted off to yon Heathrow gaol.
So I hiss instead.
"Jesus, Mary, Joseph, this is ridiculous, it's just toothpaste, what's the deal?"
"Sir, please don't use profanity, I'm merely doing my job."
“Sir, I’m Catholic, that’s hardly profanity in our book. Let’s get on with it. Dammit.”
“Sir …”
“Dammit is not a profanity, dammit.”
So I stand there while 14 guys with grenade launchers sail through the other inspection line with nary a pause in their jaunty, devil-may-care step.
And did Inspector Poopy-head test the toothpaste? NO. He pokes and prods everything for another testy few minutes, then tells me to repack my junk.
Which I did. Thoughtfully, carefully and precisely.
"Sir, please pack more quickly. This is a very busy area."
"Sure, I’ll just move everything over to the benches..."
"No, you must remain here."
"Well, seeing that it's a long flight back to the land of LIBERTY, it might take a minute or two."
"How long will it take?"
I took a deep breath, thanked sweet, benevolent God for his almighty sense of humor and replied firmly:
"Sir … (dramatic pause) … it will take as long as it takes."
He huffed and left me to my repacking, which I completed quickly if not exactly efficiently. Then it was off to the gate where I boarded my plane, gratefully settled in and arranged my tissues, face mask, cough drops, nasal spray, electronics, emollients, unguents and reading materials.
From my backpack, I also retrieved three small, 50-milliliter wax-sealed bottles of Brighton gin that snoopy Sherlock, with his toothpaste fetish, somehow missed completely. The gin’s medicinal properties – juniper, fresh orange and lime peel, locally-grown coriander seed and milk thistle – would surely provide much-needed succor during the long flight home.
And the Euthymol toothpaste? Let’s just say that my frothy expectations far exceeded the actual thyme-tinged event.
Hey, it’s just toothpaste.
