The Setup
It was late November. The year was two-thousand and eighteen. It was midmorning on a Tuesday, and I was approaching security at Sky Harbor International Airport, having just concluded my very first visit to Phoenix, Flagstaff, and the Grand Canyon.
As one of many souvenirs, I had purchased a small jar of pepper jelly from the general store at the South Rim of Grand Canyon National Park. At the time I had no way of knowing that purchase, and the impulsive transport decision that accompanied it, was about to potentially change my life forever.
The Ill-Conceived Thought Process
Keep in mind this was now a different era in air travel. Rules had changed, security had tightened, screening had become more intense. (I think I may be engaged to a TSA agent in Atlanta that I encountered the previous Thursday, but that’s a retelling for another day with perhaps a different MPA rating.)
I had meticulously analyzed my carry-on contents and scrutinized each decision as far as what made the cut and what did not. The jar of pepper jelly somehow managed to find itself, in my very uniquely compartmentalized little assortment of gray matter, outside of all standard categories and therefore in a unique designation of its own.
A fragile jar of pepper jelly in a checked bag seemed preposterous. I’ve watched out my window as those bags are loaded and unloaded between filthy rolling racks and the underbellies of the monstrous flying machines. Think they are handled as if they contained the sacred ashes of the first maharajah of India?
They are not.
And who wants to return home from a glorious vacation to discover that they can pick out their luggage from the busy carousel based on aroma alone? And then open the bag and see your wardrobe smeared with pepper jelly as if it were a piece of barbecue bread at a West Texas rodeo?
I did not want any of those scenarios, so very wisely, I thought, I wrapped it in multiple layers of newspaper and stuffed it into my carry-on.
The newspapers, as I tried later to explain, were for protection, not concealment.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
And It Starts
As I was walking toward the security checkpoint, I went ahead and slipped off my Tevas. Removing footwear was still a requirement at this time; remember this, it becomes important later.
I grabbed a gray plastic bin, placed my Tevas and my backpack in, and slid it onto the rollers. I stepped forward, and when I was called, I entered the X-ray chamber and stood on the little feet pictures. They always reminded me of the foot-placement diagrams in a dance studio, only with jet fuel and radiation.
I held my arms straight up and curved above my head, wondering, as I always wonder in this exact position and situation, how much of my manhood was currently on display against a fluorescent green background, and if it was looking its best today.
I stepped out of the chamber (I have no idea what to call those little Peeping Tom booths) and walked a step or two to wait for my bag and shoes.
Everything smooth and routine.
Then, the moment my little gray plastic bin emerged, the belt stopped. Two large gentlemen had converged on said bin and removed it to a little stand nearby. I was so focused on the oddity of this that I was totally caught by surprise when a hand gripped my right elbow and the accompanying voice said, “Sir, I’m going to need you to step this way.”
And I was NOT imagining this next part: heads turned in my direction. All of them.
The line had stopped.
Full stop.
Dead stop.
The other travelers felt entitled to know what the holdup was. I was a bit curious myself.
Apparently, it was me.
Escalation
“Just step right this way, sir. Can you confirm this is your bag and shoes in the bin?”
I wasn’t sure what was happening. I wished I had emptied my bladder after leaving the Delta ticket counter. Yes, that was my stuff. But why was he asking? Did I need a lawyer? Was someone trying to smuggle peyote or worse in my little Nautica backpack?
“Yes, sir.”
The security agent, as it turns out, was actually a very burly but handsome female. The universe had decided I wasn’t getting any slack today.
“It’s ma’am.”
Not exactly angry, but absolutely direct. I was thinking she had been called sir before. I was also thinking that I was not going to ask her about that.
She (as has now been painfully established) continued.
“Has your bag been in your possession constantly? Has there been any time when the bag was not within your line of sight or under your direct control?”
It was peyote. Or uranium. Maybe illegal clippings from the sacred desert saguaro. I had been an easy target. Whistling through life, headed for one final Southwestern breakfast at San Tan in Terminal 3 before boarding.
My thoughts were all buzzing around like bees in a brewery. I HAD been in control of my bag the whole time. Maintaining control of my bladder was becoming increasingly questionable, but this backpack had been on my shoulder or draped by my side since I had gotten out of the rental car.
