Baggage

 
“…unattended baggage will be confiscated.”
       I tried without success to tune out the irritating TSA drone about orphaned bags, suspicious bags, bags that appeared to have no connection with any of my fellow travelers en route to Austin that dreary November morning. It was another of the continuous loop of bleatings that intrude on our over-admonished lives. The message blared through the terminal every five minutes. My flight had been delayed again, so I wondered at the relevance of TSA’s concern with scofflaws leaving bags lying about. It was obvious that no flying would happen that day anyway. That would, all by itself, lower the potential for airborne terrorist activity.
       The TSA line was backed up halfway to downtown Columbus, so I decided not to join in. To allow things to disperse a bit, I took a seat under the arrivals board. The matrix of flight numbers and departure points was inert, like all its bulbs had fizzled out.
       No aircraft had moved for several hours, so I guessed our color code terror scale was somewhere between mauve and perhaps a light teal.
       The overhead scold also distracted me from my escapist fare, a fascinating article on high school intramural fencing in Indiana. Under no other circumstances than these would I be caught reading such drivel. I’d already finished the essay on Glenn Beck, that’s how bored I was. But, terminal boredom, no pun intended, being the mother of inspiration and creative snark, I began to mutter back at the disembodied TSA woman. I named her Trixie.
“TSA would like to remind all travelers that—”
       “—lifting uncalibrated bagels above your head may cause premature putrefaction.” I mocked Trixie’s plangent voice, as she warned of dire consequences for even the appearance of unsavory activity. I felt extra safe, knowing that Trixie’s admonition would scare the bejesus out of any terrorist worth his suicide vest.
“If you, or anyone you know has been asked to carry—”
       “—suspicious tax returns, gallon jars of ripe olives, or engraved pet rocks…”
“—please notify a TSA agent or airport security.”
       The terminal fell blessedly silent for another five minutes. I imagined Trixie somewhere in the bowels of the airport taking a smoke break, sipping a cold Evian water to soothe her parched throat after keeping America’s traveling public safe.
       “Worst job in the world,” I muttered. “Right up there with recording that phone message, Please hang up and dial again. If you’d like to leave a voice message…Who listens to that stuff?” I was irritated and grouchy, in other words a typical, spoiled rotten American traveler.
       Then came a third delay announcement.
“Flight number fourteen-twenty-three to Austin will be delayed. Planned boarding time is now eleven-ten. We apologize—”
       “—for any hypertensive episodes or terminal scabies this may cause.”
       I put the intramural fencing article aside, and studied my fellow travelers. They dragged their wheeled carry-ons, their battle-ready laptops, and their over the shoulder suit bags, the uniform of every road warrior.
       Then I saw another standard among the traveling minions. The harried-single-mom with her collapsible stroller, three suitcases, one bulging diaper bag, a purse, a backpack, three winter coats, and a grocery bag filled with snacks. Harried-single-mom slogged along, bags sagging, shoulders bent under a load that might collapse the average adult yak. There had to be a kid in there somewhere, but I couldn’t see hide nor hair of it.
       I put my magazine down, half stood to help her, and then sat down again. She’d consider it weird, I thought, a stranger helping her in a place we all need help. For one brief shining moment, I stepped out of my self-absorption and pondered the terminal state of things.
       Airport terminals contain more than travelers and their baggage; they hold emotions people are most conflicted about. Joy and anguish mix at the airport. Fear and exhilaration. Hello and goodbye. We were never meant to fly and we know that. We fly because it’s the fastest way to get over, and to get in touch with, those emotions at either end. Flying and its technical wizardry puts us in touch with our primitive selves. It brings out the real us, even the person who rants at overhead announcements. My moment of lucidity almost made me dizzy.
       Then the oddest thing happened: Harried-single-mom stopped mid-terminal. She looked around, stashed the diaper bag next to a trash bin by the Cinnabon, and moved off. She never looked back. I decided that, overwhelmed by her life, she’d unburdened herself of a piece of baggage that symbolized that burden. I thought about her decision, and settled on one explanation: the bag contained a dirty diaper. Harried single mom saw no way to rid herself—and her fellow passengers—of the aromatic contents of that bag. It was one godawful kid mess that would surely cause her unwanted attention somewhere between here and wherever she was headed. So she left it behind.
       For a moment I did wonder why not in the receptacle, but I had fencing stats to read, so I forgot about it. Harried-single-mom sped away, lightened by one less bag, and she seemed to move faster, every step lifting her higher. Then she disappeared into the crowd.
       Trixie interrupted my admiring regard for the woman’s ingenuity and grit.
“…unattended baggage will—”
       “—be sent to the nearest White Castle for recycling and possible sale as a menu item.” I looked at the diaper bag once more. It sat unattended. I looked for the woman. She was nowhere in sight. A security person drove by on her golf cart, and I almost raised my hand. Then I thought better of it. They’d just track the poor woman down, hassle her, make her miss her flight, which was likely late, as they all were.
 
