To the left of where I stand,
Hartsfield-Jackson’s
International Terminal
Pre-Check line,
is a ten row by
fifty column snakeline,
replete with travelers,
humans,
business folk,
men, women, children,
vacationers,
the old, the strong, the sexy,
the irritable, the feeble,
the line cutters
pressed for time.
Everyone sliding,
inch-by-inch,
in step-and-stand
traffic towards
the security checkpoint:
TSA.
Most of them
have their necks
hunched over a phone,
though that is a separate point.
The point: how astounding it is.
Before the snakeline
is a separate line,
another 25-yards of
single-file herding
so far extended,
the beginning extends
past the last bag-check stand.
The terminal’s entrance forward
starts twenty-paces backward,
until,
after panic-waiting, wondering,
“Is this where I am supposed to be,”
an untrained attendant asks
to see your boarding pass,
confirming either,
“Yes, this is the line for you
[you may now leave
the preliminary line
to enter the real line],”
or they will say,
“No, you have special clearance
and must proceed
to the expedited line.
[What, you fool,
were you thinking
to be standing here?]”
In the waiting line,
you down your bottles:
no liquids;
you empty your pockets:
nothing on your body
except what most immediately
hides your sexual bits;
no shoes;
no hats;
no overcoats;
not belts;
no pocket items:
no wearables, watches,
fitness trackers, nor implants.
“Oh, I am sorry.
You cannot remove implants?
You come here, a special pat-down.”
It is an orchestra:
machines,
expensive machines,
engineered by bright men and women,
run by the logic of
software,
expensive software,
engineered by bright men and women,
operated by
service men and women,
government employed,
or at the least,
contracted,
for minimal pay,
hired with the help of a union
and their union lawyers,
expensive lawyers,
educated by the brightest professors,
all mandated by
federal,
international,
avionic law.
The waiting,
eventually,
ends.
The time comes
when we must pass
through this checkpoint.
You are motioned forward:
a grunt,
a wave,
a raised sign,
like an auction number card,
the officer’s bid for you:
“Next.”
Your irises are scanned,
your government-issued IDs verified,
your boarding pass reviewed.
Do the names match?
Yes.
No?
Is there a typo?
Why are you not who you say you are?
Distrust.
You must print
a new boarding pass.
Then you may proceed
to the baggage x-rays,
the computer tomography machines,
government contract brand names,
rendering clothing,
underwear,
disheveled dopp kits,
miniaturized toiletries,
all in digital,
three-dimensional space
to be reviewed
from every angle
on touch-screen monitors,
confirmed
that what you
are traveling with
is what you
say you are traveling with
in compliance with the airline’s
terms and conditions,
the agreement you made
to leave behind
your aerosols,
firearms,
swords,
bombs,
and other violence makers.
Is your bag free of these?
Yes.
No?
Is there an anomaly?
Why does your bag contain
what it must not?
Distrust.
Set it aside,
detain it.
Open it up,
swab it,
scent it.
Test it for bomb dust.
For bombs.
All clear.
Now it is your turn,
the human,
made of flesh and blood.
You step inside,
hands raised for the firing squad,
this glass tube that shoots
millions of millimeter-sized
radio waves at you,
into your body,
to separate in
digital three-dimensions,
bodily organics
from weaponry.
Are you wearing only cloth and skin?
Yes.
No?
Is there an anomaly?
Why is your body not
what you say it is?
Distrust.
Pat-down,
further x-ray scans.
An interview.
All clear.
If you are lucky,
you have passed
through these checkpoints
in one-hour’s time.
If you think yourself special,
you pay premiums
to skip the line
(like me),
selling your fingerprints
and image
to the government database,
qualifying for pre-check,
or paying membership dues
to qualify for corporate fast-passes,
“Clear” lines,
international entry agreements,
and anything else
to shave even seconds
off this ordeal.
Why, then?
Why?
Why do we endure this hassle;
how did this racket begin?
There are now
entire generations
who know only indirectly
that upon a time some decades ago,
humans
intentionally,
fanatically,
religiously,
dedicated their lives,
in the misguided name of their God,
to kill,
by the thousand,
their fellow siblings.
Sorrowful tears would follow,
one-million gallons of wet weeping,
one million tonnes of rubble,
and this would be our response:
memorials, yes,
wars, yes,
but also this,
this peculiar new edition
to air travel,
a plural billion dollars
in infrastructure,
machinery,
and labor
to delay the millions,
adding hours to every flight,
sowing fear into every man
so to stop
the one,
the two,
the few who
for no good reason
have grandeurs of death
and destruction
upon their fellow
brothers and sisters
who they believe
lead wrong lives.
Isn’t it peculiar,
waiting here to fly,
all that’s transpired
for you to merely
miss your flight?
