Security

“Shoes."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Take your shoes off ..."
"Why?"
"Random check."
"I find this process utterly dehumanising ... on what basis was I randomly chosen?"
"I have to work a percentage."
"So you hadn't chosen anybody for a while then?"
"No, actually I have chosen quite few already."
"So why me then?"
I take off a shoe and toss it onto the rollers. She thinks I have thrown it at her and looks at me agressively. One of her colleagues - an older man with a moustache and an earphone on a wiggly wire comes over.
"Look, if you want to complain, you can speak to the supervisor."
"I am not complaning, I just want to know why I was randomly chosen."
I tell her I was not throwing the shoe at her. She tells me I should have put it in one of the special trays.
I remove all metal objects from my person, display my resealable plastic bag of toothpaste balsams and salves, and briefly panic when I cannot find my laptop in my shoulder bag before realising it has already gone through the tunnel. I walk through the sensor gate without a peep.
I stand at the other side gathering together my belongings and tell the woman that it is nothing personal, that I find the whole process utterly dehumanizing and ask her again why she chose me at random.
The same man with the moustache comes over. He tells me that if I want to complain I should speak to the supervisor. I tell him that I was simply trying to tell the woman that it is nothing personal. Surely I am allowed to tell her this and express my feelings about the process as such. He tells me that it is for my security.
At which point my fury takes on a new, silent form. Security. This integration of systems of surveillance and conveyance, and the naked confrontation between the people who are employed by them and those who have no choice but to use them.
He says that they get this all the time and that I should speak to the supervisor. I notice that the woman who asked for my shoes has now been replaced by another - equally surly, playing the hardcase, trying to stare me out. I look back at her, focusing intently about a yard behind her eyes.
Clothed but not particularly comfortable or composed, I stomp off towards the departure lounge. Passing by the special offers on whisky, I realise that I want to get this off my chest, so I return to seek out the supervisor.
I tell her that I did not like being accused of throwing a shoe at one of her staff, that I would still rather like to know about the notion of ‘random’ being employed here, and that this procerss of security is not only dehumanizing but it has very little to do with security. Nobody who wants to blow up a plane is going to try to do so via the passenger cabin. If bombs are to be placed then some poorly paid baggage handler who has been working in the basement for years will be given the nod or otherwise nobbled.
She wants to know which aisle I came through. I tell her that I do not want to get anybody into trouble, that my problem is with the system as such and with their methods of randomly chosing. She says that personel have a quota of random shoes for each shift. I say that unless a machine is generating the random numbers, then it is not properly random. If a human being is chosing, then there will always be a reason. I suggest she check this with a pysychologist.
She says that they should perhaps use a more appropriate method of chosing people at randon, but that they do not get the equipment. I tell her that I am fed up with being picked out at borders for reasons of security. I suggest it has something to do with my appearance. She tells me that often the millionaires are dressed as I am, while the suits are just as likely to be smuggling. Perhaps I am a millionaire I say, but it should make no difference. We agree that we should not judge a book by its cover. In any case, I add, I have it on good authority that the passenger most often caught smuggling cocaine into one rich western country in his hand luggage is a man in a suit. She laughs in agreement, apparently confirming that this is her experience here too.
I tell her that I have now got off my chest what was on it. She tells me that this is what she is here for.
I leave for the departure lounge with my other ordinary woes, turning over the meaning of security, trying to fathom this insanity to which humanity has brought itself.