Flying in the Face of Countless Indignities

I stood in line one day this week. Or the better part of one day. I watched a woman collapse flat on her back across from me after standing in line. Then I watched as people took advantage of the commotion to quickly step over her and gain advantage in the line.

I was barked at, snarled at, frisked, shoved and gouged. I studied the techniques of line breakers and marveled as fellow travelers were too exhausted, too cowed or too patriotic to object. I watched VIPs escorted to the front of lines in some new expression of class warfare.

I had wanted to see for myself how much indignity and discomfort Americans would bear. I took a round trip on our air transport system. I flew the one big airline that made money last year, presumably the model of business efficiency.

Friends, the future is bleak.

Just guessing, but I don’t think what we’re enduring now is a temporary blowback from Sept. 11.

In fact, I suspect the opposite. Airlines, airports and all the ancillary industries of our air transportation system have learned a lesson: Travelers will keep taking it, no matter how bad things get. And they’ll be quiet about it too now.

So what if the stale bag of $2.50 licorice is now $3.95? So what if airport parking at home costs almost the same as a bargain hotel room? So what if people are collapsing?

I chose Las Vegas because hardly anyone must travel here. More than any place I know, this single-minded desert outpost is a destination of choice. Few, if any, of the 800 people inching forward for 53 minutes to check bags are here for any purpose other than the “pleasure” of getting away. Ditto the 2,000 of us who wait another 64 minutes in line to pass the security checkpoint.

If you arrived the recommended two hours in advance of your flight, you already missed it. And there were still two lines to go--the counter check-in and the boarding scrum.

The one passenger who dared plead quietly for consideration in making his flight received a stony stare. What are you, a terrorist?!

Those National Guardsmen with their assault rifles are here for our safety. They also serve the perverse function of wardens, grimly enforcing docility in the ranks of the prisoners.

I tried to get passengers to talk. Few would, and then only in furtive, hushed tones. The righteous grumbling that used to echo down the terminal hallways has all but disappeared. It would be unseemly in these patriotic times to complain.

Yes, I replied, but do we really have to be treated so badly? Shhhsh, or someone will see us talking and we’ll be fingered as troublemakers and detained or strip-searched or heaven knows what.

At the security gate, a screener growls at my wife: “You’ve got too many bags.”

“No, I don’t,” she replies, holding out a purse and a small shopping bag. But wait, was that a growl in her voice too? The screener pauses. She seems to be weighing whether she’s been “disrespected.” The line halts. Everybody at the airport has been deputized and is brimming with authority. Finally we are allowed to pass but not without a warning sneer.

Because I am conservative by heart, I allotted four hours to get through the airport. It has taken 3 1/2 to get to the gate.

My flight is an hour late. I ask the airline gate agent, why? I get no answer. I get instead a fascist once-over. This flight is overbooked, is the message. Maybe a smart-aleck like me ought to take the hint. There are plenty of good Americans willing to fly and keep their mouths shut. Just look behind me; they’re lined up by the thousands for the chance.

A couple of months ago, I suggested that air travelers did not have to take this anymore. For my own part, I said I was going to curb my flying--establish my own mileage plan and reward myself by not taking trips. Curiosity got me this time. I learned that I’d been wrong. Maybe we don’t have to take this, but we’re going to.

After almost six hours, we’re in the air for the one-hour flight home. The pilot tells us to look down at the traffic on the I-15 Freeway, as if we should be consoled.

I’m imagining a billboard that reads, “If you were down here, you would have been home an hour ago.”