TSA-pre … What ?
Since ‘Ziggy’ Freud we know, trying to comprehend what drives people is yeoman’s work and it doesn’t help that there’s lots that can get lost in translation. For instance, if you live in the greater Boston area and, just to blend in, refer to deteriorating weather conditions as ‘serviah-wetha’ it can easily sound like beer to a Mexican patron who wasn’t even looking for ‘cerveza’. This then seems as good a time as any: “Hombre — let’s go Dutch” is how you would broach the ever so sensitive subject of splitting the bill at a yummy taco food truck in the Southwest. I feel that’s useful to know given the state of the border that everybody seems to be so worried about these days.
Speaking of thorny issues: You don’t need to be an economist nor a poorly managed diabetic to start paying attention to ‘consumption’. Everybody who’s ever binge-watched Netflix knows, the farther you let your index finger drift to the right, the more you will have to rely on subtitles. That’s where the programming gods ran out of mainstream content because we consume faster than they can produce the mostly mindless stuff that keeps us intellectually subdued. So, if you’re not into dubbed Turkish soaps, German “drillas” or Bollywood rom-coms, stay more towards the left. No, this is not meant to be advice for the upcoming fall election, if you have a pulse and paid attention, you already know who to vote for then — rather, it’s a recommendation where you pick up the “fast” line at TSA.
I flew recently to DC. Busy airports on both ends, but not a problem, I thought — get this, because I have “TSA-Pre”! Turns out, so does most of everybody else these days. Yes, you can leave your sneakers on which I bet is less a security ‘earn-out’ for having kept a surprisingly clean criminal record all these years than a hygiene-driven concession to germophobic frequent fliers who are intent to collect a boatload of mileage so they can board the next flight 2 min earlier. Fungi-Armageddon, courtesy of flip flop Nation; I dread to see a Petri dish culture swiped off the yellow plastic footprints that you & everybody else will need to hit on the 360-scanning machine (where most of us wonder, admittedly too late in the process, if the exposed arm pits are reasonably dry). Anyway, I’m digressing, so let’s go back one step, literally. To begin with, you stay to the left where you will inevitably fail the first IQ test — “TSA-pre vs. Clear?” — no biggie though since the sweaty, overweight TSA guy will surely yell the correct choice directly into your brainstem — right, because these guys understand that they are the ‘face of our country’! So, let’s just say for fun-sake that you made it unscathed but with a much higher heart rate variability through the pacemaker line; you keep moving past the underfed “working” canine that gives you the stink eye while he debates if p*ssing on your carry-on is a good use of his weapons-grade urine, and finally got the inside of your colon “randomly” swiped clean for explosives by the guy who profiled you thanks to your unseasonable tan and, well, because he can.
You’re now safely on the “inside” or ‘TSA-post’ in unofficial jargon. That is, you are now getting exposed to an eclectic amalgam of gag-inducing smells: They range from deodorant-busting perspiration in all its ugly shades, to expiration date-pushing clam chowder and solidly charred burgers, while you debate the choice to either go for second degree burns from the diluted but fair-trade coffee or traveler’s diarrhea from what could go for a ham & blue (?) cheese, just to get it over with. All this while you are trying to find the new gate for your flight … YES, there is someone whose sole role is to shuffle all gates at least once, just to f*ck with you. You won’t complain loudly for 2 reasons: 1) no one cares, and 2), it could be worse — they could slap a “delayed” or “cancelled” tag on your flight only, so better just take it.
