Shoes off. Coats off. Hoodies off. Vests off. Belts off. No liquids. Laptops can stay in your bags. Place everything in the bins. Nothing in your hands. Nothing in your pockets.
Wait there. Step forward. Hands on your head. Hold still. Go ahead.
I walk through the cordoned off area, angle right, stop and wait three deep as carry-on bags roll through the scanner straddling the conveyor belt. I watch the intersection, where approved bags go straight and disapproved bags come to a thud, before jutting right. The banished bags, down the long, lonely line. I’m worried. I never worry.
I’m third in line, a pair of red-toed socks poking out of the bottom of my jeans. A woman next to me smiles at my socks. Glad I could brighten up her day. The big man in front leans over the conveyor belt, picks up his shoes, wedges into them, wrestles his backpack over his shoulder while holding up the line. He’s no Ryan Bingham. The woman waits for him before sliding into sparkly shoes, pulling on her green overcoat, picking up her purse, her roller bag and another handbag. I watch the bins. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I see the bin, the bag, the scan. Come on, come on, come on…
Stop. Jolt. Thud.
I watch it slide from my fingertips.
It bumps down the banished line. A yellow light flashes, a siren, guns are drawn. At least that’s the way it feels.
A tall gentleman in a black and blue uniform grabs the bin with one hand and then two. He looks for the culprit. I smile and wave.
He throws the bin atop the metal table, one right out of a police interrogation room. He slides on two blue rubber gloves and starts unzipping my Patagonia backpack. A couple of chargers fall out, a pair of socks, a tin of Altoids.
“It’s a bronze…on a wooden base…a trophy…a horse…”
He says nothing, pulling the linen bag with one hand, then two and placing it on the table, next to the bin. I wish I could put on my shoes, I’d feel more powerful.
“I won it last night at an award’s dinner…”
He says nothing, opening the bag and unraveling my Patagonia puffer jacket from around the base and then over the horse’s head. He looks at it, stares at it, almost admires it, well, maybe that’s me reading too much into it. He still says nothing.
Now I’m filling space, hoping against hope, wondering what on earth am I going to do with this thing if he doesn’t let me go.
“I won it last night…they just hand it to you…I didn’t know what to do with it…”
He looks up, still holding the trophy.
“Take it home and put it somewhere special.”
I smiled. He smiled.
My third Eclipse Award sits proudly on the mantel.
