Unfinished Story #1

“Sir, would you like to tell us what in your bag?” This particular TSA staff member seemed to have bought his vest from Baby Gap.

“Pardon?”

“Sir, this will all be easier if you work with us.” another staff member chimed in.

“What do you mean?” my Dad asked. For a well-traveled and seasoned member of society, he conveys the most genuine look of innocence when he is confused. My Dad is a manly man: strong, hairy, and has big, calloused hands. He delights in his manliness and thinks it a great prize to be a man. The most wonderful part of manly men are when they break character: when you catch them giggling or delighting in something trivial, like a birthday cake. It would never occur to Dad that his bewildered expressions or the way he swings his toes around to theme songs would be the things that made him so endearing and revered.

The agent busting out of his vest motioned with his head and Dad was surrounded by the TSA.

“I’m going to need you to come with me.”

. . . . . .

At some point during my Dad’s travelling career, my Mom began packing cat paraphernalia into Dad’s suitcases. My parents are very different people. For every virile and bold trait of my Dad’s, my Mom has a delightful and polite contradiction. She’s a Southern lady; gentle and kind and harbors away a wicked sense of humor that would shock all of her church friends. My Mom’s brand of humor is often lost on Dad. His hearty guffaws were mostly prompted by bathroom humor and the misfortunes of others while my Mom was easily entertained by the unexpected and the absurd.

The cat crap Mom tucked between his button-downs was placed purely to surprise and disgust Dad when he finally made it to his hotel and unpacked his things. Dad thought it is not manly to like cats. so Mom enjoyed imagining his eye-roll as he flung a cat calendar across his hotel room.

Post 9/11, the efficiency with which Dad could glide through an airport was lost to the depths of the good old days, along with the freedom to perform a much needed mid-flight shave. Though proudly born in the USA, Dad’s parents passed along their Lebanese noses and swarthy complexions, so in the wake of a Middle Eastern born tragedy, Dad was selected for “random” searches each Tuesday morning as he set off for that week’s collection of business meetings. This had a two-fold outcome. Not only was my impatient father held up at security while his bags were unpacked piece by piece, but the cat crap became a public display. Mom was enlivened by this news and her feline schemes grew alongside Dad’s humiliation, packing a last minute stuffed kitten or a photo album of cats from years past. On one occasion, Dad looked over during his search and noticed a framed picture of their cat, Googus, propped up on top of his toiletry bag, facing out for the crowds to enjoy. Onlookers chuckled at my Dad who only glared that that good-humored security agent.  

. . . . . .

“The package in your suitcase, Sir. What’s in it?” The head of security sat Dad down in a small interrogation room in some unknown part of the airport. Dad realized he might be in real trouble. What kind of cat crap could cause this commotion? He was flying to Tennessee for a wedding and Mom had packed a gift for the couple on top of his suit. He hadn’t concerned himself with what was inside. 

“I don’t know.” Dad said honestly.

“You don’t know?”

“It’s a wedding gift. My wife put it in there.”

"We’re going to open the box, Sir."

“Ok. Sure.” Dad said, being as agreeable as possible. His nose already made him a suspicious airport character.  He picked up his phone to call Mom and she answered his call with a happy, singsong 'Hello'.

“Nancy,” Dad shot at her, “What’s in the box?”

“Huh?” she said.

“The wedding gift. What is it?”

“Steak knives!” Mom responded happily, pleased with the thoughtful notion. And then she gasped a sharp inhale and burst into tears.

“I gotta go!” and Dad hung up the phone. 

The next thirty minutes inched by....