In a recent “info-snacking” moment, I heard a television report about a woman detained by TSA; in a sound bite, she said that, “This doesn’t happen to people like me.” I did not see the full report of the incident, but it reminded me of an encounter I had with airport security before the days of the Transportation Security Administration.
In 1971, my first bride and I booked a vacation to Acapulco Mexico. This was going to be our first real vacation and we were excited. At the Los Angeles airport, we walked through a doorway that functioned as a metal detector. The detector beeped when I exited, and a security person told me to re-enter the device. On the other side, I turned my reentry into a slow, whirling dance. This was a bad choice of behavior that apparently angered the gatekeepers, who then directed me and my bride to bring our carry-on luggage to a bench. There, they opened each bag and slowly and meticulously examined each piece of our clothing. At the end of the examination, we galloped across the tarmac to our waiting plane, socks and underwear flapping from the hastily closed luggage.
In early April, I flew to Denver to visit my niece. We spent three days exploring her adopted town, visiting breweries and bookstores and mountains. On the day I was to return to Indianapolis, we discussed how much time to allow for check-in at the airport. “Some people get to the airport two hours before the flight,” Jessica said. We agreed that, for me, one hour would be plenty, but I told her the story of my dance through the metal detectors that almost resulted in my missing a flight. At the Denver airport, I checked my luggage and took the tram to the gate. My ticket advised me to check with the gate agent to get a seat assignment. The attendant took my ticket and told me that the flight had been oversold, and airline personnel were asking for volunteers to give up seats. I spent some anxious moments watching people disappear into the jetway to the plane. Full despair struck when the door to the jetway was closed with me on the outside of the plane.
The gate agent looked for alternative flights to get me and another displaced man to Indianapolis. The other man was grilling the agent like a cheese sandwich, but I was calm; I knew someone in town and had no urgent business the following day. When finally unable to get us onto a plane, the gate agent turned to us and said, “Gentlemen, I’m going to write you some checks.” She also gave us vouchers that guaranteed a discount rate at any hotel of our choosing. The other gentleman made anxious inquiries about places and transportation to Denver hotels, and I sat down to send a text to my niece.
“Jess: I got kicked off my flight, and can’t get another one until tomorrow morning.”
“What?! Were you dancing?!”
Fifteen years ago Lee Ann Womack introduced “I Hope You Dance.” In the upbeat (though grammatically challenged) ballad she wailed, “when you get the choice to sit it out or dance — I hope you dance!” I did not dance my way out of a flight home that day, but I did get to spend another evening with a delightful human being, reading while she washed clothes. I had purchased a paperback by a writer whose character loved to buy and sell books. And when I saw that the book was signed by the author, I danced.