"What...over there? We have to give him our bags now too?"
I was astounded by the changes in security as we handed over our bags for the second time to yet another attendant at the airport curbside. His name, Randall, was printed neatly on his badge. He slid my green suitcase up onto a metal table, pushed a button and stared at a monitor for a few seconds then unzipped my bag and swabbed all around the inside edges with a little piece of white tissue. I was relieved that I didn’t put my underwear on top, but I was curious.
“What are you doing with that?” I asked as I watched Randall feed the tissue into another part of the metal contraption.
“Checking for BOMBS,” he said as if I dropped one.
“Oh, My Gosh! Really?”
“Well, wouldn’t you rather board a plane that doesn’t explode?”
I closed my mouth and thought about that. No, I didn't want to turn into a fireball in the sky, but just how much time was it going to take to get to our plane? “That’s so much work, checking each bag,” I told Randall.
“150 thousand a day here at Los Angeles,” he told me proudly.
“Good Lord," I said.
No wonder they say be at the airport two hours ahead of time. We had 40 minutes. I hoped we would make it, but I was glad he was doing it even if it did slow things down. I certainly didn’t want our plane to blow up.
Glenn and I walked inside with our carry-ons and met another line about a block long. This one was for the escalator going upstairs. We only had thirty minutes till the plane took off, so I pushed forward. A woman with light brown hair, gold hoop earrings and a ridiculous amount of official patches decorating her brown uniform stood in front of the moving walkway and grabbed my arm in a vice and asked us for boarding passes and IDs. Didn’t we just do this twice already?
We stepped off the escalator at the top and walked into the third line. This was the line for passengers to enter the metal detectors. In front of us were about 40 business people and one lady struggling with her bags and a double seater stroller that was stuck in the carpet. Glenn helped the mother of the blonde twins and we stepped forward as I tamped down my panic.
As we approached the roped in area, I saw a large placard displaying pictures of those things you could not bring on board a plane. I muffled a smile at the absurdity of the sign, which depicted a penknife, scissors, a gun, and a round black bomb with a lit fuse like the kind you might see in a cartoon. Red lines were drawn through each item. I could just imagine a terrorist coming through the line and saying to himself, “Well, I’m okay then because these three sticks of dynamite in my shirt aren’t black or round, and I haven’t lit the fuses yet.”
But, I didn't say a word to Glenn because I was afraid they would stop and question me, and we only had twenty minutes to catch our plane. I was getting panicky. The line's slow motion dial was nearly turned to "stop."
“Honey, we only have twenty minutes to get to the plane,” I whined to Glenn.
“We’re going to make it. Calm down,” he said softly.
Everyone was quiet. The line moved forward in silence. I guessed we'd all heard stories about being stopped for saying something questionable. For that reason, I hoped I'd never meet my friend Jack Hasling in the airport. I know I'd do it without thinking. I'd shout "HI JACK!" and four men would march me off to some back room and tell me to strip as they put on rubber gloves. "Just bend over this won't take a moment."
Glenn emptied his pockets, and I was surprised when he took off his belt too and walked forward holding his pants up. I put my official briefcase (a straw bag, I refuse to conform) on the conveyor belt. A uniformed man standing on the other side of the metal detectors snapped his fingers and said, “Uh, miss, miss?”
I looked up.
“Bag,” he said and he pointed to my purse strapped on my back.
I took it off and put it in a bucket on the conveyor belt. I checked the time on my phone and told Glenn who stood just on the other side of the detectors, “Fifteen minutes, honey. We only have fifteen minutes.”
“Snap, Snap,” the guard called me with his fingers, “Uh, Phone,” he said and pointed to my cell.
“Oh, yes,” I said and I stuck it in my purse moving on the conveyor.
Then he said. “You might want to remove those shoes.”
“What?”
“Well, they have metal buckles.”
“Okay. Is it really that sensitive?”
I imagined that stripping naked before being scanned wasn’t far down the line for US airports. I put my sandals in the bucket with my purse and stepped barefoot through the plastic arch.
Immediately, bells and whistles sounded. There was a flurry of activity around me as the penetrating eyes of eight guards in dark blue official uniforms zeroed in on me intently. I felt like I was caught. I wanted to confess to everything I’d ever done wrong. Starting with the coins I stole when I was 13. “It was me! I took the UNICEF money out of the little box! I bought candy and a note pad.”
The bells continued to clatter, but their eyes jointly registered not a threat.
I remembered to breathe and watched them turn their heads back to other former 13 year-old thieves. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or insulted.
I was mean. I was dirty. Yeah, I might even have bombs. They should have been scared, but then I realized I was glad they weren't taking me seriously. I only had 15 minutes to catch my plane and I didn't want to be marched to that back room.