I steeled myself, looked the agent directly in the eyes, and decided to wow her with my calm and collected nature, my highly educated turn of phrase, so there’d be no question as to my innocence in whatever this actually was that was happening.
“I three under the past Delta desk from tomorrow.”
What the hell?
The universe was now just screwing with me.
“Excuse me, sir. What was that?”
“Yes.”
“Yes to what?”
“This is the bag I bought at Macy’s.”
“Sir, I did not ask where you bought the bag. You want the God’s honest truth?”
She leaned in like she was about to tell me a secret. I didn’t think I was gonna like this secret.
“We do not care where the bag came from. We DO care whether or not this bag has been in your direct possession since you packed it.”
Apparently whatever store she had stopped at most recently had either been completely out of breath mints or simply didn’t carry a flavor that she found pleasing.
I decided not to ask about that, either.
I glanced over at the little counter in my holding area and saw my bag being dismantled, all its contents being taken out one by one and cataloged.
“It’s my bag.”
“I KNOW it is your bag. We saw you carry it in.”
I debated bursting into flames as a distraction but decided she probably wouldn’t care for that, either.
“I packed it in my hotel room this morning with a few things I would want with me on the plane or things I might need access to and my little notebook to write in and oh my God I have ink pens in there and could those be considered weapons? There might even be Q-tips but I swear I’m not sure and I’m usually not a violent person since I don’t drink any more and I would never attack anyone with a Q-tip no matter what the situation was. Your honor.”
Word vomit. Tons of it.
All over this poor little mountain of a woman. All down her front and a little on her right-hand side. The rest pooled on the floor near my bare feet.
No Brunch for the Wicked
“Please step this way, sir.”
I glanced behind me. You know, to make sure that the entire airport was still at a standstill and staring at me, the apparent cause of the situation.
They were.
Of course they were.
“Do you recognize the contents of this bag?”
“Yes. That’s my journal, and that water bottle is empty. Bone dry. I made sure of that. Those are the pens I was explaining about. I am going to be a writer. Oh look I did pack the Q-tips. Never know when you might need a Q-tip. Non-violently. Of course.”
I tried to make myself stop talking. I begged myself to stop talking.
“I didn’t even think about the fact that I guess I probably could stab someone with those pens. I mean, I guess if you aimed carefully you could get at the jugular, or something equally vital. I suppose. I took anatomy in college.”
Ms. Mountain, I finally realized, was staring at me with an expression I had never seen before. As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen it since.
She looked up at her colleagues; the look didn’t change. I noticed the search of my bag had stopped, apparently so they could all pay attention to my story in case it had to be recited in great detail from a witness stand.
The search continued. At some point a dog got involved.
While the contents were still being evaluated, Ms. Mountain summoned over one of the male (I assume male since I am male, though I never used another gender-specific address for the duration) agents.
I was told to hold my arms straight out.
And here we go.
Now, I do not want to imply that this person enjoyed the job of thoroughly patting me down more than he professionally should have, but I swear I caught him sniffing the back of my neck as he ran his hands around the inside of my waistband.
“It’s Sauvage, by Dior.”
Why couldn’t I just stop saying stuff???
“Excuse me?”
“My cologne. It’s. Well. I thought that you were… I mean… I got it at Macy’s. When I bought the bag.”
“Is this pepper jelly in this jar?” The agent hovering over my bag was apparently asking me a question.
“Well, I certainly hope so! I paid a small fortune for it, and that’s what the label says. If it’s not, y’all’ve got some rogue pepper jelly counterfeiters operating around Arizona!”
No one was amused. They obviously didn’t appreciate, or even recognize, humor.
I’d like to be able to say I stopped trying.
Man, would I like to be able to say that.
The pat-down continued.
At one point I blushed a little. I also learned I’m a little ticklish.
“You wanna grab brunch later? You know, TSA blue is your color. Brings out your eyes. Did that influence your decision to take the job?"
Why could I not STOP???
“I should probably tell you, there’s a TSA agent in Atlanta that I’ve kinda already got a thing with anyway. He’s probably not gonna like this. Like, at all. His name is Luke. Well, that’s what I decided to call him. Everybody needs a name.”
Any more word vomit and we were all gonna be swimming around in it.
I, however, thought I was being adorable.
“Alright, he’s clear.”
“So that’s a hard no on brunch, I’m guessing?”
No response.
I realize now that was probably a blessing.
