“What time is your flight? 1:50?” asks Jim, speeding along I-294 to drop me at O’Hare on Friday.
“1:25. Am I okay? I thought you had to be there an hour ahead if you’re checking a bag,” I say, not really thinking it’s a big deal.
“That’s pretty much bullshit I think. You should be fine.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You are too late to check in for your flight.
Choose another flight please.
That’s what I got from the American Airlines self check-in kiosk seconds after stuffing my credit card in the slot.
It might as well have said:
You’re late, ya big dumb ass.
Now what are ya gonna do?
I wait in the regular check-in line.
Yep, too late to check a bag for the 1:25 flight to Detroit.
“You can carry that on, ya know,” says the American Airlines check-in lady, looking at the little black wheelie bag at my feet. “It’s not that big.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’ve got all kinds of liquids in there and no little plastic bag.”
She thinks a minute.
“Wait here,” she says, smiling. “I’ll be right back.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, I call Jim.
“I’m not giving up my hairspray,” I say stubbornly. “It’s a $12 bottle of hairspray. I just got it.”
He feels terrible that I was late for my flight even though it isn’t even close to being his fault.
I tell him the next available flight is at 5:20 but the check-in lady said it was completely sold out before she left on her mystery mission.
“Worst case, you’re standby on the 5:20,” says Jim.
The thought of calling my Mom to explain that I’ll be there 5 hours later than planned because I’m stupid and won’t give up a bottle of hairspray provides a bit of much-needed perspective on the situation.
“Worst case, the hairspray goes,” I say, before signing off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“There was a guy back here, Pedro, who was selling candy bars to benefit his kids’ school,” she explains. “He was keeping the money in a small plastic bag and I thought you might be able to have it. But he’s gone.”
Unbelievable.
This tenacious woman actually ventured somewhere in the bowels of the airport to try and borrow a baggie from someone named Pedro for a dumb ass traveler like me.
I’m still in shock.
If I wasn’t frantic to finagle my way through security, I would’ve kissed her smiley, helpful little face for going above and beyond the call of duty whilst breathing new life into my withered and dying opinion of airline personnel.
Instead, I thank her profusely, grab my boarding pass, and move on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
$12 for a bottle of hairspray?
Yep. It's goddamn good hairspray.
How much is a pack of cigarettes these days? Or a good cigar, hm?
At least I'm not smoking my hard-earned cash. Now STFU.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FYI: Jim and I are pretty good travelers. We fly enough for work that we’re fairly adept at keeping it easy and efficient.
Since the ridiculous new
3-1-1 regulation took effect, I’d been resigned to checking my bag due to the level of liquids necessary for me to travel comfortably.
This mental lapse being late really threw me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now what?
It’s less than 45 minutes before my flight leaves.
The airport announcements are taunting me: “…if you are carrying liquids on the plane, remember 3-1-1. Blah, no more than 3 oz. containers in a 1-quart plastic blah, only one blah allowed per blah blah yadda blah. Thank you blah.”
I pull over to one of those ugly, ubiquitous airport seats to assess the situation.
All my liquids are in a non-regulation, gallon size Zip-Loc bag. This is just in case of a blowout so my clothes won’t get ruined.
There are several 3 oz. bottles containing shampoo, conditioner and hair gel. These are okay.
But then there’s this: Face moisturizer, 4 oz. Contact solution, 4.5 oz. And of course, the precious, brand-new bottle of my favorite hairspray at a whopping 8.5 oz.
Whew.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At this point, I should remind you that the only time I willfully broke the law (outside of driving too fast, which everyone on earth except my good friend Chris does with impunity) was two years ago when I drove the getaway car in the now infamous New Year’s eve kidnapping of a religious lawn ornament.
Stealing Joseph was thrilling and fun.
Circumventing airport security is stressful and irritating.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I leave all the liquids except the hairspray in the gallon Zip-Loc. I fold the top down three or four times so it looks a little like the smaller size bag required by the 3-1-1 policy.
Next, I take the precious hairspray and stuff the bottle into … a shoe in my suitcase.
I know what you were thinking.
It’s a big bottle. I'm not that desperate. And the last thing I need at this point in my life is to be caught by security with a bottle of hairspray up my ass.
Of course all of this is completely irrational.
But I was desperate to save this hairspray. It had just arrived from the on-line Aveda store the day before and I really couldn’t bear to see it sacrificed to the resolute and unforgiving airport gods.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“If they catch the hidden hairspray, they’ll know I was trying to break the rules and I’ll be in trouble,” I think, approaching the security line.
My heart is beatbeatbeating. I’m sweating a little.
I wonder if anyone’s ever been arrested and strip-searched for a $12 bottle of hairspray. Is it really worth all this stress? Is this how boring my life has become? Testing airport security with hair care products?
I follow the rules. Shoes, jacket, and incognito 1 gal. Zip-Loc go in one gray bin. I remove the Mac from my bag and place it in another gray bin. The computer bag goes in a third gray bin. Illegal wheelie bag goes last.
I figure worst-case scenario, I can get my shoes and laptop through before the mayhem and resulting jailarity begins.
I walk gingerly through the scanner. No beeps.
I watch the gray bins zip through the scanner. No problem.
But the bag. Oh, the bag. Will it make it?
It’s in. It’s in.
I try not to look too anxiously at the airport security chick peering into the scanner, peering into my illegal wheelie bag.
All of a sudden, a little white light goes on towards the back of the scanner. It blinks several times: Search. Search. Search.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I’m caught.
At the same moment, two airport security guys walk over to the airport security chick and say something that makes them all laugh out loud.
My suitcase sails outta the x-ray shoot. I glance around with more than a little guilt.
Nothing. I hoist the bag off the conveyer belt and take a few tentative steps towards the concourse.
Nothing. No one.
I’m clear! I made it!
My joy is tempered only by this: If my huge bottle of hairspray can get through, how safe are we? And what’s the fucking point of the 3-1-1 rule if a dumb ass like me can break it so easily?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But wait, it gets better.
I was so focused on my illegal liquid personal products, I completely forgot about the smallish Swiss Army knife that goes practically everywhere with me. It would’ve been fine in my checked bag but should’ve set off all kinds of alarms through O’Hare security.
I also forgot about packing my Mom's 12-inch knitting needles that she left behind on her last visit.
I’m a dumb ass for sure.
But what does that make the security folks at O’Hare?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Wire Train – In a Chamber
I am reading: Then We Came to the End – Joshua Ferris
And I am: A sneaky dumb ass
