It's become a fixture far beyond the airport. Go to a concert or a sporting event, a museum or an amusement park, city hall or an office building, and you get scanned. While we may grouse about the inconvenience, current events have persuaded most of us that it is a lamentable necessity of everyday life. And if it stops one unstable person from bringing a weapon into public setting and doing others harm, it's a tradeoff most are willing to at least tolerate.
That said, the actual implementation of said inspection exists on a continuum running from stringent to perfunctory to barely going through the motions. Part of this reflects the different venues where it's deployed and who is doing the looking. At the airport you have full-time professional staff screening millions, conscious of the weight of their responsibility. At other end are your rent-a-guards, who are well-meaning but often part-timers and minimally trained. Most of their encounters are with invited guests in business suits with briefcases going to meetings, a lower risk talent pool than your international terrorist.
Coupled with this is the fact that the standards vary widely. You might skate through one checkpoint, only to be flagged at the very next, because of different gear or operators. A belt buckle might set off one and not the next, or one screener might pass on a shadow while another sees a threat. I have come directly from the airport where my suitcase breezed through TSA in record time, only to have the exact same stuff set off a lobby X-ray machine three times. True, at just the right angle, if you squint, and you stayed up late the night before to watch "John Wick – Parabellum," my headphones could be mistaken for a Glock, but not really.
To deal with this headache, I've streamlined my everyday carry to stuff that usually passes muster with no problems, shedding any items that could ring a bell. Still, there is no telling. I was recently going to dinner at a park, and had to pass through a checkpoint on my way in. I emptied my pockets into a plastic tray, aimed it into the maw of the scanner and stepped through the metal detector.
The young guy running the equipment stared at the screen as my stuff went through. He called over an older, obviously more experienced guard working with him. "What's that?" he asked as pointed to the screen, then looked up on me. "You have anything sharp in your wallet?" Before I could answer, the older guy jumped in: "Ah, it's nothing, just his keys." The kid tried again, less sure of himself, as I shrugged my shoulders. "I dunno. Doesn't look like keys." The older guy glanced again at the screen. "Nah, just keys." He picked up the tray and handed it to me. "Thanks sir, enjoy your night." I refilled my pockets and walked away.
As I rounded the curve away from them, I had a thought and took out my wallet. Indeed, a while back someone had given me a steel mutli-tool the size of a credit card. I had tucked it into my wallet, completely forgetting it was there. It had been through scanners dozens of times, with operators either ignoring it or deciding it was no threat (it is indeed described as TSA-compliant). That's what the younger guard had spotted: not a issue, but perhaps worth checking if he had any doubts. That is, until his buddy waved him off with a "Nothing to see here, move along."
After dinner I returned the same way I came to find the two guards still on duty. I stopped and refreshed their memory as to what happened earlier. I turned to the young guy, pulled out my wallet and showed him the tool. "You were right: there was something there." I turned to the older guy. "He wasn't seeing things." The older fellow took the tool from me and looked at it: "Yeah, but it's not really sharp or anything." "True," I said, "but he was right." I took it back, slid it back into my wallet, bid them a good night and walked away. The older guy waved back with a tight smile; the younger one was trying to suppress a grin. Metal had indeed been detected: I suspect the rest of their shift passed in silence.
-END-
Marc Wollin of Bedford wears belts with plastic buckles for traveling. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.
That said, the actual implementation of said inspection exists on a continuum running from stringent to perfunctory to barely going through the motions. Part of this reflects the different venues where it's deployed and who is doing the looking. At the airport you have full-time professional staff screening millions, conscious of the weight of their responsibility. At other end are your rent-a-guards, who are well-meaning but often part-timers and minimally trained. Most of their encounters are with invited guests in business suits with briefcases going to meetings, a lower risk talent pool than your international terrorist.
Coupled with this is the fact that the standards vary widely. You might skate through one checkpoint, only to be flagged at the very next, because of different gear or operators. A belt buckle might set off one and not the next, or one screener might pass on a shadow while another sees a threat. I have come directly from the airport where my suitcase breezed through TSA in record time, only to have the exact same stuff set off a lobby X-ray machine three times. True, at just the right angle, if you squint, and you stayed up late the night before to watch "John Wick – Parabellum," my headphones could be mistaken for a Glock, but not really.
To deal with this headache, I've streamlined my everyday carry to stuff that usually passes muster with no problems, shedding any items that could ring a bell. Still, there is no telling. I was recently going to dinner at a park, and had to pass through a checkpoint on my way in. I emptied my pockets into a plastic tray, aimed it into the maw of the scanner and stepped through the metal detector.
The young guy running the equipment stared at the screen as my stuff went through. He called over an older, obviously more experienced guard working with him. "What's that?" he asked as pointed to the screen, then looked up on me. "You have anything sharp in your wallet?" Before I could answer, the older guy jumped in: "Ah, it's nothing, just his keys." The kid tried again, less sure of himself, as I shrugged my shoulders. "I dunno. Doesn't look like keys." The older guy glanced again at the screen. "Nah, just keys." He picked up the tray and handed it to me. "Thanks sir, enjoy your night." I refilled my pockets and walked away.
As I rounded the curve away from them, I had a thought and took out my wallet. Indeed, a while back someone had given me a steel mutli-tool the size of a credit card. I had tucked it into my wallet, completely forgetting it was there. It had been through scanners dozens of times, with operators either ignoring it or deciding it was no threat (it is indeed described as TSA-compliant). That's what the younger guard had spotted: not a issue, but perhaps worth checking if he had any doubts. That is, until his buddy waved him off with a "Nothing to see here, move along."
After dinner I returned the same way I came to find the two guards still on duty. I stopped and refreshed their memory as to what happened earlier. I turned to the young guy, pulled out my wallet and showed him the tool. "You were right: there was something there." I turned to the older guy. "He wasn't seeing things." The older fellow took the tool from me and looked at it: "Yeah, but it's not really sharp or anything." "True," I said, "but he was right." I took it back, slid it back into my wallet, bid them a good night and walked away. The older guy waved back with a tight smile; the younger one was trying to suppress a grin. Metal had indeed been detected: I suspect the rest of their shift passed in silence.
-END-
Marc Wollin of Bedford wears belts with plastic buckles for traveling. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.
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