There was already a long line at 9 a.m. The hundred-deep flock of people stretched far back beyond the security conveyor belts out into the concourse, past the two security guards who sat in front of the conveyors checking boarding passes and identification cards all day long. This Monday it was Thomas and Melinda, and they were stealing glances at each other in between matching faces on passengers with the faces on driver’s licenses.
If you’re a passenger flying on Continental Airlines out of Oklahoma, you should know how their security works; this way you’ll be prepared. It’s very bad when you’re not ready, for the security guards grow red and angry and are liable to embarrass you or steal things from your luggage. So listen closely. At times it may feel like you’re defeating bosses at the end of some video game level. It’s designed to feel that way.
After Tommy or Melinda mindlessly marks up your boarding pass (by the way, there’s no reason to mark up your ticket, they’re just bored and like to doodle) you will be instructed to remove your shoes, belt, phone, pens, lighters, change, tokens, matches, and everything else from your pockets. (I’ve heard some airline security men and women make you remove the lint from your pockets because it messes up the X-ray scanners.) Anyway, this is mostly for intimidation purposes—half the time the guards forget to turn on their detection equipment—but this way you’ll feel naked and won’t question their authority.
Everett, by the way, only cares about the naked part, but we’ll get to that in a minute.
You’ll place everything on the conveyor belt and hope nothing gets caught on its way into the scanner. If it does, beware! Any deviation from the norm sends the guards into a tailspin, and very often they shout so vehemently they spit on their passengers. Oh, and remember that you need to fit all your liquids into a quart-sized bag—not a gallon-sized—or they’ll dump it all in the trash. Place everything you have in the gray tubs—not the green ones, which the agents only put there so they can yell and shame you in front of the others. It keeps passengers in line, because who wants to be humiliated like that last guy?
So, with your suitcase, clothes, and other items in the gray buckets on the conveyor, STEP ASIDE to your LEFT. Don’t hang around your luggage too long, or the guards will think you’re hiding something and dump everything on the floor and stomp on it and yell at you and make you feel like a dummy. No, step to the LEFT and AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS. Your luggage will be safe and back with you momentarily. Unless it’s not.
As you keep one eye on your things going under the all-penetrating eye of the X-ray scanner, keep the other on the agent in front of you. In this case, it’s Eddie, who wears white gloves, and who will signal you to step through the millimeter wavelength scanner. This, by the way, does produce some measured amount of radiation, and is generally considered harmful to your health. By keeping you weak and docile, the authorities have determined you will be less likely to break any rules, whether at the airport, at work, or at a government building.
If you choose to go through the scanner, as most people do, then, when prompted, rush into the plastic cylindrical radiation emitter and hold up your hands. This is important, because you may be clenching some sharp blade in your armpits or between your buttocks, and the agents need to know these things to protect the nation.
After the scanner finishes, step out! Don’t hesitate! They’ll dock you two points for that one, and everyone knows that three points is all you get.
If you’ve made it this far, congratulations. You’ll probably make it out okay, unless the all-seeing eye of the X-ray spotted something nefarious in your luggage—an extra bottle of nail polish, perhaps?—in which case you and your things will be detained for further questioning. This is why they tell you to arrive for your flight four hours early. They must be thorough, of course, because if you’re that one terrorist out of the many millions of people who fly each year, the security guard who let you pass could get in some minor trouble, maybe even be laughed at or humiliated on the news.
And if you don’t pass the test? In that case, glance back and to the left of all the equipment and conveyor belts, to the area where no one likes to look. If you see a massive, corn-fed head with curiously big eyes and glinting teeth that sit inside an oversized mouth, then you’ve really messed up. Because that big man is Everett, and he’s here to touch you.
He’s made of 70 percent meat and 30 percent corn, give or take. He has rolly, pudgy hands that know their way around flesh and bone, and this is exactly what you want from an airport pat-down person.
