“Ma’am, I’m not allowed to tell you much, but what I can tell you is that your bag has tested positive for explosives.”
Well, shit, that’s not much? I wonder what else he knows about my bag and the double life it is apparently living.
Exhibit A: Evidence of how careful I am with my things. My bag, on the floor at the grocery store, where it is likely co-mingling with E. coli bacteria, fecal matter and explosives residue. I’d like to be able to tell you that I took that bag home and wiped the bacteria away with a Lysol wipe, but I can’t, that would be a lie.
Since this was the first time I had ever tested positive for explosives, or anything for that matter, I was a bit nervous. When I get nervous I get chatty.
“I pumped gas this morning, maybe it was transferred onto my bag?” I suggested.
“No, ma’am, it is not gasoline, it is explosives.” He seemed sure. I wonder exactly what his machine told him. Also, he called me ma’am twice in two sentences and I’m almost certain he is older than I am.
“So, what is the next step?” I asked.
“Well, we are going to go through your bag and take every item out – as in everything.” His face was serious. Respectfully, I bet these are the moments he lives for. “You are going to be patted down by a female officer. Is that ok?”
“Yes, you bet, no problem.” Maybe I sounded too eager. It is not like it is optional, who would opt in? I get randomly selected for a pat down more often than not. One of the people tasked with clearing my name was a woman who was built like Queen Latifah and didn’t seem too interested in being at work, she rolled her eyes when her supervisor told her to check me. “Hi” I said, smiling slightly but not suspiciously.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to spread your legs and raise your arms.”
Well, I guess she isn’t going to buy me dinner first. I looked straight ahead, my legs spread and raised my arms, just as she asked. ‘My name is Kate. I love Lululemon, legislation, my family, blanket scarves, coffee and I am randomly searched at airport security every time I travel. On that note, at what point does it stop being random? What does the ‘S’ stand for on your name badge? I bet it is Sandra — it is Sandra, isn’t it? What’s your favourite colour? Do you have any allergies? What are your hopes and dreams? You smell nice – like vanilla, but not like stripper vanilla. No I’ve never met a stripper, but I bet they smell like a cheap vanilla, a scent much too sweet for a daytime career or a respectable man.’ As previously mentioned when I’m nervous I get chatty and when things get awkward I get even chattier. It is probably why I was single for so long. I actually said nothing to the woman who’s name starts with an ‘S’ and was proud of myself. I didn’t want to miss my flight and Sandra was step one of three for me to clear security.
She navigated my chest as if my breasts were clocks — she was more thorough with her exam than my doctor is. She’d probably tell me if she felt anything, right? As she moved down my torso I felt myself tightening my core to give the illusion of being fit – I think I managed a four pack, but it was definitely not a six. I didn’t want this woman to think I sit around all day reading up on explosives and eating chocolate covered pretzels. As her blue gloved fingers grabbed onto my loose skin just around my belly button, she made eye contact with me: ‘I see your body has been to war,’ she was suddenly sympathetic expressing this shift in approach through her surprisingly chatty eyes: ‘How many babies, more than one less than four – two?’ My eyes confirmed her inference. She continued down my body, gently patting my thighs. If she had a checklist to fill out that listed ‘vagina’ as one of the body parts she checked she couldn’t in good faith tick that box, and I was grateful. She didn’t salute me, but she respected what I had been through in a selfless quest to contribute to the future of our society. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t so selfless, we had children to keep us entertained (they are hilarious) and take care of us for a while during our geriatric years before putting us out to pasture.
I did fully expect a cavity search, although I’ve never really understood why they’d be interested in the quality of my teeth, leave that to my dentist, I’d say, but I’m sure there is some method to their madness. I was pleasantly surprised when she told me she was done.
I walked over to watch the security guard as he removed item after item from my bag, which by the way would put Mary Poppins to shame.
“I did my best to clean out my bag this morning. I have two kids under three and I’m sometimes surprised by what ends up in there” I offered. In other words, I’m not sure what you might find, but if it is bad I’m blaming my kids — Olivia sure spends a lot of time on her pink plastic burner phone, I don’t know who she is talking to, but what I do know is it certainly isn’t me.
“You know, I’ve seen a lot of things in this job.” Oh no, here we go. He’s found something. “But, ma’am, this bag isn’t bad at all.” Phew. “It is cleared to go.” Step two, complete.
Now came the form. The supervising officer was bent over the screening belt, with a pen in hand and a checklist.
“Have you held any explosives over the last week” he asked as he hovered over the box for longer than he expected to, his hand itching to make an ‘x’ but he had to wait for my confirmation. In the last week? I thought about it. After enough of a pause to probably warrant futher questioning, I replied, “no, not in the last week.” He ticked the box. Why did I pause?
“What do you do for a living?” He asked. This is such a simple question to answer if you are a doctor, or law enforcement officer or a clown, but my role is difficult to explain, so I responded simply with, “I’m an executive at a financial institution.”
“Are you the CEO?” he asked.
“No.”
“Are you the CFO?” He looked up at me this time.
“No.”
“Well then what are you?”
“Um, you can write down Chief Risk Officer.” Not exactly my title, but it is one of the functions I serve within our organization.
“Can I write CRO.” He asked.
“Sure you can.” I replied.
And with that I was cleared to proceed to my gate.
Photo: Me on the plane waiting for takeoff. As you can see, I’m an average looking human. Nothing suspicious about me or the fully caffeinated coffee I’m drinking at 9:30pm.
I will never know for sure when my bag came in contact with explosives. I’m not even sure what falls into the category of explosives and I’m a bit gun shy to Google it on account of it making me look too interested in explosives.
Thinking back, it could have been during one of the civil war re-enactments I participate in, perhaps there was gunpowder transfer from one of the muskets? Go, North! They’re the good guys, right? I don’t know, I’m Canadian and pro-Emancipation Proclamation. Or maybe it was from the customizable fireworks I sell on my Etsy page ‘ShiBangs’ (pronounced ‘she bangs’), but then again, the more likely story is that it was from the grocery store. Those who dabble in explosives must eat too, they’re just like us. The moral of the story, as Marie Kondo would say (curtesy of Google Translate, ‘bastardized Japanese’): “Kurīnbaggu wa utagaide wanaku yorokobi o kanki suru” — clean bags spark joy, not suspicion.
Stay great!
Kate
The bookstore is our favourite place to watch people, to colour and to write. Olivia loves to draw. This morning she made some dots in her new cat notebook: “I’m making baby dots and mommy dots. The baby dots are teeny tiny. You love them mom, but they don’t love anyone. They are dots.” She added: “I just want ice cream. Ice cream and adventures.”
This photo was taken on October 2, 2018.
The Donkey Made Me Do It 