Your Norm Is Not the Norm
As my wife likes to tell me, "Marco, your norm is not the norm."
"Mr. Troeger, there is no record of your ticket in our system," the gate agent tells me after a series of alarming beeps emanated from her ticket scanner. I was connecting flights in Minneapolis, attempting to board my flight home to Grand Rapids.
"But I just flew here from San Francisco and this is my connection and that is my ticket," I tell her, pointing to the ticket in her hand.
"I see your name on my screen and I see you have a seat assignment, but the system is telling me there is no reservation record connected to it."
I stare into her eyes, looking for some hint of sympathy. Nothing reflects back.
"I don't understand," I reply.
"Neither do I," she says. Deadpan.
The years of information systems experience whirling around in my brain kick into gear, searching for something that might actually help.
"You have an orphan record!" I blurt out.
Everyone within earshot turns to stare. The gate agent blinks.
"I don't know what that means," she says. "Take a seat while I board the other passengers."
Her finger directs me to a lone chair beside the gate desk. I have been sent to airport timeout.
One by one, every other passenger files past me. I keep my eyes on the floor. The boarding area empties. The jetway door is still open, which I take as a good sign, though I have learned not to put too much faith in good signs.
"Mr. Troeger, did you fly in on another airline?"
I stand and approach the desk. "No. I flew here from San Francisco on your airline. This is my connection. You have my ticket."
"Yes, you told me that already." She goes back to her screen.
A call is made. Time passes. There is mumbling, keyboard clicking, screen-pouting, occasional glances in my direction. I begin to worry about my TSA Pre status.
"I think we found the problem, Mr. Troeger," she says finally, with the faint suggestion of a smile. "No, wait." she quickly counters. “It’s not that.”
She goes back to the phone. More mumbling. More clicking. More screen-pouting. Then, something shifts. Her posture changes almost imperceptibly, the way people look when they have just done something they are quietly proud of.
"Mr. Troeger, I think I've resolved your issue." She reaches to the ticket printer and hands me a crisp new boarding pass. I stare at it the way you stare at something you had given up on.
"Thank you," I say, and mean it completely.
"There is one thing," she adds.
There is always one thing.
"Because your original ticket had no reservation record, the system flagged you as a possible security risk. You will need to go back through TSA screening before I can let you board. A TSA agent will need to initial your boarding pass and stamp it."
I look at the jetway door. I look at my watch. I look at her.
"The flight leaves in eleven minutes," I say.
"Yes," she replies. "It does."
She holds my gaze. I hold hers. Behind her, the jetway door is still open. Behind me, TSA is a train ride, a long line and a security screening away.
"I would hurry," she says.
Turning around to leave I suddenly notice, not thirty feet away, adjacent to the gate, is a TSA agent seated at a Taco Bell, working through a chili cheese burrito and a bowl of nacho cheese fries. He seems to have the focused dedication of a man with nowhere to be. I was focused on getting home, where I needed to be.
"One minute," I turn back to tell her, holding a finger up in a desperate gesture.
I walk over. He has a half eaten burrito in hand. The other hand is dipping into his cheese fries. He's leaning down over his Pepsi, grabbing the straw with his lips, focused on taking a long draw of sugary sweetness.
"Excuse me," I say. "I hate to interrupt. Can you screen me?"
His eyes glance up, straw still in his mouth. "Pardon?" He clutches his burrito tightly as if I'm going to take it.
"Screen you?" he asks, a bit puzzled.
"Yes. Right now. Here. My flight leaves in nine minutes and the gate agent says I need to be screened before I can board. I'll never make it to the screening area in time."
He picks up his Pepsi and takes a long pull from the straw, maintaining eye contact the entire time.
"I'm on break," he says with a swallow.
"I understand that. I'm asking anyway. Please."
He considers this. He picks up his burrito, ready to take a bite. He sets it back down.
"You want me to screen you. At Taco Bell."
"I want you to screen me anywhere you're comfortable, but somewhere close to this gate."
Another long look. He glances over at the gate agent, who is watching this exchange with the expression of someone who has seen everything and is no longer surprised by any of it. They seem to share unspoken words.
He stands up slowly, the way people stand when they are doing you an enormous favor and need you to understand that.
He unclips something from his belt. "Arms out," he says.
I extend my arms. He runs whatever he is holding along my sides, my back, my legs, pausing once at my right knee in a way that makes me think I am about to have a second problem.
"Knee replacement?" he asks.
"No."
"Hm," he says, giving it a little pat, and keeps going.
It takes ninety seconds. Maybe less. He steps back, looks me over once more. I start to step away.
"Wait," he says.
I turn around. He points to my backpack.
"Really?" I say.
"You asked for a screen," he says. "You’re getting a proper screen."
A couple at the neighboring table has stopped eating. They have been watching this whole interaction with great interest.
I set the backpack on the Taco Bell table pushing aside packets of Fire Sauce and crumpled napkins. He quickly moves his burrito to the other side as if I'm going to tamper with it.
He unzips my backpack with the methodical patience of a man who has all the time in the world. Technically, on his break, he does. He peers inside. He moves things around. He removes my laptop and sets it on the table. He removes my toiletry bag and sets it next to the laptop. He removes a tangled charging cable, examines it briefly, and sets it down. He finds a granola bar, holds it up, looks at it, sets it down.
With the same methodical approach, he repacks my backpack with the efficient authority of someone who has done this ten thousand times and will do it ten thousand more.
He slides it back across the table.
He holds up my granola bar which he failed to repack. "I'm keeping this," he says.
I open my mouth to protest. My stomach chooses that exact moment to not-so-subtly growl.
Instead I think better. My protest changes to, "Thank you and thank you for your service."
He nods once, the granola bar already disappearing into his shirt pocket.
As I leave to return to the gate, I hear the gate agent call out. "He has to initial it."
I turn back. The TSA agent already has his pen out. I hand him my boarding pass and he scribbles with a flourish worthy of a king signing a decree. He hands it back.
I take it and examine it, making sure it is all there. Next to his initials is a burrito stain. Greasy cheese with a little bean I believe.
I give it a long stare. She did say it needed a stamp.
I walk quickly back to the gate. The jetway door is still open, which at this point feels like a miracle on the order of things I will never fully understand.
I hand the gate agent my boarding pass. She scans it. No alarming beeps. One clean, affirming tone.
"It's been an interesting evening, Mr. Troeger. Thank you for your patience. Have a good flight," she says, handing the ticket back, avoiding touching the burrito stain.
"Memorable trip.” I mutter.
I walk down the jetway, enter the aircraft, find my seat and stuff my backpack under the space in front of me. I sit down and buckle my seatbelt.
The man next to me is eating a granola bar.
I stare at it.
He notices. "Want some?"
"No, thanks," I reply.
I look straight ahead. Somewhere my wife is waiting for me to come home and tell her about my day. She will not be surprised.