Meanwhile, the bear manhandling my backpack had swabs out that he was smearing all over everything. The jelly jar was opened. There was a swab sticking out of it. Specimens were being introduced to a machine that I had never even noticed before.
The analyst kept sideways glancing at me.
I did notice that the TSA lines had started moving again. There I stood, no shoes, my bag contents splayed out for the world to see. Every passenger that walked by paused to stare.
One little girl, maybe about three, looked up at me and gave a little shudder, like she couldn’t believe she was in the presence of such pure wickedness.
“It’s just jelly!”
Well, that didn’t help.
“Come on, Anna Beth. It’s not polite to stare. We’ve taught you about those people.”
THOSE PEOPLE?
I was just about at my limit.
Barefoot. Felt up. No brunch on the foreseeable horizon. My bag contents strewn out everywhere.
My souvenir jelly violated beyond recognition.
It’s Finally Over
At this point I am fast coming to a realization.
That jar of pepper jelly is the culprit.
The mastermind.
Apparently the root of all evil.
“Sir, are you aware of the TSA liquids rule?”
This really didn’t sound like a question. Still, the TSA agent now turned CSI chemical analyst was clearly waiting for a response. The dude that had just felt me up was standing by his side, arms crossed.
They looked like they could be the cover art for a highly unsuccessful rap album.
“Of course I am. I fly all the time.”
Smug was apparently not the correct tone.
“Really? Then can you explain this twelve-ounce jar of jelly in your carry-on? Can you do that, please? And perhaps why you tried to conceal it in about an inch of newsprint?”
“Well, I was at Nordstrom yesterday. Or was it day before? No, I’m wrong. It was Saturday. I was at Nordstrom Saturday and they were having this great sale. Oh, wait. No. First I had gone to Neiman Marcus. You know, the one at Fashion Square? Man, I just love that place! I mean, they have everything, don’t they? Prada, pretzels, pets! And the roof opens! I was blown away. Like, is this a mall or a sports arena? Am I right?”
My little group of agents had now grown to five.
And they all had the same look on their face.
I recognized it this time.
“I bought new clothes and stuff and I was afraid of the way the baggage handlers throw luggage around that, you know, the jar would break and get all over my new things and have you ever tried to get red pepper stain out of a white linen shirt and from that look I’m guessing no, you have not…”
I could hear myself like I had exited my body and was watching the whole thing go down. Trying to will myself to shut up.
But I just kept going.
“So, I wrapped it in lots of paper to protect it, and I thought it would be safer in the bag that way, and I really didn’t think about it being a liquid because, you know, it’s jelly, and in my experience when jelly is liquid it’s because it hasn’t turned to jelly yet. But this is clearly jelly. Still. So it worked. You know, the jelling process. And all.”
“It’s a liquid, sir. Jelly is considered a liquid.”
“My bad.”
My bad?
I was surrounded by TSA agents who were about to determine whether or not I would fly today, or in fact ever again, and maybe even take me to airport jail, and the best I could do was MY BAD?
I was never going to be allowed on an airplane ever again.
“Well. Everything checked out. You can put everything away now. You can keep the jelly.”
You can keep the jelly? Seriously? What the hell was I going to do with the jelly now?
Don’t say what you’re thinking. Don’t say what you’re thinking. Don’t say what you’re thinking.
“Uh. No thanks.” Finally I listened to me.
People were still slowly moving past me. The belts were all rolling again. I stashed everything else back in the bag and grabbed up my shoes.
Of course there was no bench in sight.
I put down my bag (keeping my eyes on it, for sure) and tried to stand on one foot and put my sandals back on. My knees and my balance wouldn’t cooperate, and Tevas are tedious.
Screw it.
With my severely violated backpack (from Macy’s) slung over my right shoulder, and my Tevas in my left hand, I held my head high, walked away from security, and entered the crowd of people heading into the terminal.
About fifty feet in, I found a place to sit and strap my shoes back on. I sat there for a minute, trying to collect what was left of my thoughts.
What an ordeal.
It was at that moment that I realized I was right in front of an airport gift shop.
Newspapers, hoodie sweatshirts, T-shirts, shot glasses…
And on display, right up front, in kind of a pyramid formation like the way you might find peas in a 1950s grocery store, was about forty jars of Grand Canyon Pepper Jelly.
I bought two jars and cried all the way to my gate.
