I managed to escape the blizzard heading for the Midwest earlier this week, but not the long arm of unionism. The scene was the upper level security area at Detroit Metropolitan Airport’s McNamara terminal. If you are flying Delta or International, you leave from this terminal. People were slowly making their way through the lower security checkpoint, but the suggestion was made that the upper security points were moving faster. They were. Only they had more people waiting in line.
One reason was that the TSA people were only using half of the equipment available to them. That’s right, of the two x-ray scanners–bought with our tax dollars–available for use, only one was being utilized. And, of the three or four (it was hard to see for the lines of people blocking my view) metal detectors, only two were in use. What a great use of resources.
Nevertheless, the line was moving swiftly due to one TSA person in particular. This 50-something man was joking with the public, guiding them through the process, and even letting folks in one line move to another in order to keep things moving. I had never seen this at any other checkpoint in the United States–ever. Moving people between lines is frowned upon as the TSA-holes prefer we wait patiently like sheep being led to slaughter, each in our proscribed line. But this guy was having none of it. He understood customer service, and the anger and frustration travelers feel when confronted by one of these interminable lines.
Following his prompt, I made for the line on the left, where things were moving quickly. (The x-ray scanner lines were as slow as molasses.) Parked just behind an exceedingly attractive young black woman, I made my way toward the conveyor belt that would x-ray our bags, plastic bags full of liquids, and our shoes. With her plethora of items, the young woman needed a number of bins to contain them, and I made sure she had the room in which to operate while engaging her in pleasant chit-chat. At that point the male TSA agent who had been moving the line along came over to help. Standing on the other side of the conveyor belt, he stated that shoes now must be placed on the belt, not in a bin (Can you people please make up your minds on this point?), her belt and coat and toiletries could fit onto one bin, and so on. Then he turned to help the older man behind me as he was having trouble with his binnage.
As this was happening, the attractive young woman went through the metal detector, and I followed about 10 seconds later. That’s when the ugly side of TSA reared its head in the form of a thin, bespectacled, surly 40-ish black woman guarding its entrance. “Is that your stuff?,” she asked me as I looked back to see the other TSA agent helping the older man by folding his suit coat and placing it in a bin with other clothing items. “Well,” I replied, “some of the stuff in front of that is, but not what he’s touching now.” I no sooner got the answer out of my mouth when this TSA harpy descended upon me with a gruff, “Well your stuff is your responsibility. We’re not here to take care of your stuff. That’s your job.”
Stunned by the harshness with which my answer was met, I stammered, “Uhm, you see…” She stopped me with a curt, “I don’t care. You have the responsibility to make sure your stuff makes it through the machine.” To which I replied, “Well, why didn’t you then stop the young woman ahead of me? Her stuff hasn’t made it through yet, and yet she’s on the other side already.” Her eyes narrowed appreciably. “Are you saying I’m racist?” The statement caught me momentarily off-guard. “Did I make such a declaration?,” I asked. “No,” I answered before she could open her mouth. “I didn’t. You brought up race.” Still scowling, she waved me through. Thankfully, I hadn’t forgotten anything in my pockets that might set off the detector. I breezed through without having to worry about a public cavity search.
I made it over two lanes to where the clothing and luggage was laboriously making its way through the scanner. The beautiful young woman who had been in front of me was standing there waiting for her belongings to make their way through. “What was that all about?,” she asked. I quickly explained my exchange with the TSA-hole in question, and she apologized for any problems her trouble with the bins might have caused. “Hey, it’s not your fault she’s so damned surly,” I said as I turned to find myself looking at my oppressor. The TSA-hole glared at me and nodded to her compatriot behind the controls of the baggage scanner. The conveyor belt stopped moving as she spoke.
“Just wait until we are unionized,” she crowed defiantly. “Have fun trying to get rid of any of us then.” The young woman beside me turned to her and sweetly said, “You know, after seeing all of this it’s a miracle anyone is against government-run healthcare.” She then grabbed her high-heeled boots and leather belt off the bin at the exit of the scanner, and glared at the conveyor belt operator. In an instant the rest of her things came out of the machine. Mine took a minute or two longer.
TSA personnel have a tough job in that they have to deal for long stretches at a time with harried travelers grumpy at the thought of going through the onerous procedures they must put us though for “our own good.” But this exchange showed the sheer folly of unionizing these government employees, giving them, in essence, lifetime tenure to harass anyone they feel is deserving. It would be like giving a bully license to beat anyone he or she fancied without fear of retribution. Could I have complained? Yes, but what do you think my chances would be to travel through a TSA line unmolested in the future? There are few checks and balances right now, and unionizing TSA personnel will remove any that remain. But what do you expect from a government that is increasingly corrupt and answers only to itself?
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