You may also see a brief smile appear on the man’s face, which then extinguishes as it becomes self-aware. That’s because Everett’s about to do his favorite thing in the whole wide world, the thing that makes him so happy, that makes each day better than the last. He’s going to feel you.
Most people love to touch and be touched, but Everett’s a little different. He hates to be touched, but loves touching others. Not in an intimate, romantic way like you or I might like. No, no, he likes to touch, mostly against people’s will. That’s the only way to really feel someone, he says. When they’re tense and closed, that’s when he loves to feeeeel. Or grope—he loves groping. Or fondling or caressing or stroking or patting or petting or fingering or tickling.
Everett loves it all.
Only he doesn’t get to feel as many people as you might think. There’s the occasional pat-down when someone goes through the scanner with a metal plate in their head, but those are usually old war veterans. Anybody can, if they want, refuse to enter the scanner and choose to visit Everett—though no one ever does. It’s too humiliating. In fact, in the three years since Everett left the pig slaughterhouse, no one had willingly opted for the pat-down.
That’s why Monday was so different.
A very thin, though not frail, man with large beaver teeth and round, bulging eyes made his way past Thomas and Melinda, loaded his things onto the conveyor, then stood and waited for his turn through the radioactive death machine.
The agent in charge waved him through . . . but the man didn’t move. He just grinned and said, “I want the pat-down.”
How strange! Who actually chooses to have a man’s hands all over his body, at the airport, in front of everyone?
People behind him stopped. The nebbishy woman behind the grinning man froze, unsure of the proper protocol. Should I move on? Or just stand here? Or back away? She began biting her nails, which were already nubs. The agent waved her forward, and she shook violently as she stepped into the scanner.
The man with the grin was then waved through the gate next to the scanner, where Everett could be seen methodically pulling on his latex gloves. One eye was trained on his yellow hands, and the other couldn’t help but wander to the strange beaver-toothed man who was so eager to meet him.
Like I said before, the pat-down is the only reason Everett loved his job. It constituted his one and only duty working at the Continental Airlines terminal. So at this point, with the grinning man approaching, Everett mentally prepared himself. He was a champion—the Muhammad Ali of airport security men. And the preparation was a whole process, a work of art. First, he made his show with the latex gloves, like Ali lacing up his gear. Then he looked menacingly from side to side, frowning a little, making sure to stand tall and stiff. He usually stared into the helpless person’s eyeballs, and would sneer for a little while. The pat-down was required by law, though if Everett had his way, there would be no warning—no formalities of any kind—just the touching and the pleasure it brought him.
He motioned for the grinning man to stand over there—no, over there!—and set the man’s things on the metal bench beside them. “Sir,” Everett said in his perfected menacing tone, “what I’m going to do is perform an invasive search of your body. I’m going to press the back of my hand over your person, including your groin and buttocks. Do you understand?” The grinning man, after “invasive,” “groin,” and “buttocks,” moaned a little and began breathing heavy.
“
Yes, please!” the man gasped through his woodchuck teeth.
This guy’s insane, thought Everett. Still, he had a job to do, and touching was better than no touching. So he continued.
But the man was making the feel difficult, because he was staring straight into Everett’s eyes, and for once, Everett wasn’t doing the intimidating. It reversed the structure and flow of power, and this is quite unacceptable to any agent—especially one as serious and involved in his public duty as Everett.
Uneasiness came quickly: the kind of feeling you get when you’re about to walk down a dimly lit alleyway at night. Something kind of sinister, though you can’t tell what it is—or even if it’s only in your mind. Everett decided the man must be a terrorist—yes, that must be where that feeling is coming from—but first, he had to prove it.
“Hold out your arms, palms up,” Everett said.
“Anything you say,” the man purred.
Everett ran his latex-gloved hands up and down the man’s arm, gripping the polyester material tight against the man’s skin, which felt flabby under his clothing. The grinning man closed his eyes ever so slightly, his face relaxed, and his mouth opened just a teensy weensy bit.
