"Airport security: a tale of two checkpoints"

Friday, October 4, 2002

Editorial
Airport security: a tale of two checkpoints
By HENRY BREAN, Managing Editor 
The Pahrump Valley (NV) Times


I realized my mistake the moment I rounded the corner and saw the long
line of people stalled at the security checkpoint in front of the tram
to Terminal C.

I wasn't going hiking that day, so why had I worn my hiking boots?

My pants stayed up just fine on their own, so why did I put on a belt?

This was to be my first airline flight since Sept. 11, 2001, and I'd
screwed it up the moment I got out of bed and dressed myself that
morning.

I'd done everything else right. I got to the airport ridiculously early.
I checked everything except a small carry-on and a coat. I even
remembered to bring the tickets, or at least I remembered to bring along
a girlfriend who remembered to bring the tickets.

I was in no danger of missing my flight, but as the line inched forward
I began to wonder about the people behind me who might miss theirs
because of my choice of shoes and accessories.

I held my breath as I walked through the metal detector, believing that
I could somehow block the process of metal detection through sheer force
of will. I beeped, of course, and was quickly ushered into the line for
suspiciously metallic people.

After a few moments, I was directed to a chair and told to remove my
boots. Then I had to stand on two foot-shaped marks on the mat in front
of me and prepare to be wanded, which goes a little something like this:
Arms out, eyes forward, dignity left circling the airport in a holding
pattern.

With a tool that looked a little like a curling iron, a security agent
quickly found my belt. I didn't have to take it off; he just made me
undo it and hold the buckle out in front of me, though that seemed even
more awkward. I was pretty sure that from certain angles what I was
holding in front of my crotch was not immediately identifiable as a
belt.

The agent tried to make pleasant chitchat with me while he worked - a
nice if utterly hopeless gesture. "Where are you headed?" "Arms out
straight." "I'll bet the leaves will be changing there." "Are these
button-fly?"

As the cheerful agent wanded the bejesus out of me, one thing became
clear: Though exacting and thorough, our new and improved airport
security system is far from perfect. I came to this realization when I
noticed my girlfriend watching me with amusement from the tram platform
beyond. In her hand was her purse and in her purse was a fully
functional Swiss Army Knife that had made its way through security with
nary a peep.

The return trip was even worse.

At the fancy-pants Denver International Airport, the security checkpoint
is located on what looks to be the lower level of a shopping mall. One
minute you're walking past racks of magazines and overpriced Denver
Broncos T-shirts, the next some guy is poking you in the pocket with a
handheld metal detector.

The system works like this: You place your carry-on items on the
conveyor belt and step through the metal detector. If you set it off -
and everyone does; it doesn't seem to detect the presence of metal so
much as movement - you are herded along with the other potential
terrorists into a narrow chute off to one side.

This is the wand line, and you will be wanded. Just don't wait around
for the chitchat. While the agents in Las Vegas remained cool and
friendly, even under pressure, the DIA security team seemed rushed and
dead-eyed. Maybe it was all the hiking boots they had to deal with so
near the Rocky Mountains, or maybe it was the idiots like me who could
never remember to pack the boots and wear their metal-free footwear on
the plane.

Once again, I was ordered out of my shoes, which were deposited in a
plastic bag and whisked away. As I watched them go, I suddenly felt very
vulnerable with the cold linoleum seeping through my socks.

Next came the wanding, which was conducted by a brusque man with a thick
accent that turned his instructions to me into the least fun game of
charades ever. Three times he asked what sounded very much like "Wad
it?" but I couldn't think of an appropriate response. At the time, he
was working the wand over my rear; if we had been on a date together I
might have slapped him.

Finally, another security agent - this one no less annoyed by me but far
easier to understand - came over to translate. What they wanted to know
was did I have a wallet. I did. It was metal-free. There was much
rejoicing.

Then, the very instant I was cleared, I became invisible. The agents
turned to the next sheep in the chute, and I was free to go.

The problem was my boots were nowhere to be seen, and I couldn't get
anyone to talk to me about that. Frankly, they seemed annoyed at me for
asking, as if losing your shoes at security and walking to the gate in
your socks was just something that happened at the airport from time to
time.

I had to make a bit of a scene, but eventually I got my boots back. And
as I sat down to lace them up, I listened in as a man who had been in
line just ahead of me lodged an angry complaint with the security crew's
equally disinterested supervisor.

The man hotly explained that the only metallic objects he was carrying
were the three-quarters in his pocket. He then accused the security crew
of frightening his 11-year-old daughter until she cried.

The airline industry would never recover, he explained, if this were the
way people were going to be treated. "So what," I imagined the
supervisor thinking, "fewer of you means less work for me."

When the angry traveler had finished venting, the man with the badge
thanked him with as little sincerity as he could muster and went back to
his job. I headed for my gate feeling rumpled but no more secure.


 Do you have an opinion about this story?
Share it with other readers in our CAA Discussion Forums

http://www.californiaaviation.org/cgi-bin/dcforum/dcboard.cgi?conf=DCConfID8

*****************************************