LJ Idol Season 8, Week 8, A Travelling Travesty, White Powder
For me traveling is one big drama and sometimes it turns into a nightmare. I am dependent on others from the time I leave my house till the time I reach my destination. It starts with the car service. Will they be on time? Will the person be nice? Will he complain about the dog? My ride picks me up and drives me the over an hour ride to the airport. I shell out plenty of money for this service. We arrive in good time. He drops me off at the curb and I attempt to find my way inside. Fargo, my guide dog is guiding me while I attempt to pull two suitcases. This is a God given talent I have because it shouldn’t be possible. I ask passersby where the line I need is. A lady directs me to the line I need and I hope it is the correct one, but I have no choice other than to wait and find out from the agent.
I approach the counter. There are all these screens where I can check myself in, but I can’t see to operate one. I wait for the gate agent’s assistance. When he gets to me he is rude and snotty. He acts as if it is a big deal to scan my credit card to pay for my bag and to punch a few buttons on the machine I can’t use. He tags my bag and takes it away. I hope the tag says what it is supposed to but I can’t read it. He hands me three slips of paper, a boarding pass for each of my two flights and a baggage receipt, but I don’t know which is which. I ask him to clarify, thus putting him out even further, as if being a gate agent is not really his job and is beneath him.
I wait for my meet and assist person to come and assist me through security. He comes pushing a wheelchair. I explain that I don’t need a wheelchair. He argues. I win. He parks the wheelchair and we begin to walk. I direct Fargo to follow him. I don’t like touching people so I avoid taking his arm unless I must.
We approach the security gate. Everyone starts to scramble around. The lady checking identification is afraid of dogs. I could care less about her fear and step right up and hand her my state ID. She tries to back away. I reach out further. I don’t have all damn day. She takes the card gingerly, as if I have an infectious disease she doesn’t want to catch. She hands it back with my boarding pass quickly. I move forward in line, pulling my carry on because I don’t like to give it to the meet and assist person unless necessary.
As we come to the belts where everyone puts their belongings I try to remove my shoes as people jostle me. I hold onto the platform where people are putting their bags to try to remove my shoes easier and someone sets one of those heavy bins down on my hand. Ouch! I finally have the damn shoes off, my post brain surgery effects making it hard to do this standing up. Where has my assistance guy gone? He seems a little odd. He is the same fellow that I always get in the Albany airport, a different sort, but at least he likes dogs. Suddenly he is there, handing me a bin for the shoes and back pack. They are on the belt, and then the rolling carry on. I begin to walk toward the security screener.
When I am standing in front of the metal detector the security staff try to boss me around and tell me what to do with my dog. I ignore them, ask Fargo to sit and stay, and leave him and walk through the screener. Once through and without beeps I turn and call him. He runs to me, obediently, his collar and leash setting off the detector. The next thing I know we are singled out for a pat down. I explain that I didn’t alarm that only the dog did. They give me a pat down and I scream in my mind about not liking to be touched, my autistic brain on a rampage of mental screams. The agent tells me everything she is going to do, but it doesn’t help.
Suddenly they ask me if mine is the green bag with SLG monogrammed on it. It is. They are checking it over. After my pat down I can go watch. I worry. There are enough medications in there to bring a high street value, and I don’t like people touching my things, and I can’t really even see what is going on. They ask whether the dog is a male or a female. A male I say. They discuss whether or not they need to get a male agent to pat him down. I assure them they don’t. They ask for the harness to be removed and scanned. I comply. Surely they think I am a drug dealer. The harness is given back and they are all about my Braille watch now because it looks different. Finally one of them is more clever than the rest and says, it’s just a Braille watch.
Finally we are ready to be done with all the security mess. I ask my escort to show me to a restroom. He does then says he can’t assist me inside. He’s probably blushing. I can wipe my own parts I think to myself, but I just tell him I’ll be fine.
We make it to the gate. I reach into my bag for my wallet to give him a tip, but he is gone.
My flight is uneventful. The attendants are helpful, my seat mates don’t mind dogs, and nothing could go better. As we start to land I start to dread my next meet and assist person through the airport. I need to get something for lunch if I can so I hope they speak English.
Nope. No English. That means no starbucks and probably no lunch, and maybe even no bathroom. I am loaded onto one of those people mover carts with a few other people. The thing flies down the airport halls, weaving in and out of crowds, honking at people in the way. I grip Fargo in fear he will fall off. I am able to communicate my need for the bathroom to Mister No English and he parks outside one. I go inside, and when I come out he is gone. I have a moment of panic until one of the women who was on the cart with me tells me she told him she’d wait for me. She takes me to the gate and helps me get a drink which is almost as good as food. I guess Mister No English is also Mister Impatient and Irresponsible.
I make it onto the plane. I am sitting next to some lady who has panic attacks when flying. She asks to pet my dog, and I let her, not wanting to see her panic. Her voice is already shaking. As we taxi down the runway she starts stroking Fargo furiously. Good thing she didn’t ask to hold my hand, I think. Fargo eats up the attention. The whole flight she talks about dogs and I really don’t care but I don’t know how to shut her up without being rude.
Finally the plane lands, and I’m out of there like a thoroughbred out of a starting gate. I don’t wait for the meet and assist people like the flight attendants wish I would. I am hungry and exhausted. I make my way up the jet way still pulling my carry on. I wait for my meet and assist and I wait, and wait some more. By now the person meeting me has called me on my cell phone to find out where I am. Finally I get assistance to baggage where I hope the assistance person gets the right bags. I find my family in baggage, and all has just gotten better except there is still a long drive home. Yet I am happy, and so is Fargo. I guess this wasn’t a travelling travesty after all, but just another ordinary day in my life, and Fargo’s too.