Everett ruffled the areas around the man’s feet to make sure there was nothing hiding in the cuffs of his white denim pants. A smell from the man’s feet drifted up to Everett’s nose—flowers of some kind. Everett rubbed the back of his hand down the back of the man’s pants.
The man giggled.
Next came the upper leg search, usually Everett’s favorite part of the procedure. Today, though . . .
When his hands touched the insides of the man’s thigh, such a deep wave of ecstasy escaped the fellow’s lips that Everett froze and looked around, hoping, praying, that nobody—not his staff, not the passengers, not God—had heard it.
Everett quickly finished up. “Gather your things, move along.”
The grinning man was grinning no longer. He did, however, have a supremely satisfied look about him. “Sir?” he said.
Everett just stared.
“Thank yooou,” said the man, glassy-eyed. The words sat there. Moments passed. “That was . . .” The man licked his lips. “Very pleasant. Very niiice.”
No one had ever said that, much less been appreciative to have Everett Thompson’s hands on them. Everett retreated a couple steps, glancing around to see if anyone else had seen this.
The once-grinning-but-now-very-pleased man plucked his single briefcase from the end of the conveyor, sat down on the bench to slip his comfortable loafers back on, then patted his knees, looked around, rose, and left. But just before he reached the end of the security checkpoint, he turned back to Everett—who was still standing there with his mouth kind of open—and he winked suggestively, as if they’d shared some private secret.
Everett’s day dragged after that. Nothing could cheer him up. Not even the three young, plumpish females who came in near the end of the day, whose tickets said they needed a thorough pat-down before entering the plane. It was this very situation that gave Everett the most pleasure; not only was he getting to touch and feel and grope and prod, but it was somewhat random, and the females were taken by surprise—which usually made the whole experience more delightful. But even that couldn’t cheer Everett. He was lost somewhere in his own head for the rest of the day, listening to the voice of the once-grinning man: “Thank yooou . . .”
That night, Everett had his normal dinner of 70 percent meat and 30 percent corn—with a few stewed prunes and cream for dessert. He awoke the next day, fresh and determined, excited once again for his rewarding job. What would the day bring, he wondered. Punk teenagers, maybe? Stay-at-home moms? Oh, maybe even Boy Scouts! A jolt of adrenaline ran through his chest. Everett quickly gathered his things and slicked back his wavy hair. Fun juice shot through him driving into work; he forgot all about the grinning man, who was gone now anyway, gone to whatever fruity island he was visiting.
An hour later, Everett was electrified by touching two nuns who were traveling to Memphis to start a new Baptist church. After refusing to remove the crosses around their necks, they were sent to Everett for further feeling. And feel he did. He’d never felt a nun’s habit, the coif, the wimple; never seen up close how it was pleated at the neck; and the whole time he performed his invasive maneuvers—even running his hands along the black serge underskirt, ever so briefly—he asked them both loads of questions about a nun’s life. Could they date? Had they ever touched a man? Would they ever touch a man? One of the nuns snapped at him about something, but Everett simply laughed her off, patted her on the tush, and sent them on their way.
Fabulous!
Then there was the soccer mom with three kids and a husband (four kids, in other words), who was as thrilling and chilling to touch as Everett’s first feel ever. She was both skinny and curvy, somehow, with hair the color of the most golden dawn, and perfect skin with not a blemish in sight. She wore tight workout shorts and a T-shirt, and Everett made sure when he saw her in line to pass a note to Eddie to send her to him. Most people Everett took to the rear of the conveyors so everyone could watch them be dominated.
But not today. No, today, Everett decided some alone time was necessary for him to do his job properly. Instead of using the back of his hand to touch her, he used the front, and ran his fingers right down beneath her waistline. Furious that he couldn’t stick his grubby fingers underneath her underwear, he settled for running them across her pelvis. I won’t go into more details here about what he did to her backside—this is starting to feel icky—but let’s just say when the woman left, there were tears and sadness, and the children couldn’t figure out why Mommy lay in bed the rest of the trip.
