II: Frederika N. Brüges, Brussels Airport Security Guard

Even as she stood close to a quarter mile away on the stale gray carpet, sequestered between lumps of travel-weary luggage and disheveled Europeans, I noticed Pink Freak. Like any sane and alert security worker, I immediately concerned myself over her impending approach. Alarms of some sort were bound to be set off by the glittery sheen of her necklaces alone. Not to mention whatever might be stored in the strange neon-pink-head-pouch-adornment that rested lopsided over her frayed and tangled hair. For better or for worse, the stress and constant motion of my job makes it impossible to stay focused on one thing for too long, so the potential safety threat posed by Pink Freak remained at the back of my mind until I saw a hideous, vomit-inducing backpack come out the end of the X-ray scan machine. It was a scaly army green color (akin to an infant’s shit-stained diaper) with garish pink blossoms silk-screened over every possible square inch. It even seemed to have a stench…stale barrel or sweaty funeral parlor or frisky cowboy…even now I can’t be sure how to describe it best. Although I encounter so many hundreds upon hundreds of bags of luggage each day that I’ve become numb to anything short of a diamond-encrusted Louis Vuitton, this particular piece alerted all six of my senses. It could only have come from one source. I drew a sharp breath and turned my now-panicked gaze back over my left shoulder toward the metal detectors, where the next group of travelers were removing their shoes and belts and preparing themselves for the tense passage through the detector’s electronic arch. This was the first time I noticed Blue Monster.

“Oh my fucking fucking fucking God! I still can’t fucking get over this. I can’t believe we have to go through fucking security again. And fucking customs too. And then we’ll have to do it all again in Munich! This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.”

The angry young man seemed incapable of ceasing his string of impassioned epithets. I wasn’t alarmed so much by his anger and volume – in my line of work, it is incalculably rare to encounter anyone in a happy, satisfied, or calm mood; I’m just happy to be a part of the system that moves people forward rather than those inept dullards who work in scheduling or reservations and do nothing but shift people sideways or backwards – as by the fact that he was bending down to untie a pair of bright, obscenely colored shoes that didn’t belong on the feet of anyone over the age of eight. Not to mention that the blinding cyan cap he was wearing, which matched the Pink Freak’s, zipper pouch and all, wouldn’t be acceptable even on a four year old. Are these two really taking themselves, or this situation, seriously? The irony here, I can only wonder if they… And then, as if some greater force were suddenly at work tying my own consciousness to theirs, I noticed Pink Freak and Blue Monster turn toward each other, point at the two bins overflowing with pink and blue accessories, and erupt into unrestrained giggles at a pitch that approached that of my grandmother’s tea kettle whistling off at 3PM during every afternoon of my childhood summers spent in England.

But, just as I began to think that maybe these two had some slightly less tenuous grasp on the situation and their place in it, my hopes were dashed as deeply as the Marianas Trench’s most obscure niche. Blue Monster had resumed his embittered tirade, which, though addressed to forces that operated beneath and above the people, processes, and equipment present, could for the time being have no outlet other than the heavily bejeweled ears of Pink Freak. She seemed incapable of forming any sort of response beyond spaced-out silence or aimless giggles.

Drugs, I thought to myself, with a combination of sadness and dread, it could only be drugs. And I bet I know just where they are too. In that strange cap-pouch on Pink Freak’s head. The poor thing hadn’t even managed to remove half of her metallic jewelry and accessories. Even from a distance of fifteen or twenty feet, I could spot several gold-and-pink bangles draped randomly over her neck and ears, as well as what appeared to be a wedding ring on her left hand (When I looked closely, it appeared that Blue Monster wore a matching band. I could only presume that these represented some sort of commitment the two of them shared together; I could only hope that it wasn’t something as serious or real as marriage.) and a wristwatch that was at least three times the diameter of her wrist, made of some heavy black metal. As she neared the front of the line, I thought about walking over to assist her in removing the rest of the jewelry so that she could pass smoothly through the detector, but I decided it might be beneficial to the safety of her, her fellow passengers, and the inhabitants of whatever city she was traveling to if a valid reason presented itself for subjecting Pink Freak to a full body search.

My hunch was reaffirmed as I turned back to the X-ray scanner belt to see that her nauseating bag had been flagged. Brüno, my efficient and responsible colleague, brusquely unzipped the main pouch and reached in to pull out a sopping Duty-Free plastic bag that held a container obviously well over the 1000ml limit. A light brown fluid dripped out down the sides, and the area immediately began to smell like an acrid combination of hospital hallways and abandoned barns. Whether or not the stale liquid was scotch, bourbon, or rum, I couldn’t quite be sure. But at least now I knew the source of the stench I had discerned before. I have to say I felt only relief that it was a bottle of alcohol and not anything more life-threatening.

Blue Monster had just passed through the detector while Pink Freak waited at the threshold in an immobile state of zoned-out oblivion. Blue Monster’s outcries had transitioned into a more stoic silence through which he still managed to emit vibes more sinister than NEED as Brüno tried to explain to him that the bottle was going to have to be confiscated. The contents of duty-free packages are under no circumstances ever supposed to be opened in-flight, a rule that is too frequently disobeyed to be worth enforcing with any other means than disposal of whatever contents remain. Brüno dropped the package into a trashcan with a shake of his head. Blue Monster’s only response was an even more disapproving shake of his own.