 
       The security line had thinned to less than half a mile, so I shuffled into it. I stripped out my hard-buckle belt, extracted eighty-seven cents in change from my pocket, along with my iPhone and keys. I took off my Nikes, relieved that I’d remembered odor-eaters. Then I queued through the cattle chute toward the X-ray arch.
       Just ahead of me was a sales rep who looked like he spent half his meager-salaried life in TSA lines. I admired the fellow’s smooth routine. It was like dance: shoes, belt, wallet and watch slipped off shoop, whap, whack, done. Around his neck, one of those clear plastic soap-on-a-rope thingamabobs held his driver’s license and boarding pass. He tossed his Florsheim wingtips into the bin, along with his wallet, fat with expense-account credit cards. If the check-in line was out of Animal Farm, he’d be Boxer. “I will work harder,” I mocked the fellow under my breath, as he shoved his gray tray into the X-ray tunnel.
       A new recording cued up, directions for maximizing the check-in experience. I named this voice Maxim.
“Please remove—”
       “—your kidneys,” I said. “…and place them in the lost and found to your left.”
       Boxer heard every word. I swear he reached for his lower back. Then he jerked forward, self-conscious, as if he hadn’t really done that. I imagined him saying, “Napoleon is always right!”
       Maxim continued.
“—If you have a laptop, please have it open for inspection.”
       “—so TSA can more easily install mind-watch™, the government’s new human intelligence app.” Boxer acted like he didn’t hear me. I know damn well he did. Snorts count.
 
 
       I boarded flight number 1136, Columbus-Austin, via Dallas. Scootching past an older woman in 19C dressed like Minnie Pearl without her price tag, I tried to avoid knee contact, but failed. Tetchier than ever, I dubbed her Church Lady. She held her beaded purse against her chest like it held all of her Sam’s Club coupons. She sanctioned my passage to the window seat. I eyed her purse. It resembled the diaper bag now relaxing outside Cinnabon. I tried to dismiss the image, but that bag appeared to me again, its paisley pattern and light teal strap resting against the trash can, unattended.
       Settled into 19D, and buckled up, I opened my magazine to finish with Hoosier fencing highlights. The FAA-mandated pre-flight briefing commenced. I couldn’t see the flight attendant’s name tag, so I labeled her Amelia, as in Earhart. Amelia grabbed pieces of hardware from the overhead bin—a scrap of seat belt, an oxygen mask, a briefing card—as the safety spiel started.
“Please direct your attention to the front of the cabin.” Amelia droned on about securing belts, unhooking them, cabin pressure, dropping masks, small children, yadda, yadda yadda.
       My contrariness came back, and I chimed in under my breath, matching her word for word.
“In the event of a water landing—”
       “—it will be obvious that our pilots are lost, since the largest body of water we’ll cross today is eighty-acre Lake Dumb-Bass in northern Missouri.” My chuckle was a bit over the top, but I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t had that much fun since I put a thumb tack on Fred Clem’s seat in fourth grade.
       Church Lady gave me the stink eye. To avoid my admittedly juvenile blather, she burrowed into her seat. I tried to stifle, but when Amelia came to the the part about exit doors I couldn’t help myself. She did that point-and-shoot thing flight attendants do. Her manicured fingers aiming at vague spots in the fuselage, gestures meant to indicate here’s how to leave the burning wreck when the rubble stops bouncing. Three separate pointings Amelia made, one after another, straight ahead, to her right and left, then over her shoulder.
       Fully formed, the irreverent words popped out. “You’re dead; you’re dead; I’m out’a here.” From her burrow, Church Lady simpered in spite of herself. For some reason the image of that damned diaper bag floated through my brain again. Was there a reason Harried-single-mom had left it at Cinnabon? Was it not a dirty diaper, stinky kid squat, but a real live…? Holy crap, my attitude is what stinks, I thought. I should have helped the poor woman with her bags. What’s gotten into me? Still…
       Amelia stowed all her briefing toys, and a voice blared the usual demand for switching off PDAs and such. Soon we were off. The airplane rumbled down the runway, lifted, angled south toward Lake Dumb-Bass, and on to Austin. I tried to focus on high school fencing, but it wasn’t working. All I could think of was baggage.
 
