THAT TIME AT THE AIRPORT

“We’re close, you might want to have your ID ready.”

Wait, ID? Before leaving for the airport I had thinned my wallet to the essentials (credit card, debit card, Starbucks card, my “If lost, please return wallet to…” because I still believe in the inherent good of pickpockets) but did not recall seeing my 12-year-old picture ID in which I sported a mustache now considered fashionable only in former Soviet countries.

“Oh crap, I don’t think I have it.”

“What? How could you not have it?”

How indeed, as our country faced its greatest terrorist threat – sports drinks. Just two days prior, Britain had broken an al Qaeda plot involving the use of explosive sports drinks, or coffee, or toothpaste, or contact lens cleaning solution, or any type of gel or liquid that was not baby formula since their explosives technology apparently did not extend to infant products. As a result, passengers were asked to pack solids only into their carry-ons. As a result, we were in line to check a small carry-on bag as it contained shampoo, conditioner and other potentially lethal trial-sized products.

I reached into my back pocket, extracted an unusually thin wallet and went through each of the cards again. I was well-prepared for future visits to Starbucks, but I was in a shitload of trouble when it came to boarding an airplane. No ID bearing my photo. Why didn’t Starbucks require a small picture of myself? More Americans carry Starbucks cards than photo ID because they’re far more useful. “Did you know how fast your were going?” the cop would say. “Let me see your insurance, registration and Starbucks card, please.” Trust me, we’d all drive a lot more safely if traffic fines included the loss of future caramel macchiatos.

“No, it’s not here. But I know exactly where it is.” Turned out I was wrong about that.

I weighed the possibilities. I could run out the curb and jump on a bus back to the parking lot, endure 21 subsequent stops, search for my car, get in the exit line, explain to the parking clerk that I swore I’d put the ticket in the glove box and had only been there about 30 minutes, and wave as my fight passed overhead.

Or I could book a later flight, go home, get my ID, return, get in the security line and forget all about that tube of hair gel I carry on me for emergencies, resulting in a lengthy interview and invasion of personal space by minimum-wage TSA agents who enjoy the job for its various perks.

Or I could call my good friend and neighbor Mo, whom I nod at almost every time I see him when not averting my eyes pretending I am way too busy to talk. Or nod. Yeah, he’ll help me. I’ll just call him, have him use the key he and his wife have to Paula’s house (she has developed a relationship with Mon in that she nods and waves, and at times even exchanges pleasantries should the situation warrant, like meeting at the community mailbox, forming a bond like no other in the neighborhood), finding and taking the remote control to my garage door (she has it for reasons I no longer remember), enter my home through the garage, chant in a loud voice the phrase “Down, down, down” to the two dogs who will meet him at the door, maneuver his way to the kitchen where, in a pile of rather unnecessary cards, he will find my photo ID. He would then take said ID and drive about 30 minutes to the airport, where I will be waiting anxiously on the curb with hundreds of other photo-ID-capable travelers who are waiting for loved ones to pick them up rather than a guy across the street to drop off an ID.

Yeah, calling Mo will work.

“Hand me your phone,” I said.

“Where’s yours?”

“Packed.”

“Why?”

“Because if I had it on me, I would just be one more thing I’d have to dig out of my pocket at security. I mean, I’ve already gotta take off my watch and kick off my shoes. Getting my phone out is just too much of a hassle.”

True laziness is an art, and I am Monet.

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” I said. “What if they determined my phone could detonate my shaving cream? To hell with missing the flight to San Diego. I’d be locked up in TSA jail with other people accused of attempting to blow up their personal-hygiene items.”

“But you’re shaving cream would be in the checked luggage, remember? They’re not letting us carry on potentially lethal gels and liquids.”

“Trust me, if I wanted to explode my shaving cream with my cell, I would find a way to do it, whether my luggage was in the overhead bin or in the hold. Either way it’s a local call and BOOM, it’s all over. So I’m not going to take my cellphone on the plane. And these people taking on laptops? Potential super-terrorists. So let me use your phone.”

“All right, here. Mo’s number is in the directory.”

“Wait, how do I get there? Why don’t you just dial it for me? Hand it to me when it’s ringing.”

I am a Rembrandt of task avoidance.

Paula punched in the number and handed me the phone.

“Is it ringing?” I said.

“It should be, just give it a sec.”

“Can you talk to him? Tell him-“

“No! You’re the idiot who doesn’t have his license.”

The phone rang once, twice, again. Again. Answering machine. I hung up and looked at my watch. It was shortly before 7 a.m. I assumed it also was 7 a.m. in a household that assumed sunrise happened since it was never awake to actually witness it.

