The metal detector is where it first goes south. Metal in my knees and metal in my neck trigger all the bells and whistles. At this point the security guards only look at me with mild interest. Sure, I don’t look like a gun-toting madman, but really, who does? And I do wear those weird five-finger shoes. 

”Sir, please go over to the other scanner.”

Of course. The other scanner looks like an MRI on steroids. I put my hands over my head as directed. Why do they have you do this?  I imagine so the cops, hidden behind their squad cars with bullets flying and the soundtrack crescendoing, don’t have to yell “Put your hands up.” They already are. 

And I always fail this scanner too.

“Do you have anything in your pockets?”

Duh, of course not. Who do they think I am? But folks, I’ll let you in on a little secret — I have flunked this question several times before. So I do a quick check of my pockets just in case. Nope, nothing there. Whew.

Then a pat-down search. Depending on what they saw on the scanner screen, this can be a total body pat down or a single pat of some isolated spot that lit up the screen. Doesn’t bother me. I appreciate the thoroughness. Strip search in the name of safety? Why not.

Success! I can move two squares closer to Candy Cane Forest. But now the test is whether I have nefarious items in my backpack.

Surprise, surprise, I generally fail this test also. Usually, the culprit is a corkscrew at the very bottom of my backpack, because you can never have too many corkscrews; or razor blades in my toilet bag, to shave all two hairs on my head; or something sharp like a long-forgotten butter knife tucked in a side pocket for a romantic picnic with my wife on a slow train.

As Winnie-the-Pooh says: “I am a Bear of Very Little Brain.”

Most recently, I packed a large, ziplock bag of white powder in my backpack. Come to find out that druggy-looking items actually do raise a few eyebrows. I should have just worn a t-shirt that said “DEALER,” and then labeled the plastic bag “cocaine.”

And what was I doing with a ziplock bag of white powder? Well, dear protein enthusiasts, you might be wondering about the dangers of using too much protein powder? I’ve got you. The label warns about constipation, but did it say anything about airport security when you put the powder in a large, unlabeled ziplock bag? Nope. But now you know. 

Although I was even more boneheaded when I went through security in Vienna after flying from Bosnia. I was carrying a coffee grinder I had purchased in the old market in Sarajevo. The dealer had thrown into the bag, free of charge, a war souvenir — a shell casing converted into a pen. 

Especially since my wife worked at the time in The Hague on the UN Bosnian War prosecutions, I was horrified to be in possession of such a war memento . . . And then promptly forgot it was in the bag. Yup, I’m that guy.

Vienna airport security was not impressed. This time, in addition to a thorough body search and an interrogation by a skeptical security guard, they did a gunshot-residue test on my hands. The last gunshot residue test I witnessed was based on a search warrant I wrote for a suspected murderer. So there you have it. One day you’re a prosecutor fighting bad guys in Des Moines, the next day you’re in a Vienna jail eating wiener schnitzel. Go figure.

Instead of going to jail, however, airport security waived me on, shaking their heads at my stupidity, and keeping my new pen.

So . . . how about those folks in airport security? If it was allowed, I would bake them cookies for our frequent coffee klatches back in the corner next to the scanners. It only seems Iowa-nice. Instead, I’m left with applauding them and awarding them top honors in dealing so patiently with so many impatient people  . . . And with those of us of very little brain. 

Joe