I monitor the pitch-and-roll gauge on the seatback screen in front of me. I’m impressed with Delta’s “command center” data screen—specifically the 510–530 mph speed shifts and the 3D image of a Delta plane rotating above a compass, an arrow measuring our 34,000-foot altitude.
Earlier, paused in security, a TSA worker—someone who reminds you of your coolest family member—speaks generally to all of us waiting: “I’m going to quit. Hear me now. In the next thirty minutes.”
A black-masked, uniformed man steps across my path, pressing a swinging door to stand in the restricted area beside her. With the conveyor belt stopped (possibly broken), thirty suitcases stalled, and a bin holding a kettlebell going nowhere, the two agents convene.
With him there, she chuckles, their closest arms pulling each other in for a quick, above-the-waist squeeze. She asks, “How are you, love?” She’s the kind of person whose refrigerator is likely littered with Christmas cards this time of year—her energy is infectious. Their greeting ends as quickly as it begins, and she continues her communal commentary: “Yeah, but that’s nothing new. I threaten to quit every day.”
We make it through, though each of our suitcases gets flagged—even poor little Evelyn’s totally cute, mini-sized, bright turquoise one, covered in Finding Nemo characters, takes the roll of shame.
Multiple TSA agents come on shift, one so expressive he could’ve been on Broadway. He proudly swivels the large monitor toward himself. “Ooo-eeee! This thing is nice,” he says, admiring the updated technology and the super-clear image of Dave’s bag.
Soon, my personal effects are rifled through. I hope my examiner has the same hefty dose of humanity as the others.
That is a big nada.
Without acknowledging my presence, blue latex gloves snap on—at a pace slower than an elementary school’s morning announcements. After a heavy sigh, the zipper comes undone, and they launch a full, space-shuttle-style inspection while my mind searches for answers about what’s been flagged.
Afterward, I roll my luggage over to Dave.
“It’s my two large bags of gravy mix.”
We both find this hilarious—the two commercial-sized bags of white powdered substance under inspection. Possible drugs that are nothing more than Country-style pepper gravy. And even though I debated packing it, I figured I’d risk it, knowing I can teach my brother my grandma’s biscuit-and-gravy recipe even without it.
Three hours and thirty-five minutes since takeoff, one hour and thirty-five to go. Our flight wasn’t nearly as bumpy as anticipated, and that the pilot’s cautions were for not, my nervous system’s taken a good, long smoke break.
Despite the 4:40 a.m. wake-up, it’s been a fine morning—and will continue to be, as we gain three more hours in our day.
I’m looking forward to smelling that wet, pine-oxygenated air. And since we skirted the forced bag check, we’ll exit the airport faster than if we had to wait at baggage claim.
Yay.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 