FALSE AUTHORITY SYNDROME AT L.A. AIRPORT

DAVID GAGNE - "Good morning," I smiled at Alisha, handing her my
California driver's license and
printed-from-the-internet-but-ridiculously-easily-forged Southwest
boarding pass.

She smiled at me, checked that the name on my license matched the name
on my boarding pass, and used a yellow hi-liter to mark the boarding
pass with what looked exactly like a one-inch line. As she handed "my
papers" back to me, she paused. She looked me in the eyes. She smiled.
And then she said, "I can't see your eyes."

I raised my hand to my face to remove my sunglasses and stopped. She
wasn't smiling because she was nice. She was smiling because she was
suffering from False Authority Syndrome. The poor child. In the most
disarming, rational, peaceful, and kind voice at my command, I said,
"You don't need to see my eyes."

"You have to remove your sunglasses, sir."

"No, actually, I don't."

"I can't let you past here with your sunglasses on."

"Yes, you can."

At this point she became obviously frustrated and confused. She looked
at me as if I was a freshly-shaved Osama bin Laden in a sports coat and
khakis. She became stern. "Take them off, please."

"There's no law that says I can't wear my sunglasses in the airport.
ma'am"

"Yes, there is. It's a rule."

"It's not a rule."

"It is. I can't let you pass."

"Yes, you can."

She took my boarding pass and used her yellow hi-liter to turn the line
into an X. An X of shame and potential threat. She called to the
top-of-the-stairs officer, "Threat alert!"

No, I'm not kidding. Then she let me go up the stairs. At this point I
expected to get into an argument with the top-of-the-stairs woman. I
didn't care. I had two hours to kill and I wasn't in the mood to be
pushed around by the TSA. But surprisingly LeVonda did nothing even
remotely antagonistic. In fact she let me get into the extra short
special security line. This was a bonus. Instead of standing in the
"general" line with the hundreds of non-sunglasses wearing rubes, I got
to get into the fast lane.

The fast lane was occupied by a mother and her three children, a very,
very tall black man, and a guy that looked like the most average,
generic businessman possible. I didn't feel like any of them could in
any way be as much of a threat as I was, but I guess you can't judge a
book by its cover. We merrily zipped through the metal detector and had
our carry-on bags x-rayed. . .

But now a wrinkle. I wasn't allowed to get my bags. A tremendously
grumpy guy grabbed my bag, my laptop, my jacket, and my shoes and gave
me the double-ultra shakedown. He went through every pocket of my
briefcase. He went through my jacket. He looked in my shoes. (He did
not, I should note, ask me to remove my sunglasses.) He never smiled. He
was a serious TSA. There was a uniformed LAPD officer standing nearby as
well, but he looked like he just enjoyed standing there and flexing and
wasn't very interested in all of the potential threats to national
security that were being given the what-for by the TSA.

The TSA double-security checker was not about to let me get past him. He
knew I was a bad guy. I had a water bottle. I wasn't hiding it or
anything, I just honestly forgot that liquids are dangerous nowadays. He
held it in front of my face like it was a Nazi membership card that he'd
found in my blazer. "You know you can't have this, right?"

I almost - almost - said something snarky about how it was cool that he
didn't care about my Swiss Army knife or my Leatherman tool. Instead my
reply was, "Oh, yeah, right. Sorry about that." I reached for the water
bottle, saying, "I'll just chug that now."

You would have thought I pulled an UZI out of my ass at this point. He
literally jumped backwards and told me, "Don't come any closer!"

I laughed. I did. I couldn't help it. It was absurd. I looked at the
LAPD officer and said, "Is he serious?" The policeman looked at me as if
he was very sorry and trying to not laugh himself. He walked a little
bit closer towards us but said nothing.

"Dude. It's water. I'll drink it right now."

"I can't let you do that. You have to throw it away."

"What? Why? I'm going to drink it. I'll drink the whole thing. Right
now. Right in front of you."

"You can't do that."

"Why not?"

"It's against the law."

"What law?"

"You can't drink in the security area at the airport."

Now this is where I got mad. "There is no law that says I can't drink
water in the security area of the airport." I looked at the cop, "Is
there?" The cop said, "I have no jurisdiction where you are. You're not
on LA property."

This seemed pretty silly to me. What the hell was he doing there if he
wasn't allowed to do anything? But whatever. He was a cool cop and I
didn't have any beef with him. I looked back at the TSA guy and said,
"Show me the law."

He stared bolts of fire into my skull and said, "I don't have to show it
to you. It's the law."

"Uh."

Yes, I really did say, "Uh."

"There's no law, man," I said.

He said - and I swear I am not making any of this up - "It's an SSI and
I am not required to show it to you."

"What is an SSI? Are you kidding? This is America. You can't enforce a
law without showing it to me. I never voted on any law about drinking
water in the security area of the airport. There is no such law." I
really, really wanted to ask him if SSI stood for Super Secret
Information, but I forgot.

"I can't let you drink this water."

"Fine. Throw it away. I don't care. It's an unopened bottle of water
that I am willing to drink right in front of you. But whatever."

"I can't throw it away. You have to throw it away."

I picked up my bags and walked away.

For quite some time I noticed that the person who I assumed to be the
top TSA guy was following me around Brookstone. I had a tail I had a
pretty good time making him think I was trying to "lose him" for a
little while. Then my girlfriend called and I forgot about him and he
was gone.

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