Posted with the permission of the author.

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John-Erik's Airborne Adventure

John-Erik Moseler, "Rebel Commander" of Silent Planet, a Central Florida web and print design firm, left the office at noon on January 18th with his dad (also named John without the "Erik" just to confuse everyone) to fly to Wisconsin, the Land of Snow and Cheese, to retrieve a 1987 Chevy Celebrity station wagon that was graciously donated by his brother to John-Erik's growing family. J-E's co-workers at Silent Planet were secretly taking bets on which state the vehicle in question would die in. The plan was for a quick weekend to eat some bratwurst with the family and watch their beloved Green Bay take on St. Louis before heading home.

This was precisely the day that a handbook-full of new post-September 11th regulations for air travelers went into effect. Quite a few things had changed at the airport since the last trip. Thick-booted guards in camouflage now patrolled the concourse with their machine guns, which raised the question: for camouflage to be effective in an airport, shouldn't you be dressed like a magazine rack or a Planet Smoothie? No one is allowed to go to the gate any more except passengers, giving the place a bit more of a ghost town ambience than might be desired for public transportation. All checked-in bags were now "matched" to a specific passenger, meaning no bags are loaded without a corresponding someone on the flight. And the most obvious change: no fun of any kind is tolerated, no way, no how.



Expecting massive delays, the two Moselers arrived at the terminal two-and-a-half hours early. Since it would be a short journey, they didn't check any bags and relied on their carry-ons, hoping it would speed up the process and avoid any dreaded Security Breach that may send them to a life of hard labor in a Siberian salt mine. The first few minutes in the terminal were uneventful, but after surviving the usual x-ray gauntlet, John-Erik's father made the fatal mistake of jinxing the entire trip and inviting a rift in the fabric of time-space reality by saying out loud, "That couldn't have gone any smoother."

As John-Erik presented his ticket for seat assignment the ticket was returned and he attempted to board the plane. It was at this moment that John-Erik was unceremoniously pulled aside by an airline official.

John-Erik suddenly noticed a newly-acquired big red "S" and other arcane markings scrawled on his ticket. This scarlet letter denotes that John-Erik has been "profiled," and must be sequestered for search, possibly due to one or more of the following: 1) he bought a one-way ticket (on the internet no less) a couple of days before the flight; 2) he had no check-in baggage; 3) there were two "John Moselers" traveling on the same plane, and you know that had to shake someone up; and finally, 4) J-E and his dad are dead ringers for terrorists, that is, if terrorists look like Norwegian dairy-farmers.

The search began. John-Erik was asked to remove his official Silent Planet cap, exposing a serious case of hat-hair to the world at large, certainly worth a few million for pain and suffering. A mysterious electronic wand was waved over John-Erik, possibly sterilizing him for life. He also removed his shoes and was "patted down", a nice way of saying, "molested in public".

J-E was then instructed to fire up his laptop computer, the battery of which was dead as Fred, so John-Erik and a second security agent left the area in search of a wall socket. When they finally plugged it in, the agent saw the tally light go from red to green and didn't wait for the computer to actually boot up. "Okay, that's good," he said, obviously in a hurry, and they returned to the spot they were manhandling John-Erik's luggage. A third agent, unearthing J-E's Palm Pilot, gasped, "What's that?" as if the PDA was a phaser set on stun.

A soft-spoken octogenarian man barely aware of his surroundings was also randomly flagged for search. Despite his saintly countenance, the gentleman's carry-on bag revealed several forbidden articles of doom: a 7-inch nail file, a large pair of shears, a knife with a serrated edge, and nail clippers, each of which were immediately chucked into a milky plastic "biohazard" container that was, disturbingly, already bulging at the seams. John-Erik was struck with the irony of how this arsenal managed to get through the x-ray, while he and his wholly innocent parental unit didn't make it past the hot-dog stand.

John-Erik and his dad boarded the plane and found their seats. The passengers were buzzing about an incident that happened moments before: apparently a man who looked and sounded--we're not afraid to say it--Middle Eastern, was having a disagreement with a woman concerning their identical seat numbers, a number the man already occupied. A flight attendant looked at the tickets and pointed out that the man had the correct seat number, but was on the wrong aircraft. Amazingly, since the irritated Middle Eastern man was not "profiled", this was not considered a cause for concern, however, the man was quickly escorted off the plane to an uncertain future. Just then, an airline representative boarded the plane and informed John-Erik's father that there had been--egad!--a Security Breach, and HE was unfortunately the breach-er, and would he be so kind as to exit the craft before they drag him off hog-tied like a steer? A plainclothes FAA official, who had only moments before been expressing unbridled lust for J-E's Mac laptop, asked Mr. Moseler as they were exiting, "How did you get on this plane?" He replied simply, "I walked right in." Apparently it doesn't take much to breach security these days.

A few minutes later, the pilot informed the passengers that, according to the new regulations regarding Security Breaches, they must all now exit the craft, schlepping their freshly-stowed luggage with them. Here's why: it seems that Mr. Moseler had also had the unfortunate red "S" on his ticket all the time, but the highly-trained agent had neglected to pull him aside, even though it was the same agent that had marked his ticket in the first place.

