FIRST FLIGHT

Recently, I took my first flight in a long time—a long, long time. In fact, the last flight was in the previous millennium. Okay, so my life lacks excitement. Not the point. The point is that this was a traumatic event for a cranky old guy.

For one thing, major surgery had occurred since the last flight, and I have various leftover wires and perhaps other surgical paraphernalia embedded in my being. For another thing, airport security procedures had been substantially tightened. Horror stories of fondling, strip searches, and other aggressive intrusions abound. I had visions of shivering naked in a cold room as sadistic individuals entered various bodily orifices in pursuit of offending images on the x-ray machines.

The other matter of concern was that I would be separated from a faithful companion for a period of time, a companion I was much dependent upon, both physically and emotionally. That companion was my Swiss Army knife with its plethora of useful blades and tools. I had been led to believe that in the post-9/ll environment, one could be imprisoned for life for even thinking about carrying a pocketknife on a plane. Since I was trying to avoid checking any baggage, I would be without the faithful companion for several days. The thought made me even more cranky.

In preparation for the flight and the possible examinations of my person, I decided to break down and wear underwear and clean socks; or was that socks and clean underwear? Whatever the case, I wanted to avoid as much embarrassment as possible.

To my surprise, the trips through the various security checkpoints went without a hitch. Profiling might have had something to do with it. Each time I went through the security gauntlet, I was in the middle of a group of sinister-looking characters who corralled the attention. Tattoos seemed to particularly wet the appetites of the checkers. So all the concern about being pawed by strangers turned out to be unwarranted.

But the absence of the Swiss Army knife was a problem, and for an unanticipated reason. Cranky old guys have their habits, and one of mine is two beers before bed. The kind of places I stay in do not have room service, so I purchased my beer—in bottles—at the local minimart. Bedtime approached. I reached for the trusty Swiss Army knife to pop the caps, and Holy #&*#!

So if you ever stay in a motel near the town of Woodstock, Vermont, and wonder about the various gouges in odd places—such as on the door frame near the hinges, around the sink, below the shower faucet handles—you know that the cranky old guy was there.

DSH