← Columns

Scan this, Baby!

The Source

Scan this, Baby! A crowded airport is not the ideal place to lose you pants. I’d been searched, prodded, poked, peeked into, and pilfered, but until I walked into the terrorist-sniffing section of the St. Louis airport I’d never been scanned. ..full body, that is. Anyone who’s flown in the last fifteen years knows that the ticketing desk has become a breeze due to pre-boarding on the Internet, and customs is no longer a big deal, but if you’re going to miss a flight it’ll be due to the TSA, Transportation Security Administration. So in order to speed up the pat down and x-ray process, and get a better “feel” for who’s boarding the plane, an increasing number of airports have installed full body scanners that in effect strip you of all your clothing and then snap a picture. I’d heard tales but hadn’t actually seen one in action…then I tried to board the plane and there it was. The devices look a like the metal stalls we used to hold and castrate steers. They were a bit more open and colorful than our manure-splashed holding chutes, but the dimensions were the same. You wait until the officer waves you into the booth, you place your feet on the yellow footprints painted onto the floor, then raise your hands over your head as directed in the diagram. The whole thing takes five seconds….if you’re lucky. And five seconds are plenty for your pants to drop to the floor. Let me explain something about suspenders to you belt people. Like me, many gentlemen wear their suspenders underneath their shirt. There’s nothing wrong with this. You may not want to see my suspenders and I’ve seen them before, so I snap them onto my pants, hitch them around my shoulders then put on the shirt. This makes them invisible to the rest of the civilized world, including the typical pat & poker working for the TSA. But the full body scan lady in the viewing booth only sees four metal clips that could be explosive devices. Bottom line: you must remove the suspenders before you enter any type of airport security. It is possible …. and humorous to observe…a man taking off his suspenders while they’re still under his shirt. I’ve done it many times. Usually my fellow passengers are so busy emptying their pockets and purses that my clothing calisthenics aren’t noticed. But let me remind all you beltless people that I wear my suspenders for a reason. They keep my pants up….or not. When you ask me to take off these very needful items, walk into a full body scan booth holding up my pants manually, then direct me to throw my hands in the air…well…the airlines may be able to start adding an entertainment tax to their already lucrative baggage fees. The only way in the world to keep my pants from falling to my knees is to spread my legs very widely to exert pressure on the outside of the pant legs. The lady in the viewing booth must surely assume that she’s scanning some aging cowboy whose legs have been permanently bowed by years of riding the range. I wonder if the TSA employees flip a coin to see who’ll get to work the booth on any particular morning. Do they pick the body viewers on the strength of their eyesight or their ability to keep from laughing out loud? I was twice subjected to these intimidating devices on a recent trip and in both cases I didn’t pass the test. I could actually hear the lady (Must it always be a lady?) in the guy’s earpiece. “Check his right sock. Check his left sock.” Since she knew I was a “he,” I assumed the device was working. Then on my return trip, “Waist band…left sleeve….” One bright spot: the body pat man told me where he was going before he went there. “I’m going to check your inseam now. Now I’m checking your waistband. No I’m going to touch your collar.” I’ve paid big money for guided tours that were less informative. Once I pass or don’t pass the body scan and pat down, I’m faced with the day’s only truly impossible task. It is a feat worthy of Houdini to attach your suspenders under your shirt. The only good alternatives are to walk down to your boarding lounging holding your passport, your carryon and your pants, or clip the straps on the outside of your shirt. This particular style of suspender wear always reminds me of the toothless old men sitting on the front porch in the movie “Deliverance,” but I waddle my way toward the nearest restroom stall in this condition, hoping I won’t be recognized by anyone I know. The ACLU is not happy with invasion of privacy but so far our fear of being blown up on the way to Miami has outdistanced our fear of blowup photos of our naked bodies being plastered on TSA break room walls. On my return trip I had checked my carryon bag and got ready to step through the magic chute when the lady behind the counter reminded me to remove a bottle of water. I’m sure I recognized her voice from my previous trip. I wonder if she recognized me.