While you (never learn and so) are schlepping (again) a cross-section of your earthly belongings to your gate (always the one all the way in the back), you pass all sorts of people displaying various levels of exhaustion, like what you’d see in-line at a Disney ride, just after lunch. There is the family of 4, kids are solidly post-cute and a nightmare to travel with, mother on Prozac, dad on empty — at this moment you feel immense Zen-level gratitude that your kids are in college, and, last time you checked, have a debit card and can wipe their own behind. Then there is the octogenarian travel group that is being dropped off by the e-courtesy cart which they conveniently forgot to tip. Curiously, when no one looks, quite a few of those without tinnitus put the new hip to excellent use in an effort to stash their fanny packs with high-caloric snacks, prior to lining up a wheelchair loaner for pre-boarding. There is the biz traveler who is on the cell phone closing a deal that still gets him fired at the next round of layoffs but being the ‘PRO’ he claims to be, he orders a Martini for breakfast — ‘dirty’ of course, not because of the classy olive but to acknowledge the sparsely washed glass it comes with here. Two backpackers represent the progressive wing of that section of the airport, plenty stickers being for or against pretty much anything, REI outfit top-to-bottom, and the distinct feeling that the “all-shoes stay on” battle cry back at TSA was meant specifically for them. Last, and often a last-minute addition is usually a student wearing expensive ear pods to avoid real conversation at all cost and leisurely sporting a sweater that lists the overpriced college her parents swing for in the hope she wouldn’t study liberal arts so that they have some shot at retiring, ever. Taking an (of course recycled) page from the rebellious 60s, she probably doesn’t give a sh*t and still chooses to become a marketing major — because ‘gaming’ workforce demand is so bourgeois. Peace.
… still, we all agree: The announced ~45 min delay is nothing — they promise to make it up by asking you to dial your watches back which seems reasonable given all the talk of time zones, and is also carbon neutral. And so, you finally board — feeling super proud that you snuck a 2nd ‘personal item’ past the weary gate agent who of course saw it but knows that in your sorry-ass group — all — overhead space is long taken by all the wannabe neurosurgeons on board who apparently must be with their lifesaving roll-ons at all times, Medicare or not. Your carry-on unfortunately will therefore need to be nailed outside onto the wing, so she really doesn’t care if you bring one more, neither should you. At this point in the journey, you sense that the relentless heat on the jetty makes your forehead glare until you ‘thankfully’ hit it hard on the plane’s door frame that is perfectly customized for your ‘fellow’ travelers around 5 foot 2, with heels. Once you made it into the cabin, the throbbing is being helped somewhat by the recycled, cooled air that now blows directly into your face — aka “Covid-mist with a touch of pink eye”. Following way too closely a guy with a withered ‘Jesus-loves-you’ tattoo between belt and T-shirt, you make your way down the aisle to 27A, which turns out to be (again) next to someone else’ kids, terrific. What do ‘window seat’ and ‘Harry Houdini’ have in common, you ask? — you could use the latter’s trickery to maneuver yourself into the former. By now, the flight attendants have scolded you for not getting your frame quicker out of the way, making sure you understand it’s you & you alone that screwed up the entire flight schedule along the Eastern Seaboard. Let me say, once in, I find it rather comforting that the pleather seat is often still warm from what must have been a sizable a** on the inbound leg, probably clothed in industrial strength yoga pants; also, the stickiness that prohibits you from moving your feet because of the encrusted gum on the dimly lit floor is considered an anti-turbulence safety feature, at no cost to you — so, you’re welcome! Goes without saying, you never ever dive after something you lost on that floor, it’s just not worth a finger, and that includes passports. A miniature bag of dated nuts is all you get on this short flight — they are unsalted, of course, so that you won’t push your blood pressure through the roof which almost certainly would lead to a “loss in cabin pressure”. They finally check with the poor souls sitting in the exit row to make sure the approximately 85-year-old chain smoker with a wooden leg is ‘ready, willing & comfortable’ helping the other 300 passengers in case of a water landing. Part of the greatest generation, the gent dutifully hums “YES, ma’am” through his new dentures and we’re good to go.
Flight is uneventful — proves weather.com wrong, yet again - and since the pilot (or whoever feels like flying the plane that day) sees no reason to drag the trip out any longer than necessary, we land. Now, if you are from my favorite Caribbean Island, you clap enthusiastically and show proper appreciation for a job well done; if you are the Pope, you (watch for comfort canine doodoo before you kneel down & then) kiss the carpet or the pavement, whatever comes first or looks cleaner — else, you wait until it’s your turn and then do the entire flow in reverse. That is, first get coughed on full-frontal by someone named Pete, hit your head on the overhead compartment while helping the charming elderly lady in 17B to get her strangely oversized, dripping luggage down, ideally without aggravating your L4–5 disc, you then proceed sweating on yet another jetty into the same poplin shirt, gag on the assorted local airport smell, and then collect what’s left of your luggage on some carousel so far away that you feel you may have crossed the very time zone you lost at departure. Oh, and importantly — you pass the local TSA guys on the right this time.
DC, here I come.
