ONE
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
ABSOLUTELY (STORY OF A GIRL) — NINE DAYS
You would thinkthat after nearly a decade of schlepping through airports for work, I—an actual adult woman—would arrive at a security screening checkpoint with some semblance of having my shit together.
You’d also think that, at thirty years old, someone like me could at least manage to keep track of their passport for the two minutes it takes to walk from the check-in desk to security.
But as I crouch on the dirty floor of Toronto Pearson International Airport, rummaging through my heavy black gear bag like a hungry raccoon, it dawns on me that, somehow—despite the fact I now use night cream and take a daily multivitamin to keep my knees from creaking—I’m still nothing more than a walking train wreck.
Where is a real adult when I need one?
A flurry of rogue tampons tumbles from my bag amidst my desperate passport search-and-rescue mission and I glance up briefly, catching a pointed glare from the securityagent. His foot taps irritably, and I can feel the tension in his body language—all taut muscles and furrowed brows.
Whatever. It’s not like his (frankly,terrible) interpersonal skills are going to win him any awards.
And, if I’m being honest, the real problem here is not my inability to travel internationally with grace on little more than three hours of sleep and exactly zero cups of coffee. No, the real problem is that someone, somewhere, once made the decision to print an important piece of government-issued ID on flimsy cardstock the size of a cocktail napkin.
A napkin–sized ID that just so happens to be standing between me and my escape from Agent Perma-Scowl.
“Sorry…it’s here, I just…” I mumble, fingers fumbling over zippers. My once-curly-now-frizzy hair is plastered to the sweat beading on my temples, and I’m starting to feel nauseous. “Let me check this pocket again.”
The man behind me huffs as I frantically pull out AV cables and lavalier mics that had, at one point, been neatly packed and organized.
How big is this bag?I wonder, now beginning to question if I actually have managed to lose my passport altogether.
That would be just my luck.
“This isn’t a movie theater. I need your boarding pass and passport,now.” I blink up at the agent’s hulking frame, resisting the urge to scowl back at him as I dig into a section I’ve already searched twice.
My phone buzzes in my pocket; the third time in the past ten minutes. I ignore it.
“Alright, that’s enough. You’re going to have to go to the back of the line,ma’am.”
I pause at the word.
That ridiculous word.
Ma’am.
Do Ilooklike a ma’am?
My eyes narrow as I gather the restraint to not let loose the snarky response currently lodged in my throat. I suppose mouthing off to an airport security agent is unwise if I want to actually make my flight. I’m not a mean person by nature, but I can’t help secretly wishing for this guy to hit every red light on his way home tonight, or spill his coffee on his shirt during his next break. Nothing major, nothing harmful, just inconvenient enough to ruffle a few feathers.
Finally, just as I’m about to give up, my fingers brush familiar cardstock. I peel back the fabric of my bag to reveal the navy blue booklet, tucked discreetly into a compartment of the front pocket.
“Aha!” I flash the agent a genuine grin as I whip out my passport and present it and my boarding pass to him like a toddler with a messy art project, hoping he’ll at least crack something resembling a smile.
Nope—not even a flicker of emotion on his face.
And now my head is spinning slightly from standing up too quickly. I catch myself wondering if this man has ever smiled in his life—the crease between his brows isdeep. So deep, in fact, that I imagine he could hide spare change there, slotting a dime into the groove like a piggy bank.
Where would it go?
This is the thought I’m lost in when he finally grunts and glances up at me, then looks back down at the passport, frowning.
“It’s your birthday,” he says, more of an accusation than a question, really.