 
       At two-thirty the big Boeing bounced onto the runway in Austin, and whined to the gate. Before I could say howdy pardner, I was two-stepping off the plane, and into the terminal. Schlepping toward the sign marked ground transportation, I heard the recording start. “Unattended baggage may be confiscated.”
       Smart-ass me launched into it again. “Lord’a mercy, Trixie’s done moved to Texas!” Then I conjured some Lone-Star schtick. “Leaving armadillo road kill on the highway is a felony in Texas, and subject to Bab-tist censure.” Behind me, right hand gripping the worn handle of his wheeled office, left hand massaging his kidneys, Boxer huffed toward Hertz. Church Lady scolded a fellow wearing Bermuda shorts with wing tips and black, knee-high socks about his haircut. Her husband I assumed. Our pilots strolled past side by side, gold stripes on their epaulets. Amelia walked alone, head down, manicured fingers embracing her cell phone like she was recording her next announcement.
       By a gate, a knot of people massed around an overhead TV. They stood mouths agape, arms crossed, as a news flash filtered across the screen. Something about Columbus, and something more about an explosion at the airport. My skin tingled. The hair on my arms stood. I thought of Harried-single-mom ditching the diaper bag; watched her scuffle away, looking behind and to the side, as if discarding a load of baggage was somehow shameful these days.
       My brain ran off scenarios I tried to dismiss but couldn’t: That was no diaper bag. It was no stinky ‘kid bomb,’ either. It was a real bomb, and real people were dead, injured, lives lost, lives ruined, all because I’d ignored Trixie, sassed her like a brat and looked the other way. All because I’d not “notified airport security.”
       My brain raced. Breath quickened. Vision narrowed. I stood on tiptoe to watch. My armpits steamed with shame, and sweat drenched my forehead. I conjured rationalizations, disbelief. Surely not, I thought. It can’t be. Someone else had to see that bag there, some other traveler munching their Cinnabon, somebody. Security? Yes, the security people, I thought. Where were they? Looking the other way like I had? Cruising along on their golf carts? Cavorting with Trixie?
       It was no use; personal responsibility stuck out, like a bag too big for the overhead. I conjured apologies, excuses. Visions of small offices came to me, uniformed civil servants, knowing looks. Headlines appeared, TV cameras, microphones shoved in my face. I became the harried one, the one with way too much baggage.
 
 
       The commentator’s voice issued from the TV: “…no word yet on the cause of the blast. Authorities are cautioning the traveling public that the Transportation Security Administration…” I almost talked back to the TV, “…has just changed the alert status…” But I stopped, studied the others, and felt better for doing it.
       Images of twisted metal and broken glass filled the frame. Nests of bare wire snaked out. Blasted building insulation, its pink, cotton-candy tendrils waved in the breeze. Men in hard hats and goggles milled around. One carried a clipboard, another took pictures.
       I studied the impressive effects of the blast, and its damage to…an airport electrical junction? The crawl fed across the bottom of the screen. I moved closer to the TV, blinking back tickling sweat, a giddy relief welling.
       The crowd moved away from the TV, dispersing with their wheeled carry-ons, over the shoulder suit carriers and diaper bags.
       The announcer appeared again. “A full investigation is under way. Once again, TSA is assuring the traveling public that the blast, though on airport property, was contained to a non-passenger area, not inside the terminal…Trixie, back to you.”
 
 
       Chagrined, I left the building. Had I become that callous, that cynical? Not only did I watch that poor harried woman struggle, but I ignored a potential danger to a lot of innocent people. At that moment Trixie sounded overhead.
“—unattended baggage will be…”
       “—confiscated,” I said. The fellow next to me looked up, frowned, then disappeared behind his magazine.
       The courtesy bus hove into view, angled toward its assigned post, and stopped in a cloud of dust and a hearty Hi-Ho-Holiday Inn. I took a seat near the back, and stowed my carry-on. The driver clamped the door shut. He ground a half-pound of gears to a finer consistency, and wheeled away from the curb. I was blessed with four seconds of silence, count them: one-two-three-four—then it started.
“Welcome to Austin. Please stay behind the yellow line.”
       I named her Holly.