“No answer.”

“Try it again. But you know you’re waking them up.”

“No kidding. So what do I-“

“Just hit the green button. Forget it, I’ll do it. There.”

Ringing. Again. Again.

“Hel … lo?”

It was Mo. Well, at least the 10 percent of him awake.

“Mo.”

“Yuh.”

“It’s Scott.”

“-“

“You know, from across the street.”

Another pause. I could almost hear a quick nod in my direction.”

“Mo, I need a favor.” Yeah, a favor. Only not like a “Can you take the newspaper off my driveway” favor, but a “Can you help me frame this room I’m adding to my house” favor.

“Yeah, no problem, what’s up?” said Mo, happy to go get the newspaper off my driveway.

“I’m at the airport and I forgot my ID.”

I waited.

“So what do you need?”

Son of a bitch, he didn’t hang up. If I’d heard a neighbor say over the phone “airport” and “ID” in the same sentence, I’d slam down the phone (at least press the End button really hard) and unplug the phone.

“I need you to get the key to Paula’s house and get the remote for my garage,” I said, outlining the favor in detail. He said something about being late for work. I could live with that.

“So is that OK, can you get it to me?” I said, knowing this may just be the end of the friendly nods.

“Sure, OK, it’ll take me a bit.”

“Great, I really appreciate this, Mo. I owe you. Call me when you’re leaving. Oh, and that really strange looking thing low in the sky? That’s the sun.”

OK, I didn’t really say that thing about dawn, not to a guy doing me a helping-me-reroof-the-house type of favor.

“Well?” Paula said.

“He’s doing it and will call back when he’s on his way,” I said, handing her back her phone.

“You owe him bigtime.”

“Tell me about it. I just hope he’s not moving soon, because this is one of those things that locks me into helping him get his refrigerator into the truck.”

“And his entertainment center. And his bed. Hell, this one signs you up for the whole day, including following him to the new house.”

Once at the front of the line, we were directed to the next available ATM-like machine, a kiosk designed to reduce the face-to-face time between the customer and the customer service representative. Paula punched in the appropriate code, told the machine she had one bag, and wanted to request a seat in the non-liquid-bomb section. The joke, of course, was that there was no non-liquid-bomb section because we were flying Southwest. If we wanted to sit in the non-liquid-bomb section, we better fight for it just like everyone else.

At that point, as I glanced at the customer service representative saying “Next in line please” while making actual eye contact, it occurred to me. Maybe there was another answer to my dilemma. And just maybe I should ask someone. Like that customer service representative not afraid to look at customers.

“Excuse me,” I said, opening my hands so she could tell I was not carrying any gels or liquids. “Seems I forgot my photo ID and if I go back to my house to get it, I’m going to miss my flight. Is there a way I can still get on the plane.”

I bowed my head ready for the “What, are you crazy, fly without an ID? Well, you might as well walk right up to the gate with a juice box in one hand and a cellphone in the other, you creepy little terrorist.”

Instead she said, “Sure, no problem. Just inform them at security. You’ll get a little extra attention from agents, but you can still get on.”

Attempt to carry a Yoplait Smoothie onboard and it’s on the no-fly list for you. But fly with no ID and you can be any middle-aged balding white guy from the suburbs and fly with no questions asked. What is this world coming to?

I rejoined Paula, now being handed a luggage claim tag from the customer service representative responsible for handing out luggage claim tags.

“I just found out I can fly without an ID,” I said.

“What? You’re kidding. So you can give these people just any old name and fly?”

“Yeah, just like back in the 70s. Dark times. So anyway, I gotta call Mo and tell him never mind.”

Not sure who was more relieved, me or Mo. He was out of a crappy favor, and I didn’t have to donate sperm if he wanted another kid (you see, he had a vasectomy and, well, you never know with favors).

We rode the escalator to the third floor and walked to Gate C. A half-dozen people were in the line feeding to one of three metal detectors. Paula showed her boarding pass and ID to the agent, who nodded and directed her to the right.

I handed over my boarding pass to the uniform-clad man and wore by best sheepish expression.

“ID please,” she said without looking up, a waste of preemptive sheepish expression.

“I don’t have it,” I said.

Now he looked at me. “Ah, no ID, huh?”

“No. I left it at home. I know exactly where it is, though.”

“Doesn’t do much good at this point, does it”

“No, guess not.” I wasn’t sure if I should offer a personal apology for making him go beyond the call of duty, which was looking at IDs and nodding.

