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.