I'm Probably on a TSA Watchlist

This is Just One Reason Why

Photo by Alessio Rinella on Unsplash

If you’ve read Traveling with People I Want to Punch in the Throat: Barefoot Passengers, Armrest Hoggers, and Other Traveling Troublemakers, then you’ll know that there are a ton of reasons why I’m probably on a watchlist.

Today I’m going to tell you about one of the reasons that didn’t make the book.

Several years ago, I traveled around the country to promote Working with People I Want to Punch in the Throat: Cantankerous Clients, Micromanaging Minions, and Other Supercilious Scourges. My readers would host me in their houses, at the local bar, at their office, or at the library. Because it was like a Tupperware party but for books, I hauled dozens of books with me. I would shove books everywhere I could, including my carry-on.

On one of my very first expeditions, not only was my hostess throwing me a party but I’d also been invited to participate in a staged show with other funny authors. I’d never done anything like that before and I wanted to practice. So, I’d written down a whole speech I wanted to use and I put it in a binder to keep it nice (and because I love any excuse to use my three-hole punch).

Now, when you wrap 40 books tightly into chunks of 5 and stack them in a carry-on bag, they can be mistaken for a bomb by the TSA agent running the x-ray machine. I’ve been flagged and pulled out of line many, many, many times since, but this was my first rodeo, so this was the first time I was mistaken for a middle-aged suburban terrorist.

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So, imagine me going through the security checkpoint. I have a 6 AM flight and I’m one of those people who likes to arrive two hours early so I can sit at the gate and still worry that I’m going to miss my flight. What I’m trying to tell you is, it was early. Real early.

I’d removed my shoes, taken off my jacket, my toiletries had been separated, my laptop was in its own tray, and my pockets were empty. As I went through the metal detector, I held my breath. Not because I think that will help in any way, but because I’m always a little nervous that I’ll set it off with the underwire in my bra. Side note: It’s happened before, people, and it’s not fun to have someone get up under your boobage to check that all is well. And it’s really not fun when you make a joke that the person doing their professional job should "buy” you dinner first. It is not amusing. Or so I’ve been told. Repeatedly.

Anyhoo, back to my story.

I was holding my breath…but I didn’t need to worry. I sailed across the threshold of the machine and it stayed silent. I let out my breath. “Made it,” I thought.

The Universe laughed.

A TSA agent called out, “Who has the black bag?”

Everyone in the general vicinity looked at him because who doesn’t have a black bag?

I immediately saw the bright red luggage tag that said: HANDS OFF MY BAG!

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Sure, I own a black bag with that exact luggage tag, but is that rare? I wondered. Maybe it’s someone else’s bag.

I looked around at the people still in the area. Only a businessman and a woman struggling with a stroller while two small children cried for snacks remained.

An incredibly young man behind the conveyer belt looked at me directly and asked, “Ma’am, is this your bag?”

How old do you have to be to be a TSA agent? I wondered.

“Did they recruit you right out of high school?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

Why do I always think friendly banter is the way to go in serious situations? Surely, the buy me dinner debacle would have taught me something!

“Nothing. Yes, that’s my bag,” I said, walking over.

“Do I have your permission to open the bag, ma’am?” he asked. I swear his voice cracked!

“Yes.”

“Is there anything in here that might harm me?”

“Nope.”

He unzipped my bag and opened the suitcase to reveal my binder placed on top of 40 copies of Working with People I Want to Punch in the Throat wrapped in Saran Wrap. (You gotta keep the merch pristine, y’all).

He removed the binder and set it aside and then assessed the contents of my suitcase. I could see the wheels turning in his very young (probably not even fully developed yet) brain. He shuffled the packages of books around and saw that they were all the same title. He frowned for a second and then looked me up and down.

I smiled sweetly.

He looked down at the books again. “This book…” he said, his voice trailing off.

“Yes?” I replied.

“Um…the title is…”

I opened my eyes wide and blinked innocently.

Finally, he said, "You must really like this book.”

I smiled. “It’s my favorite book. I take it everywhere with me.”

“You have a lot of copies…”

“Yes.”

“Um…I’m going to have to check inside each book and make sure there isn’t anything hidden there,” he said.

My tone of voice changed immediately. “Every single book?” I asked. The fuck he was going to waste all that Saran Wrap and break the spine on every book. “You’d better not damage any of them.”

His head snapped up when he heard my tone and he took another close look at me. “Can I see your boarding pass, ma’am.”

I showed him my boarding pass.

He looked at the books again. “You wrote these books,” he said. “You want to punch people…”

“It’s humor, not how-to,” I said. I assumed a Karen-stance. Legs apart, hands on the hips, lips pursed, eyes narrowed, phone out, ready to call a manager or go live on Facebook at any minute.

“Right.” Now he turned his attention to the binder he’d casually tossed aside earlier. When he opened it he was greeted with my opening line:

“I’m so excited to be here. I even put on some fucking pants and an industrial size boulder holder for you guys! Thank you so much for coming out tonight! You’re my favorites and I do not want to punch any of you in the throat…yet.”

I think that was the point when this young man realized today was not the day to rifle through all of my books looking for weapons. This was not the fight he was going to take on at 4:30 on a Monday morning. He didn’t get paid enough to deal with me and my bullshit.

He slowly closed the binder and placed it gently on top of the stacks of books. “I think you’re okay to go,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. I smiled brightly as I put my phone away and zipped up my bag.

I boarded my plane without any more trouble and flew off to my destination. I did change up my opening line a bit. It just didn’t feel right. I think I went with, “How’s it going, fuckers?” or something like that.

I’ve never seen that young man again. I often wonder about him. Where is he now? What is he doing? Did he ever read one of my books? I should have left him one to remember me by!