I’ll be away this week. In the meantime, I’ve run across a few columns from past years that seem worthy of a re-read — and haven’t, for the most part, been outdated by subsequent events. Today’s flashback is from April 7, 2003.
RALEIGH — All I had to do Monday was get on a plane to Washington, head over to a hotel just past Union Station, speak to some securities regulators, and then get home. That’s all — nothing complicated, nothing too taxing.
And so the day began, with cold rain.
After dropping off the little general (Andrew Jackson Hood, my youngest, as distinguished from the little conqueror, Charles Alexander Hood) I had about 45 minutes to get to Raleigh-Durham airport to make my flight to Reagan National. But just as I made it out onto the inner loop of the Raleigh Beltline, traffic slowed and stopped. A minor accident blocked two lanes. I fumed. A tow truck appeared. I fumed some more.
Finally, about a half hour later, I was zooming down I-40 towards the airport. After some trouble finding a space, I parked, bounded for the door, and ran across the parking lot. Naturally, the rain intensified at just this moment. After a brief wait, I got up to the security screener at the gate — and then got pulled aside for a thorough going-over.
Fuming doesn’t begin to cover it.
With minutes to go, I finally got into the gate area. Then it hit me. None of the flights to DC that were listed on the computer screen corresponded to the flight number on my electronic ticket. I picked the later flight, ran to the gate, and flashed my e-ticket. Bad choice. Apparently I was supposed to be at the other gate. I hurried there. The plane was gone.
Fortunately, the attendant figured out that the flight-number error was the airline’s, and so I was booked on another airline’s flight taking off in 45 minutes — in the airport’s other terminal. More cold rain. More lines. And then, yes, I was pulled aside again for a wanding.
This time, at least, there was some private comic relief. I’m a huge fan of the 1983 film “This is Spinal Tap.” In one of my favorite scenes, Derek Smalls — the faux bassist played by Harry Shearer — is being wanded at the airport. The security officer asks, among other things, whether the musician “has any artificial plates or limbs.”
“Not really, no,” Smalls replies in a deadpan voice. Trust me, it’s funny in the film, as is the payoff of the scene (which I won’t describe).
Anyway, even since I got a metal plate in my arm in a bizarre newspaper-delivery accident in 1986 — this is a real event, not a “Spinal Tap” reference — I’ve wondered why I never set off a metal detector. It didn’t seem fair. The blasted arm still hurts, particularly when I lift heavy objects (no, really, dear, it does). At the very least I ought to set off airport screening devices.
Well, today I did. Twice.
Oh, didn’t I mention? On my return flight to Raleigh-Durham Monday night, I got diverted to a security inspection for a third time. And for a second time, my arm made the little machine go “bing” (first prize to whomever gets that reference).
I’d conclude this little rant by asking whether I really look so much like a terrorist. But given my mood today, I probably did look a bit unsavory.
Hood is president of the John Locke Foundation and publisher of Carolina Journal.