When I arrive at my parents’ house I discover that security was in fact after my meds. I take laxative powder in individual packets, and the brand new box was open. White powder apparently gets them all excited even if it is only to treat constipation, and not a street drug. They had also opened my brand new box of pain patches. I don’t know why. They are narcotics, but the prescriptions were on the box and the laxative box as well. Security is still a mystery to me.
I approach the counter. There are all these screens where I can check myself in, but I can’t see to operate one. I wait for the gate agent’s assistance. When he gets to me he is rude and snotty. He acts as if it is a big deal to scan my credit card to pay for my bag and to punch a few buttons on the machine I can’t use. He tags my bag and takes it away. I hope the tag says what it is supposed to but I can’t read it. He hands me three slips of paper, a boarding pass for each of my two flights and a baggage receipt, but I don’t know which is which. I ask him to clarify, thus putting him out even further, as if being a gate agent is not really his job and is beneath him.
I wait for my meet and assist person to come and assist me through security. He comes pushing a wheelchair. I explain that I don’t need a wheelchair. He argues. I win. He parks the wheelchair and we begin to walk. I direct Fargo to follow him. I don’t like touching people so I avoid taking his arm unless I must.
We approach the security gate. Everyone starts to scramble around. The lady checking identification is afraid of dogs. I could care less about her fear and step right up and hand her my state ID. She tries to back away. I reach out further. I don’t have all damn day. She takes the card gingerly, as if I have an infectious disease she doesn’t want to catch. She hands it back with my boarding pass quickly. I move forward in line, pulling my carry on because I don’t like to give it to the meet and assist person unless necessary.
As we come to the belts where everyone puts their belongings I try to remove my shoes as people jostle me. I hold onto the platform where people are putting their bags to try to remove my shoes easier and someone sets one of those heavy bins down on my hand. Ouch! I finally have the damn shoes off, my post brain surgery effects making it hard to do this standing up. Where has my assistance guy gone? He seems a little odd. He is the same fellow that I always get in the Albany airport, a different sort, but at least he likes dogs. Suddenly he is there, handing me a bin for the shoes and back pack. They are on the belt, and then the rolling carry on. I begin to walk toward the security screener.
When I am standing in front of the metal detector the security staff try to boss me around and tell me what to do with my dog. I ignore them, ask Fargo to sit and stay, and leave him and walk through the screener. Once through and without beeps I turn and call him. He runs to me, obediently, his collar and leash setting off the detector. The next thing I know we are singled out for a pat down. I explain that I didn’t alarm that only the dog did. They give me a pat down and I scream in my mind about not liking to be touched, my autistic brain on a rampage of mental screams. The agent tells me everything she is going to do, but it doesn’t help.
Suddenly they ask me if mine is the green bag with SLG monogrammed on it. It is. They are checking it over. After my pat down I can go watch. I worry. There are enough medications in there to bring a high street value, and I don’t like people touching my things, and I can’t really even see what is going on. They ask whether the dog is a male or a female. A male I say. They discuss whether or not they need to get a male agent to pat him down. I assure them they don’t. They ask for the harness to be removed and scanned. I comply. Surely they think I am a drug dealer. The harness is given back and they are all about my Braille watch now because it looks different. Finally one of them is more clever than the rest and says, it’s just a Braille watch.
Finally we are ready to be done with all the security mess. I ask my escort to show me to a restroom. He does then says he can’t assist me inside. He’s probably blushing. I can wipe my own parts I think to myself, but I just tell him I’ll be fine.
We make it to the gate. I reach into my bag for my wallet to give him a tip, but he is gone.
My flight is uneventful. The attendants are helpful, my seat mates don’t mind dogs, and nothing could go better. As we start to land I start to dread my next meet and assist person through the airport. I need to get something for lunch if I can so I hope they speak English.
Nope. No English. That means no starbucks and probably no lunch, and maybe even no bathroom. I am loaded onto one of those people mover carts with a few other people. The thing flies down the airport halls, weaving in and out of crowds, honking at people in the way. I grip Fargo in fear he will fall off. I am able to communicate my need for the bathroom to Mister No English and he parks outside one. I go inside, and when I come out he is gone. I have a moment of panic until one of the women who was on the cart with me tells me she told him she’d wait for me. She takes me to the gate and helps me get a drink which is almost as good as food. I guess Mister No English is also Mister Impatient and Irresponsible.
I make it onto the plane. I am sitting next to some lady who has panic attacks when flying. She asks to pet my dog, and I let her, not wanting to see her panic. Her voice is already shaking. As we taxi down the runway she starts stroking Fargo furiously. Good thing she didn’t ask to hold my hand, I think. Fargo eats up the attention. The whole flight she talks about dogs and I really don’t care but I don’t know how to shut her up without being rude.
Finally the plane lands, and I’m out of there like a thoroughbred out of a starting gate. I don’t wait for the meet and assist people like the flight attendants wish I would. I am hungry and exhausted. I make my way up the jet way still pulling my carry on. I wait for my meet and assist and I wait, and wait some more. By now the person meeting me has called me on my cell phone to find out where I am. Finally I get assistance to baggage where I hope the assistance person gets the right bags. I find my family in baggage, and all has just gotten better except there is still a long drive home. Yet I am happy, and so is Fargo. I guess this wasn’t a travelling travesty after all, but just another ordinary day in my life, and Fargo’s too.
When I arrive at my parents’ house I discover that security was in fact after my meds. I take laxative powder in individual packets, and the brand new box was open. White powder apparently gets them all excited even if it is only to treat constipation, and not a street drug. They had also opened my brand new box of pain patches. I don’t know why. They are narcotics, but the prescriptions were on the box and the laxative box as well. Security is still a mystery to me.