Strung Out

                                                                                                        10/11/02


    The transition of travel since 9/11 is a story of extremes. Those who fly on a regular basis have learned what to check and what you can carry on. In the first year there have been some inconsistencies in the criteria. The obvious items are not in question. Following the Richard Reid incident, shoes are regularly pulled from feet and passed through the x-ray machine. As the rules changed and the personnel tried to adapt, certain things became strange.

    I was flying out of a Southern Californian airport, already having made sure that all my tools were far away in my suitcase, even the dull drum key I carry for work there after a screener spent nearly two minutes inspecting it three inches from the end of his nose. I'm used to having all my pens checked and having to take a sip from my water bottle before coming over to the other side.

    I have worn a plain black fanny pack for many years on the job and off. It's a handy place for my wallet, my cell phone, pens, tools, chewing gum and the various talismans I insist on having with me at all times. Being able to reach into my pouch and handle the polished piece of hematite worry stone, the silver dollar, the various medallions or the small replica of Stonehenge brings me a grounding I need from time to time. For many years carrying things in my pants pockets was not an option, unless I wanted them melted down to basic elemental form by the end of the day from the heat and sweat.

    Another talisman I carry is the keychain that my house keys, car keys and scan tags all hang off of. It was given to me by my mother after a trip to my childhood summer home of Great Cranberry Isle, Maine. From when I was five or six, the jewelry art of the boats men has always been to my liking. The natural progression of watching my Turks Head Knot bracelet change from bright white when it was bought to the darker, funkier gray was a good way to gauge the summer's remaining days. I would wear mine as long as I could, even prying it's shrunken grip from my wrist for a stern washing and bleaching.

    My mother knowing my love for these simple things got me this keychain, which is a simple small knot, called a Monkey's Paw. It is a round ball about an inch in diameter. Made of thin white string, it is a reminder of a simpler time up there, on the water and in the sun. I've had it for nearly twelve years.
    As I passed through the security checkpoint, the woman on the x-ray machine asked if she could search my fanny pack. I said yeas and she proceeded to pull my keys out and inform me that I could not go any further unless I removed my keychain.

    I was instantly confused. I asked her why the keychain was now considered unacceptable after nearly twelve years of flying with it and nearly five months after 9/11. She informed me that my keychain was classified as a weapon, was known as a "Billy Ball" and had been considered such for quite some time. She gave me the choice of surrendering it to her trash can, checking my carry on bag under the plane with it inside or returning to the main terminal gift shop to purchase an envelope and stamps to mail it to myself.

    I didn't want to throw it away; I sure didn't want to check my carry on bag (that's why it's a carry on), so I tried to be understanding and returned to the gift shop where they were charging three dollars for a simple white letter size envelope and $7.80 for $3.40 worth of stamps. This triggered my righteous indignation circuit. This usually is a problem.

    I returned to the security checkpoint. I began to try to reason with the young lady (who was the supervisor of a number of older employees). I explained that it was a keepsake from my mother. I explained that I had flown with it for twelve years and at least six times since 9/11 including two international flights. I don't think I even got a blink out of her. Some other, deeper, more primal circuit flipped inside my head.
  
    "Ma'am, it's a piece of string. If I was to unwrap it and put it in my pocket, it would be a piece of string," I said.

    "Sir, it's considered a weapon," she said.

    I considered using it as one but realized it would be totally inefficient and never do enough damage or cause enough fear. It would be like trying to bludgeon someone with a stale mini muffin or doughnut hole. I decided not to share this with her.

    Even in this heightened state of security, I tried to imagine a cold, calculating terrorist holding a full plane at bay with a one-inch key fob made of string. Perhaps using the attached jagged house key with my other hand... it seemed like a reach.

    Reason was not going to work. Subterfuge was an option as I could have carried it through the metal detector without a peep but that didn't come to mind. With all the communication skills I gained through my upbringing, college and traveling the world, I went with the next obvious choice: passive/ aggressive shame.

    She could not see the warm summer days on the seashore. She couldn't see the love in my mother's eyes. She couldn't see past the guidelines her boss had given her.

    I suppose I could have checked my carry on bag and risked breaking the delicate things it carried, limiting myself to one book instead of six and eight CD's instead of a hundred and forty. I also could have spent the $10.80 to attempt to send it to myself at home. In the end I surrendered it to her trashcan, hoping to make her feel stupid (she didn't) and trying to act grown up (I wasn't).

    As I usually do when these things put me into a tizzy, I called my wife and she had a few logical common sense suggestions. It was too late, I was down the concourse, my flight was being called and the string key chain sat in a gray trash can with a clear plastic liner with the other weapons, nail clippers, stale Jujubes, and other bits of string.

    The next day I heard on the news that the security company she worked for was losing all of their airport contracts and all the screeners were being fired. I felt vindicated for a few seconds but in the end, I'm still sad that we now have to search our own bags before we leave for the airport and that now we'll never know what they[base ']ll look for next.

    A few years back I was traveling to Israel on business and saw that our departure to the airport was nearly four hours before the flight was to leave. Our bags were screened by a team at our hotel early that morning and secured. We spent a half hour at a security checkpoint a mile outside the terminal, individually we were interviewed as we checked in, again at the x-ray machine, once at a random check in the shopping area and a last time as we boarded the plane.  With all the problems they have had, they took very few chances. Most American travelers and probably all of the American companies would never stand for this, the inconvenience and the time consumption. What we experience now is still so casual compared to places that have experienced terror for the lifetime of their airport.

    It's too bad that we have to have security at the airport. I'm glad we do though because humanity seems pretty predictable. Perhaps we'll all be restricted to not carrying any personal belongings in the cabin or having Nerf or plush version of office supplies. No hardback books. Only felt tip pens or crayons. Kind of like county jail on suicide watch. Then in first class they'll serve a meal on china plates with real flatware including a knife. You can't ask certain people to be punished for being successful.

    I'm going to carry a few things if I can back in coach. Something to write with and write on for starters, as I seem to write mostly in the air nowadays. A good paperback and the beautiful bookmark my wife made for me; a bottle of water and a self addressed stamped envelope in case the rules change. Some things are not worth giving up and cannot be taken by security: your memories; your connections to the ones you love; the experiences that make you who you are. Material things by nature are transient. The ones that hold value to you  should be protected.

    I felt bad about losing that key chain. I liked its size and its style. I liked that it reminded me of Maine and my Mom.  But in the end, it's just a thing. And like I told the woman at the airport "It's just a piece of string".