The increasingly disgruntled passengers in the holding area were told that they could now re-board. The schedule was now in jeopardy, they were informed, and if everyone cooperated, they might make it to Memphis in time to make their connections. As John-Erik prepared to return to his seat, another eagle-eyed agent, spotting the incriminating red "S", pulled him aside for yet another search, hat, shoes, computer, mysterious alien palm device and all. "You just did this fifteen minutes ago," J-E protested. "Regulations," they said.

Finally--finally--the bird was in the air, and John-Erik fell into a confused slumber.

Forty-five minutes into the flight, practically within spitting distance of Memphis (as disgusting as that sounds), the weary pilot addressed the crowd: "Sorry folks, but we have to turn around and go back to Orlando." It was now that the passengers understood why all the sharp objects were removed from their persons: so they wouldn't cut their own throats right there in the aisle.

It turns out that when the plane was off-loaded because they failed to search Mr. Moseler, one poor anxiety-stricken woman who had had quite enough of flying for awhile, decided to leave the holding area and go home to rest her frayed nerves. After the flight was well on its way, she emerged from the concourse bathroom where she had been having a nervous breakdown and informed the ground personnel that she had left her checked bag on the plane, and could they send it to her later? SECURITY BREACH! Of course this violated the Prime Directive--no luggage without a corresponding passenger--so the bird was instructed to return to roost to remove the woman's bag of unmentionables. The passengers' collective sigh of glum resignation nearly depressurized the cabin.

As the ill-fated flight approached the runway at Orlando International, the passengers were mortified to witness a greeting party of fire-rescue, police and emergency medical teams all on full alert. After all, an airplane doesn't turn around in mid-air unless something serious is happening, does it? Back on the ground back in the City Beautiful when they expected to be hip-deep in Muenster and Sharp Cheddar, both the elder and younger Moselers were ready to throw in the towel and leave the flight with what was left of their dignity intact. But no one was allowed to leave the plane, which now had a forty-five minute delay for refueling.

After refueling the jet at what must have been a truly staggering cost, they were back in the air. The Moselers estimate they have now breathed the same squalid air seventeen times. Of course, by the time they finally reached Memphis International (after 8:00 p.m.), the airport was essentially shut down, except for the battalion of roaring, teeth-rattling Federal Express flights, insuring a sleepless night in the City of Elvis. The exhausted refugees were handed vouchers for Holiday Inn, food and phone. During dinner it was noted, in a philosophic moment, how quickly a single overlooked "S" can cause the world to go spinning out of control and crashing into the sun.

John-Erik and his pater familias arose bleary-eyed at 5:30 a.m. to make the flight that would supposedly whisk them to Milwaukee. J-E was "randomly" selected for search two more times, once at the x-ray machine and then ten minutes later at the gate (search numbers three and four), although by now the word "random" lost all meaning, since it appeared that the very universe itself was conspiring against him.

The plane taxied to the runway, preparing for takeoff, full of hope and good will, eager to forget the ordeals of the previous day, when Mr. Moseler the elder made his second fatal error: he took out his boarding pass, stuffed it into the seat-back pocket, and said: "We won't be needing these anymore."

After a few brief dizzying seconds perched at the very brink of freedom, the passengers were informed that the plane had to be towed back to the gate due to an "instrument malfunction" that would take an hour and twenty minutes to repair. Thirty minutes into the designated repair interval, the pilot announced, "We have to switch planes," in a voice that suggested utter despair or at least acid reflux.

Luggage collected. Exodus. Migration from Gate B27 to B10. Another search (number five; J-E wondered if he could qualify for "Frequently Searched" miles). They examined the bags and told Mr. Moseler to open a wrapped present for a Moseler sibling in Milwaukee. It was a gift of marzipan candy that to the airport authorities--who had never heard of marzipan the same way they had never heard of a Palm Pilot--looked suspiciously like brightly colored C-4 explosive with sugar ribbons on top. Mr. Moseler was asked--we're not kidding--to take a bite out of each offending morsel right there on the spot, to prove that the stuff wouldn't blow his molars to Kingdom Come (like, if it did, they wanted to see him burst like a flaming pinata right there in the check-in line). He courageously refused, and they miraculously let him board without further incident. The new plane finally left at 10:30 a.m., two-and-a-half hours late, that is, if you disregard the twenty-or-so hours that they were already late.

The Moselers finally got to Milwaukee and had ten minutes to spend with their family.

As they climbed into the Celebrity for the trip home, John-Erik decreed: "Dad, don't say a word." They drove straight back to Orlando from Milwaukee, arriving two hours quicker in an 1987 Chevy station wagon than the trip north had taken in a Boeing 727.

The Packers got clobbered on Sunday by St. Louis 45-17.

Send comments and/or your own personal airline experiences to: spanky@silentplanet.com

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Idiotic stupid damn security measures. Won't stop a terrorist, wouldn't have stopped the September 11 gang, and we accept these fascist measures in the name of security? I fear it is too late to whack our congresscritters who are allowing this crap to happen. Elect a different person (I don't care democrat or republican) next election, please, this shit is abominable feel-good do-nothing crap.