Last summer I was in Newark Airport, on my way to Hong Kong. Since I flew in on AirTran, but flew out on Continental, this necessitated taking the tram from Terminal A to Terminal C, meaning I had to go through security for the second time that day.
Now, I pride myself on the ease with which I pass through airport security. I make a conscious effort to minimize the amount of metal on my body, and I make sure that all significant quantities of it (coins, watch, etc.) are in my carry-on even before I reach the security check-point. I don’t ever want to be that guy that holds up the entire line while he puts his cell phone, change, pen, PDA, hearing aid, shoes, tie tack, glasses, lighter, cigarette case, laptop, calculator, electric razor, and electric toothbrush in the little trays, only to go through the magnetometer and find out that he forgot about his huge nipple ring. Or something. I have even become familiar with which shoes are most likely to set off the metal detector, and I make sure I don’t wear them.
It is in this frame of mind that I approach the C3 security checkpoint at Newark (excuse me, “Liberty”) International Airport. I place my backpack (containing my cell phone, change, watch, and MP3 player) on the belt, and confidently approach the magnetometer. The TSA agent on the other side holds up a hand, and then says to me (in that thick North Jersey accent I remember so well):
“Recommend your shoes.”
“Excuse me?” I say, as my mind is getting a grip on this statement. Somewhere in the depths of my cerebrum, a couple of synapses have connected, and I think I know what he means, but the message doesn’t get to my speech center in time to head off the question.
“Recommend your shoes,” the gentleman repeats.
This time, three possible responses come to mind. I can actually see them displayed in front of my eyes, as if I was a model T-800 on the hunt for Sarah Conner:
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“Excuse me?” While not terribly original, it does emphasize my internal struggle with the odd sentence being uttered.
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“They’re great! They’re really comfortable, and sturdy without feeling bulky. I can do some day hiking in them, yet still wear them as everyday, going about town shoes. You should definitely get yourself a pair.” This would, in fact, be the truth, as I am wearing a pair of Ecco chukkas that are possibly the most comfortable pair of shoes I own. It also responds to the command implicit in the agent’s words.
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“Yes, sir.” This to be said while removing the aforementioned Eccos and placing them in a tray on the belt of the x-ray machine. This would seem to have the advantage of minimizing the chances of a strip search, or other less pleasant experience.
The pedantic part of me leaps to his feet and casts his vote for option number 1. He hopes that if, “excuse me,” is repeated often enough, the young man will pay closer attention to his wording, and perhaps be a little more explicit. Inner Wise-Ass™ immediately shouts him down, and lobbies hard for option number 2. Recognizing that this stands about as much chance of educating the agent as option number 1, Inner Wise-Ass™ points out that option 2 has the added benefit of being a more humorous response than option number 1, adding some much-needed levity to the morning.
Finally, Good Carl (apologies to James McManus) exercises his veto power, and selects option number 3. Good Carl is not the most dynamic of individuals, and he is not always the life of the party. On the other hand, Good Carl has never found himself in a small room getting intimate with a rubber glove and K-Y. Good Carl subsequently passes through security with no further incident.
He did, however, get a serious talking-to by Inner Wise-Ass™.