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I Drop My Pants to Airport Security

by Tim Slagle

Real terrorists are probably a lot more difficult to perturb than I am, which is probably why you never see them kicking their trousers at airport security officers.

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I've been swearing I was going to do it for a while. Until this morning, I thought I was just kidding. You know, an idle threat, just to get a reaction from all the people around me. Well, today I hit the breaking point.

I blame Louis. Louis is my Chinese brother, and he loves his scotch. Somebody dropped off a really nice bottle, and when there is a nice bottle at Louis' place, everybody drops in to take a sip. Needless to say, a party erupted. With a couple dozen people lining up it doesn't take long to empty the reserve, and at that point nobody cares about quality anymore, so we broke into the well brands. That is the point when connoisseurs become outright lushes.

Any thought of sleeping before my flight was outright fancy, so after the party broke up Louis and I took to some serious all-night drinking. My 5:45 a.m. cab was waiting for me when we pulled up to the hotel, and I only had a minute or two to throw everything in a suitcase before I left. I staggered back out to my waiting cab. I always try to keep anything metal in the checked baggage when I fly. I've long forsaken any attempt at fashion on travel days; an elastic waistband is easier than a belt with a metal buckle, boat shoes are better than those with laces and eyelets. I even try to wear pants with a nylon zipper. I always get rid of all my change en route as well. If you're the cab driver who takes me to the airport, beyond my generous gratuity, you will usually get all the change in my pocket. I begrudge the inconvenience, but tell myself that it is all the fault of the terrorists. You don't blame the lion who eats your mother, because it is a lion's nature to eat mothers; I can't blame a government for becoming oppressive, because that is the nature of government. I always blame the people who opened the lion's cage.

I've long suspected that certain people are flagged in airports, and when they walk through the metal detector, an unseen security agent behind a video screen somewhere else in the airport hits a button to make the alarm sound, so that the targeted passenger can be searched a little more thoroughly. Perhaps this is paranoia. But I know in those days between Waco and Oklahoma City, back when militias were the libertarian fad of the day, I got pretty mouthy in public. I don't know if I really am on a profile list, but if I'm not, those lists are pretty short. Anyway, I always go out of my way to be sure that anything metal goes into one of those gray bins in front of the x-ray machine. I want to see myself get beeped and pulled aside with absolutely no metal on me. I've often figured that someday I was going to strip down to my boxer shorts before I walked through.

I got to the airport, checked my bags, and spent an inordinate amount of time filling those plastic containers. Because I had no time to change clothes at the hotel, I was still wearing my stage clothes, in an extended walk of shame. I've had trouble with buckles, so off came the belt, and it went into the bin with my watch, shoes, and sunglasses, which I would need if I were going to get any sleep on the flight. My jacket went into another bin. The third bin took my computer bag, and the fourth bin my computer. I waved on a couple of people less concerned about making the detector beep and patted myself down to ensure there was no metal. I've accidentally set off the detector with just a gum wrapper in the past. However, I watched other people go right through unimpeded, without de-metallicizing themselves, and assumed the metal detector was turned way down that day.

But it was not. I walked through, and I couldn't believe it when the alarm went off. I thought I finally had definitive proof I had been flagged. Outside of the zipper on my trousers there wasn't a speck of metal on me. I stormed over to the closer inspection area, and was told to put my hands up. Sure, they actually tell you to put your arms out to your sides, but the effect is the same. I put them behind my head, like I was about to be arrested. For some reason, the wand kept beeping every time he passed it over my pants pocket. I reached in and pulled out the wad of travel money that was stashed in there. "Is this doing it?" I asked. I had often heard that the metallic strip encased in the ends of newer bills was intended to set off the metal detectors, so smugglers could no longer take money aboard planes into offshore accounts. I handed the TSA agent my travel roll, which was a really stupid idea, because I'm pretty sure that when he handed it back it was about $40 lighter. Should have counted it first.

Again the wand went off over my leg. "There's something in your pocket still," he said angrily. I felt the outside of my pants. Nothing. I reached deep down into the pocket, empty. "Please remove everything from your pocket!" he yelled. I couldn't take it a moment longer. In a quick motion, I unbuttoned my trousers, dropped them to the floor, and kicked them over to him. "Is this how far it's going to get before you're all satisfied?!" The entire airport went silent for just a second, then applause burst out from the people waiting in line. "Please don't do that, sir," the agent begged, suddenly uncomfortable to see another man taking off his clothes for him. I barely heard him, as I was now leaned over, pulling off my socks, and headed for my shirt.

"Please put your clothes back on."

"You want to search me, bring that wand over now!"

"I'm not coming near you until you put your pants back on." I could tell I was violating his machismo.

"Go ahead, search those pants. You're so sure there's something metal in them, prove it!"

"I'm not touching them." He kicked them back to me the way you'd kick a big jellyfish back into the ocean. "And if you don't put them back on right this minute, we're going to hold you for the rest of the day."

Okay, he got me. Not once during my moment of rage did I even consider that option. It was his trump card. I've had to sober up in an interrogation room before, and it's a means of torture I don't ever want to repeat. I defeatedly began pulling up on the waistline, and about halfway up slipped my hand back into the pocket for one last check. Imagine my surprise to find a dime. Apparently, the pocket had somehow twisted around, creating a false bottom, hiding this slip of metal in an unintentional secret compartment, and by taking off the pants, I was finally able to reach into the full depth of the pocket. I was a little ashamed to learn that I had not done the thorough sweep for metal I thought I had done, but also irked that such a harmless item was being scrutinized. I couldn't imagine how it might be sharpened, or stamped, or in any other way fashioned into a weapon that a middle-aged, overweight, out-of-shape man could use to overpower a hundred angry passengers anxious to return home to their loved ones.

Perhaps the recent stories of boxcutters still getting aboard planes have caused the TSA to turn the detectors on high to prevent future embarrassment. I held the dime up. "Is this what you're looking for?"

"That's metal, genius."

"Yeah, but which of us has to work for the TSA?" I couldn't resist.

© Copyright 2008, Liberty Foundation

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