The Pat-Down Pen

Ever since the advent of the TSA’s 3-D body scanners—aka, the naked scan—I have been tempted to exercise my right to avoid them.  It’s not that I’m especially embarrassed by them; whether because they're just anonymous enough, or because the social context is closer to the swimming pool end of the spectrum than the fine dining end, they don't bother me per se.  And I even get the security rationale, or at least the psychological comfort the appearance of scrutiny can bring.  No, my urge to veto the scan is more like that of an eight-year-old behind a trap set, who can’t resist hitting every snare, cymbal, and tom-tom before returning to the same drum twice.  The option being there, and rights being as useless as muscles unexercised, why not use it? 

Every time I’ve dropped my bag on the conveyor belt and approached the scanner, though, I’ve chickened out.  Chalk it up to herd mentality, my Scandinavian don’t-cause-a-bother gene, or fear masquerading as prudence.  Whatever the reason, some last hitch in my step has held me back—until last weekend.

That Sunday, I had a flight out of Phoenix Sky Harbor back to my home in Washington, DC.  Maybe it was the delightful name of the place (who doesn’t want adventure in a port named Sky Harbor?) that gave me that last oomph of nerve.  All I really know is that when the blond, short-pony-tailed woman in the bright blue uniform called me down the retractable belt line toward the spinning plexi-glass chamber, I stopped short and politely enquired whether I might choose a pat-down instead.

The reaction was amazing.  A new side of the system sprung into action.  Before I even finished the question, the pony-tail had snapped to the left and shunted me down another rope line.  “We’re short staffed,” she warned me as I was sent along my way.  “That’s fine,” I said.  Of course, I had no idea if that was true.

The new path dead-ended into a kind of makeshift holding tank cordoned off from the surrounding bustle by more plexi-glass semi-walls and retractable belts.  I was not alone when I arrived.  A gangly, pock-faced young man in cargo shorts greeted me with a hey-dude grin that revealed a rainbow of rubber bands lashed onto a cargo-load of braces.  I decided I liked him.  In fact, I immediately decided I liked the whole Pat-Down Pen scene.  It reminded me of how I’ve always imagined the smokers’ corners.  Out on the loading docks behind the office buildings in downtown DC, social class and faction dissolve in the shared rebellion of burning tobacco together.  This was similar.  Our reasons for ending up here didn’t even matter.  The point was, we had said “no” together and been cast into the outer darkness.

“Not a fan of the x-ray, huh?” I asked.

“Naw,” he said in an aw-shucks way.  “I’ve been standing here in my bare feet forever it feels like.”

We chatted and I found out he was from Phoenix, but went to med school in Michigan and was on his way to Vegas for a residency interview.  “Where are you going?” he asked me.

“Washington, DC,” I said.

“So…” he let the question draw out.  “Political job or something.”

“Nope, I’m an attorney.”

That extinguished his curiosity in a hurry.  At that moment, our company was joined by a third member, an Indian man in his thirties, wearing a pressed dress shirt and nice socks.  He sidled up to us with a knowing sigh.  “They’re always running behind,” he said.  “You find that if you travel a lot.”  I found myself shaking my head sympathetically, as though I knew.

Fortunately for my new companion, but to the detriment of our fellowship, three men in blue shirts and latex gloves shortly appeared, apparently not running as far behind as promised.  My inspector was a friendly man with a blond goatee.  He asked me to point out my luggage, then hauled it over to yet another separated area where a foot-printed floor mat told me where to stand.  The goateed man explained everything that would happen, running down a list of consent questions, speaking precisely and quickly about “sensitive areas,” and rattling off the head-and-shoulders-knees-and-toes order of proceedings.  I worried I would crack up during this rehearsal, but instead I found myself zoning into the aura of professionalism he exuded, nodding with authority at just the right moments.

Then came the pat-down itself.  I’ll spare you the details.  Except to say that I got ticklish once, and it was very thorough.  Afterwards, the inspector wished me a good flight and I unbit my lip long enough to thank him for his courtesy.  Then I was alone again.

Rethreading my belt, slipping on my shoes and stuffing my quart-sized plastic baggie back into my suitcase, I felt the odd but pleasant sensation that I had achieved something.  What it was, I’m not sure.  Was it the thrill of power, exercising an option unexpectedly, forcing the gears of government to crank in a way promised but rarely used?  If so, the angels must surely have been laughing.  Getting cavity searched by an agent of the state has rarely—in any age of history—been thought of as a victory.  And yet, there it was, the unmistakable scent of winning.  I slipped back into the anonymous school of humanity flowing through concourses, hallways, food court lines, blobs at the gates, jet bridges and aisles into the sky, leaping into a hundred, a thousand different directions from the Harbor to every part of the world.  Somehow, in the midst of all this, I felt a bit more.

Drama of the Comma

There’s something delightful about commas, about placing them with precision, poise, purpose.  Commas show vigor, a clean mind, a playful spirit, like a crisply fanned bowtie in whimsical color.  Consider, for instance, this simple sentence, sans any comma:

Me too ma’am.

As it is, it reads just fine.  The point is made: Our interlocutor is affirming or informing his female counterpart, perhaps his elder, that he is of accord.  Nothing terribly the matter.  Of course not.  But now, try it a little differently:

Me too, ma’am.

Aha!  A subtle pause before footing the home stretch, and what’s more, intentionally done.  This shows refinement, and also an ear for music, for the little trip in cadence—think of glancing your boot’s toe on an unexpected crack in the pavement—brings pizzaz, pop, punch, like the syncopated lick from a saxophone fitting in just a few more notes than you thought the measure would hold.

Bravo.  But now, consider the same sentence again, just one variation further:

Me, too, ma’am.

It’s a bird; it’s a plane; it’s preposterous.  There is simply no need.  Pure show-off, pure dandy: yes, you did learn or intuit that “too” stands as its own clause and can buffer the double comma, and now you—you snot-nosed brat-of-a-grammarian—are going to flaunt that knowledge for the world.  It’s obscene.

And it’s wonderful!  No need, no need at all—you never would speak the double out loud (or, rather, out-quiet) in colloquial colloquy, but the point is, you could.  You can!  In the wonderland of language, you have these kinds of powers.

Commas should be used (one might even say must be used) in certain cases.  Lists of three or more, for instance.  Suspended clauses, particularly if you’re not fond—though who isn’t these days?—of dashes, are another example.  But pass beyond these staples, and you quickly enter a world of glorious optional-ness, in that same region where artists mix their tubes of oils and chefs pinch flakes of spices.  It’s all about what he thinks feels right, what she feels to be just so, for the service of a particular eye, palate, or ear.

Take even the most basic case, the list.  What is to be done between the ultimate and penultimate?  The Oxford comma (incidentally, not used in Oxford) or straight to the conjunction?  It depends: Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme might be just the thing; but then again, if you’re feeling ponderous and if you have a little time, perhaps it’s better to have parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

Commas are the great reminder of the freedom which is our alphabetical birthright.  They hearken to that glorious moment in the past, meditating upon our smudgy third-grade chalkboard, when it dawned on us that the point of grammar was not to deduce what the rules required, though rules there were.  No, once the rules were in place, their beautiful insufficiency pointed beyond to new fields of creation.