Friday, October 19, 2001

The first time after

When they tell you to arrive at the airport three hours before your appointed flight time, they mean it. It's better to be safe than sorry, even if being safe means you occasionally have to spend three hours at the airport.

I was scheduled to leave St. Louis last Saturday at 7:24 a.m. for a long weekend of relaxation in New York. I generally operate on the premise that the best preparation for relaxation is to almost completely exhaust oneself. Fortunately, we were opening a play at The Rep on Friday and the post-performance party didn't wind down until nearly 2 a.m.

There was no point in attempting to sleep. A couple of hours at home, packing my bag and playing with a dog who can be frisky on demand any hour of the day, and I was off. I arrived at Lambert Field at 5 a.m. exactly.

To my surprise, the curbside check-in was open for business, so I marched right up with my bag and my itinerary and my ID. The skycap checked all my papers, entered my particulars in a computer and informed me that TWA apparently had absolutely no idea I was planning to fly on that day. "You'll have to get in line for a ticket agent," he said.

This was my first indication that my carefree weekend might not be nearly so free of care as I had imagined. The line to which he pointed was so long — stretching in a zigzag through the terminal, out the door and along the curb — that I could have saved the cost of parking and joined it just after stepping out the front door of my house.

I joined the line at 5:10 a.m. To their credit, the hard-working folks of TWA plowed through the throng with dispatch and I made it to the counter just after 6:30, albeit desperately wishing a Porta-John had been installed somewhere along the circuit. The several sodas and cups of coffee necessary to remain conscious this long were taking their toll on my bladder.

Joe, the friendly ticket agent, again punched my particulars into his computer and confirmed that...he couldn't confirm anything. Although I had a confirmation number, an e-mail outlining my planned journey, and a charge for the ticket on my credit card, he couldn't issue me a boarding pass. "There's no shell in the computer," he said, as if that explained it all.

"Ah," I said, as if I understood. I crossed my legs and waited while Joe punched more buttons.

Herewith, a summary of what Joe and his computer did for the next 45 minutes: Punch, punch, punch, beep, scowl. Punch, punch, scowl. Beep, beep, punch, beep, scowl. Repeat.

Finally, after enlisting the help of someone named Ida, on the phone presumably in some secret ticket agent bunker at a remote location, Joe found the elusive shell (Punch, scowl, punch, beep, beep, "Aha!") and printed out my ticket.

"You're on flight 140, which departs from gate C26 and begins boarding at 6:45," he said.

I looked at my watch. It was now 7:15 a.m.

"And do you suppose," I asked, "I'll be able to get through security, past 26 gates, and — and this is most important Joe — to pee, before the flight departs at 7:24 a.m.?"

Dear, sweet, predictable Joe scowled.

"No," he said. "No, I suppose not. Would you like me to book you on the next flight out?"

Grateful for any eventuality that would put me in front of a urinal in the next quarter hour, I agreed and hoped desperately there were now plenty of shells — whatever the hell they are — in the computer. Sure enough, a few punches, beeps and minutes later, I had a ticket on the 10 a.m. flight.

Nearly three hours away.

The first few minutes of that time I spent happily micturating in a freshly scrubbed restroom across from Starbucks. And then, proud to be part of the eternal circle of life — consume, excrete, etc. — I strode to the counter and bought a tall latte.

Clutching my cup of precious caffeine in one hand and my even more coveted ticket in the other, I joined the line at the security checkpoint around 7:30 a.m. Except for the metal detectors and x-ray devices emitting more beeps and bells than a phlanx of nickel slot machines, the queue resembled, I thought, an anxious crowd waiting to board the Star Tours ride at Disneyland.

(With nothing to do but "people watch" at this point, I idly wondered to myself if Disney had closed or renamed the otherwise entertaining "Tower of Terror" rides.)

As I neared the front of the line, I overheard the uniformed guards asking each passenger with a bag if they were carrying cell phones, laptop computers or other personal electronics. I thought about the contents of my briefcase: iBook, PCS phone, battery charger, digital camera, assorted cables, power adapters and dongles. Just beyond the grey arches of the metal detectors, I could see camouflage-clad National Guardspeople sternly keeping watch over the procession.

"Do you have a laptop computer, cell phone or other personal electronics with you?" asked the vaguely distracted guard when I had my turn.

I began to unzip my tote to remove the items in question. "Yes," I said, "I've got the whole shooting match in here."

Note to self: Do not say "shooting match" to an airport security guard during times of national panic. Colloquial banter is neither ignored nor properly appreciated.

After a hand search of my bag, passing through two metal detectors (Beep, beep? Belt. Beep? Watch. Beep? Uh...too much iron in my diet?) and undergoing a personal search during which a heavyset guard with a Joe-worthy scowl swept over my body with a long, flat wand resembling an elementary school principal's instrument of corporal punishment, I was permitted to repack my things.

"Sorry about this," the first guard said to me, while a hellaciously cute Guardsman looked on.

"S'OK," I said. "I've got plenty of time to kill."

Note to self: Do not say "time to kill" within earshot of skittish but cute members of the armed forces at an airport security checkpoint. You'll get another going over with the wand and a stern scowling at.

It's just after 8:30 a.m. and I'm through the gauntlet, headed down the concourse toward my gate with only a backwards forlorn glance at the Burger King where a clerk who looks as tired as I feel has just announced, to gasps and wails from the hungrey crowd, that there are no more Croissanwiches to be had.

I take a seat in the passenger lounge, sip the dregs of my coffee and begin to look forward to taking a nap in the city that never sleeps.