“Sir, I bet you’re surprised we didn’t have to look inside that case, aren’t you?”

The case in question is my hard-shelled Pelican case, stuffed full of microphones, wires, tools and batteries. The question came from a TSA agent in the Providence airport. The case and I were heading to the first NBA game of the season on the Entertainment and Sports Production Network (better known as ESPN) After the first game, this case will be shipped along with thirty other cases from game to game for the rest of the season.

Mike Duke, my audio assistant, ended up with the microphone case at the end of last NBA season. Having no need for it over the summer, Mike kept it and used it for his WNBA shows. Since NBA is starting again (already) and Mike will not be at the first game, he returned the case to me at a recent race we both worked in Memphis. I checked the box as luggage from Memphis and went home with no problem. It never occurred to me that Mike’s name and information were still attached to the outside of the box.

After checking in for this most recent flight, the TSA agent asked me if I was surprised they didn’t have to open the case up. I admitted I was a little surprised, I would imagine the x-rayed contents look at least mildly suspicious. The agent assured me that the computer didn’t “think “ so.

I smiled, thanked her and went to the security line. Evidently, though the computer didn’t think my microphones look suspicious, I did. My ticket had the dreaded four SSSS’s in the lower corner, awarding me the privilege of “extra screening.”

Security has come a long way from the days when the TSA regarded everyone as a potential terrorist. In Providence, extra screening now includes a blow job. Standing inside a box that resembled a phone booth, rapid blasts of air were blown at me from all directions. What exactly this does besides startling people in the name of security is beyond me. In any case, I passed that test. (Yes, that’s all that happened. Get your mind out of the gutter.) Blown clean, I walked to the next area. The customary rubber-glove exam followed soon after. I was cleared by TSA as persona non-threatening, and I celebrated with a pint of Newport Storm beer.

Then, one hundred fifty thousand pounds of steel, fuel, oxygen masks, floating seat-cushions and flesh (and hopefully one microphone case) did the impossible. The heavy metal tube left the ground and climbed six miles in the air. A little over two hours later we landed in Detroit.

After boarding my connecting flight, I watched out my window with interest as four people scanned tags then loaded luggage into the belly of the plane. Though I didn’t see my luggage, I assumed it had made it to Detroit. Five minutes later I had proof that it did.

“If there is a Mike Duke on the plane, please ring your call button.”

My first though was “Cool! I didn’t know Mike was on this flight.” Then it hit me. Mike wasn’t on the plane, because he isn’t working this show. I realized the call was meant for me, or more specifically my microphone case (with HIS name on it). Uh oh. I bet there is a stupid TSA rule against this sort of thing. “Do Not Carry Packages Belonging To Others” or something… This should be interesting.

I started thinking quickly how I could explain the box, the jumble of wires and batteries checked to me but with someone else’s name on it… “Yeah, it’s actually mine, it just has Mike’s name on it.” No. “It’s his, and I am just carrying it for him.” Definitely not. “Uhh…”

All eyes on me, I nervously walked to the front of the plane. A stern-faced TSA agent demanded my identification. I produced my license. Then he demanded to see my ticket and the baggage tag. I showed both. He asked if I knew what was inside the case. I said yes.

The agent was serious, but not nearly as bad as the jack booted TSA agent years ago that informed me I couldn’t bring a roll of half-inch masking tape on a plane because I could “make handcuffs by wrapping tape many times around someone’s wrists.” I asked him, “Are you serious? What about my belt or shoe laces? Don’t you think they’d make MUCH better handcuffs than masking tape?” After an argument, I was allowed to take the tape along, and have never been questioned about it again.

I never had to identify the contents of the microphone case, they never asked who Mike Duke was or why his name was on my luggage. That was that. No further questions, no additional blow jobs, nothing. The plane was delayed about ten minutes, and for a change it was all my fault! I was never given an official reason for this questioning, though I doubt it had anything to do with masking tape. I will say that TSA tolerance has come a long way from the days when nail clippers were considered terrorist weapons, as I wasn’t arrested.

I was glad to see that my microphones were not taken away and blown up in the name of security.

Author: frenchy