Everett reclined in his personal lawn chair that he’d reserved just for these occasions. If smoking were allowed you’d have seen him puffing on some huge cigar. Instead he settled for lying back with his hands behind his head, feet up, wearing a smug, self-satisfied smile. He was so happy and content that he fell asleep, and didn’t even notice when Eddie sent his next victim over. Everett woke and hurriedly stood at attention, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
Everett stopped. No, it couldn’t be. Could it? Not in his seven years as a transportation security man had he ever seen the same person within two consecutive days. Maybe within two consecutive weeks, but the only people who did that were business travelers.
But there he was, the grinning man, standing sheepishly over by the metal table, holding his single briefcase with both hands by his abdomen. He was slightly hunched and staring at Everett with the grin of someone who has been caught doing something rather naughty. The man’s smile grew larger and larger, and he slowly set down his briefcase and walked himself, without being told, to the inspection section. And, with the precision and gusto of a soldier on the battlefield, he assumed the position: legs splayed out, arms up, palms up.
Like this he waited—for Everett and the big feel.
“I’m ready, sir!” the man nearly yelled, trembling with anticipation. His knees shook, his arms quivered. The man’s breathing grew rapid and shallow, and his eyes fluttered. Little drops of sweat gathered around the edge of his hairline, and stains were becoming visible under his arms.
Everett excused himself and rushed to one of his fellows, a fattish, rubbery man named Billy. Would Billy switch with him, just this once? Billy was confused; Everett had never, ever asked anyone to switch jobs. In fact, being the thorough pat-down guy was all Everett cared about, all he wanted, all he lived for. So Billy looked at the grinning man, who was still standing across the room with arms and legs spread like someone giving themselves to the Lord. Unfortunately for Everett, creepiness can be sensed across considerable distance, and Billy told Everett right then, no, no thank you, you do this one. Then Billy was called away to check something on the scanner monitor, and Everett was left arguing with no one. Meanwhile, the line was backing up; customers were complaining of the long wait times, and there were more disabl
ed people coming through who needed to be searched by hand.
Everett had no choice but to return to the grinning man.
The man was of thin build—food probably went right through him, thought Everett—and his skin-tight pants showed absolutely every curve and indentation from the waist on down. How such a little guy could intimidate Everett he didn’t know, but Everett felt oddly like a child, who, finally reaching grade school, gets a look at the oldest, meanest kids, and knows deep down he’d better stay on his toes.
So Everett psyched himself up and stood tall, deciding that he was being silly—that nobody should be able to intimidate him like that. He, Everett Thompson, six-foot-five, all-American pig slaughterer, 70-percent meat eater, wouldn’t be afraid of no one.
He circled around the man and put on the meanest possible face. “Sir!”
The man still had his eyes closed, though his chin was pointed up at the ceiling and his mouth had a dreamy quality to it. He was clearly in some kind of rapture. “Yes, yes, sir,” he said. “I’m so happy you’re here today. I’ve been waiting and thinking and waiting and dreaming about this all morning. It was so good yesterday, so good. I’m ready for you now.”
Everett decided to take it slow, delay this as long as possible. “Sir, what’s in the briefcase?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s empty.”
“Did you check your other bags?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t bring other bags.”
“Where you flying to?”
“Well, sir, my ticket says New York.”
“Where’ll you be in New York?”
“New York? Oh, I’m not going.”
Everett paused. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t think I’ll leave today after all.”
“Where’re ya going, then?”
“Back home, I’d imagine.” Now the man stared doe-eyed at Everett.
Everett squinted. “Why would ya buy a ticket, then not go anywhere?”
The man licked his thin lips and smiled his naughty smile. He looked Everett up and down, admiring something below his belt. “You know,” he said. And with that he shut his eyes and flung his chin back up at the ceiling, waiting for his inspection to be completed.
What Goes On In The Walls At Night: Thirteen tales of disgust and delight Page 2