The finger snapping guard next to the archway waved me forward. The alarms stopped and he told me to stand inside a roped in area.
“Female wand!” he shouted out the side of his mouth like Popeye. “FEMALE WAND!” he shouted again loudly.
I shrugged my shoulders at Glenn, wrenching my hands together, thinking what will they do next and hoped it was quick. A heavyset uniformed black woman approached me smiling and holding a flat, plastic, club like device. She didn’t look like anyone I wanted to mess with.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Carol Wood. Our flight takes off in fifteen minutes,” I said clutching my hands to my chest and trying to sound calm and non-terrorist like.
“This will only take a minute, Miss Wood. You can call me Tara. Have a seat over here,” she said smiling and motioned me to a row of chairs.
“FEET UP!” she said waving her wand.
I lifted my feet up and she guided the mechanism around my legs without touching me.
“STAND UP!” she said as she stepped back and smiled again.
I stood up feeling rather like a naughty first grader or a puppy. I think if she had said, “SPEAK!” I would have barked.
“ARMS OUT!” she said sternly.
I lifted my arms like I was ready for take off.
Tara started wanding me around my thighs and when she got to the middle of my chest the machine squawked like I was a terrorist. “ZIZZZ, ZIP, BIP, BIPPITA!” She stopped and looked at me and my ample bosom and slowly wanded the rest of my body with no resultant beeping noises. She came back to my boobs. The device went nuts again. “ZIZZZ, ZAZZZ, ZIPS!” which means, “Here’s the Bombs!” in metal detector-ease.
Tara closed one eye and stared at me, and she stopped smiling.
That’s when it dawned on me.
“Oh, my gosh! My underwires. My breasts set off the alarms. The underwires in my bra are metal.”
I said this in my usual quiet little demure voice, which unfortunately could be heard down at the end of the runway at Gate 36 where our plane sat waiting for us. The mostly male crowd of belt-less and barefoot travelers walking through the corridor stopped; their attentions riveted on my bountiful bosom.
Tara focused her wand in around the base of my breasts. “Zizzz, zip, zizzz.”
She looked me in the eye and then down at my two torpedoes. I could see her thinking; they could be bombs.
I remembered the diagram; they were the right size. I glanced down wondering if fuses were sticking out or something.
Then, Tara tucked her wand under her arm and to my amazement, reached forward. Her fingers slid across my shirt and under my breasts and she hefted. What was she looking for? Missiles?
I think my eyes must have popped open. I stood still with my arms wide and my mouth agape. Had I just been felt up by security?
But I could call her Tara.
I guess she was convinced that - Yes, they were real, and Yes, it was all me because she said, “Okay, you can go now,” and backed away.
The eight guards, three flat chested bra-less woman travelers and twenty or so men struggling with belts and shoes were staring at my bust bombs trying hard not to laugh. Glenn covered his mouth and coughed.
I looked at Tara with her magic Wand and said, “Well, I knew my boobs turned on my husband, but I didn’t think they would turn on the WHOLE AIRPORT!”
Loud laughter expelled from the gawking group as they quickly scurried off to their destinations.
Being a uniformed professional, Tara tapped two fingers to her lips to hold back her amusement as “FEMALE WAND!” was announced again by the guy who could only shout sideways.
Tara quickly stepped up to her next victim.
I wanted to holler a warning. I should have, but we only had 7 minutes to get to Gate 36 and that was all the way at the end of the runway. I couldn’t protect those poor ladies in line that had terrorist boobs.
I joined Glenn with my bags and slipped on my sandals. I had a mental image of me shouting through a bullhorn.
“TAKE OFF YOUR BRA! NOW! OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENSCES OF THE TARA THE TERRIBLE!” with panic fairly escaping my voice as Tara the Terrible leered at the crowd and smacked her wand against her uniformed thy menacingly.
Then the women standing in line in my head, slowly slipped straps off their shoulders and pulled bras out from under their clothes in unison to show Tara and her magic wand.
“Ta da!” they shouted, like a strange and sexy magic act. I could almost hear them singing as they kicked their bare feet high in a chorus line - something about a golden brassiere.
Wouldn’t the guys just love that?
Glenn and I raced down the runway to catch our plane. He didn’t say a word until we were settled in our seats then he started singing softly, Elton John’s, “She’s got Electric Boobs, I know her do…”
I laughed and joined in, “You know I read it in a magazine, oh, ho! Ba Ba Ba Benny and the Jets.”

That's the lastest from LaLa land.

Email your comments to Carol Wood at Carol@hazelst.com