“Do you have any ID with a picture on it? Employee ID? Military ID? Library card?”

Library card? We are banning makeup, lipstick, nail files and anything that at some point could be used to hurt someone or, in the very least, make us presentable in public. But you can board a plane with a library card. This is going to rev up the terrorsts’ fake-ID industry, even though profit margins won’t be there like they used to be.

“You want a fake passport, that will be $2,000. U.S. driver’s license? That’s $1,000, $200 if it’s OK you be from Arkansas. State ID? Only $500.”

“No, I just want a library card. I have a photo of myself here. Just glue it on.”

“Oh, stupid TSA rules. OK, library card. That’ll be $10.”

I looked at the agent.

“I don’t even have a library card,” I said. “I mean I do have a library card, of course. Just not on me.”

“Anything with you picture?”

“No, all I’ve got are credit cards, cash …”

“Cash is always good, just not here,” he said, as if I’d offered him a bribe. Which I didn’t. Not that anyone could prove.

“I have nothing,” I said.

He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a red Sharpie. He put my boarding pass on the dais, smoothed it out and started to write. Once finished, he capped his pen and handed me the pass, which now included this phrase in large red letters – “No photo ID, check.” I now bore the shame of a scarlet phrase.

“Just show this to the agent as you walk through the metal detector,” he said. “Hold it up in front of you so he can see.”

I took the boarding pass and moved to the station to the left, as ordered. I took out my wallet, kicked off my shoes and slid off my watch, placing them into a bin. When it was my turn, I slid the bin onto the conveyor belt, held my pass in front of me and walked very slowly through the metal detector. The woman waiting for me on the other side looked at the pass.

“Male check needed on four,” she said loudly, keeping her eyes on me. “Sir, if you’ll just step over here.”

She pointed to an area surrounded on three sides by nylon straps stretched between metal stanchions, the same sort used by banks and amusement parks to keep customers in line. It was, of course, impenetrable. We all are trained not to cross such ropes. We could erect them the entire length of the border and stop the immigration problem in its tracks.

“Oh look, someone has put up ropes,” an immigrant would say. “We really shouldn’t go any further. It’s not allowed.”

I stepped into the proscribed area as other ID-carrying travelers passed. I ignored their looks that said, “If we start racial profiling, it’s just those kinds of guys that we’ll miss. Stupid terrorist, now you are trapped by ropes and will be dealt with.”

A man half my age approached. “Sir, if you’ll just follow me we’ll get you on your way.” To TSA jail!! Hahahahaha.

He released one of the straps so I could pass, taking care to re-secure it behind me, and walked me to a black mat with two widely spaced yellow footprints.

“If you’ll just place your feet on the spaces indicated,” he said. At this point there was no mention of the removal of any clothes, so I ruled out a body-cavity search. For now.

I put my feet on the outlines (they were so much bigger than me, could someone design a mat that did not make one feel so inferior?) as the agent stood about a foot away.

“Great, now if you’ll just raise your arms straight out to the sides,” he said. “I’m just going to pat you down. Do you have any sensitive areas I should know about?”

“No.” I do have sensitive areas, but not any he should know about.

He cupped his hands on my upper right left arms, felt along my legs and patted my sides and chest. He was either looking for a knife, gun or breath spray, I wasn’t sure.

“OK, if you’ll just step over here to identify your belongings,” he said, walking to the X-ray machine. He held up the bin with all my stuff. “Is this all you have?”

“That’s it.”

“OK, that’s good,” he said, though he might just as well have said, “OK, this will be easy.”

He took my Nikes and placed them on a table. A few feet away was a machine about the size of a copier, only different because it apparently worked. With a pair of tongs, he grabbed what looked like a small moist towelette and swabbed the tops of both my shoes. He placed the towelette into a plastic mount, snapped it shut and inserted into the machine. Within seconds a blue LCD screen lit up with a series of numbers.

“OK, sir, you’re free to go,” he said, the numbers apparently below levels that would suggest a shutdown of the airport to be a good thing.

I walked back to Paula, who was waiting. And laughing.

“I really wanted to take a picture of you, but I thought they’d take that pretty seriously,” she said.

“If you had, you and I would definitely be in TSA jail right now, next to someone explaining that their lubricant was for personal, rather than terrorist, use,” I said. “The airline industry has really lost its sense of humor over terrorism jokes, you know?”

On the return trip I received much the same treatment, only the San Diego agents placed my belongings into a bright red bin that screamed “Suspect.” I was released following a pat-down and shoe swabbing.

My ID? Still have no idea where it might be. So tomorrow, I’m applying for a library card.