Trusting that Blue Monster could quell his rage sufficiently enough to not lash out, physically or verbally, at Brüno for at least a couple of minutes, I waved my hand at Pink Freak, beckoning her to exit whatever nervous daydream was leaving her stalled in front of the metal detector. She jerked her head slightly, and, for only the briefest of moments, a flash of unfiltered recognition of the world around her passed through her eyes. They quickly clouded over again, however, as she giggled into the air and began to step forward. Of course, I knew she was going to set the machine off well before the obnoxious beep-siren — that sound that has ingrained itself into my neuronal structures so deeply that it seems to play in the background of even my most private thoughts and dreams — went off. She didn’t have that look of nervous, confused innocence that most people who trigger the detector put on. Nor did she immediately look down to notice any forgotten metal accessories with that expression of foolish self-conscious disgust that so many people also share. Instead, Pink Freak didn’t seem to react at all. It was as if she hadn’t even heard the alarm. She was simply staring back-and-forth between Blue Monster’s infuriated eyes and Brüno’s unapologetic shrug as he stood with her open bag still held over the trashcan. Somewhere behind her vacant eyes, she was slowly putting two and two together with regards to the fate of her beloved bottle of liquor. I decided to interrupt her before she had a chance to ask Blue Monster anything that might provoke another livid outburst.

“Ma’am,” I addressed her as such even though I had a difficult time ascertaining at all what age she or her Monster friend might have been, “Will you please step aside for a few minutes? I’m going to have to perform a full body search. You set off the alarm just now.”

“What? Where? Why?” she responded in a spacey tone, with light silences lingering between each of the words.

Since I had already answered all three of those questions clearly just seconds before, I figured it was best to avoid wasting additional time or energy using words with Pink Freak. I merely grabbed her hand, picked up the portable metal scanner, and led her the squared-off privacy box where full-body pat-downs are performed. This was the first time I was able to stare closely at the outfit worn by Pink Freak. What I had previously presumed to be separate tube-top and capri-bottom pieces turned out to, in fact, be connected parts of a single large jumpsuit. It was something I had only ever hoped to see on an infant before. I was at a loss for words in front of this utter pink monstrosity, and decided to forsake my usual attempt to make light-hearted comments to ease the awkwardness of performing such an intimate and invasive procedure. I think few travelers realize the process is just as uncomfortable and stressful for us security workers as it is for them. Most people should be grateful they only have to be subjected to such experiences a few times in their lives, and not day after day, hour after hour, and – sometimes – minute after minute.

Perhaps I should have made more of an attempt to alleviate the nervousness of the situation, because Pink Freak was once of the most anxious and skittish “victims” I’d ever had. Her body shook in unconnected bursts – first her left knee would buck slightly, then her right shoulder would twist violently, then her eyes would blink separately just as her head would make a frantic 180 degree turn from one shoulder to the other.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Oh, I’m oka-ay,” she replied in a slurred, slow whisper.

Drugs, I thought to myself again, it has to be. I only wonder where they are. The pat-down procedure went more quickly than most do, since the outfit’s cheap cotton was thin enough to be see-through at close distances. Of course, it was also too cheap to come with pockets. This all meant that no extra probing was necessary, thank goodness. I was hardly surprised to observe that she wore a bra-and-panty set that was decorated with bright pink buttons and purple puppy dogs.

I reached into my pocket to pull out the hand-held scanner to begin the second part of the examination. The device buzzed quietly as I passed it over her legs, torso, and arms, beeped slightly as it went over her neck and face, reacting to the necklaces, bangles, and earrings that she only just then seemed to realize she was wearing, and erupted into a strident burst of electronic blares as it came into near contact with the fifteen-pound watch she was wearing. I bet this is one of those devices that comes with a secret compartment for drug-storing. There’s no other reason for such a small, feminine girl to be wearing something that belongs on the wrist of a Hell’s Angel.

“I’m going to have to take this off and take a look at it, ma’am.”

“Ohh…kay,” she responded in the same dragging whisper-tone.

I unstrapped the complicated metal buckle – thicker than what you encounter on most belts – and removed the watch for her, since Pink Freak seemed to flighty to do it on her own. I tapped, prodded, and shook the thing, desperate to uncover whatever pills, powders, or vials might explain the behavior and appearance of her and Blue Monster. But, to my surprise and slight frustration, there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about the watch. Except, of course, for the flaming skull-demon face that was imprinted on the face. The ironic juxtaposition of this image with her frilly and rosy clothing failed to cause me the thought it normally would, since, at that point, I wanted nothing more than to pass her and the Monster on to the next poor airline workers who would have to deal with them. Whatever. What else could I have expected from her at this point? I guess she and Blue Monster have already taken whatever it is they took.

Then, suddenly, it occurred to me that there was one part of her attire than remained unsexplored. That strange cap-hat item. Bingo. I gestured to it wordlessly, and she tremblingly reached her hands up to remove it from her head.

“I’m going to have to unzip this and take a look inside.”

“Ohh..kay.” I didn’t think voices could crack during a whisper, but I swear hers managed to.

From the shape and weight of the bulky hat, I could tell that it was brimming full with something. Bingo, I thought again. I struggled for a few seconds with the chintzy plastic zipper before finally opening up the pocket, when, to my complete mystification, ten or fifteen packets of mini-sized ketchup and one packet of sugar spilled to the ground. There was nothing else inside the cap, no matter how many times I turned it inside-out and flipped it back again.

“Alright,” I said bending down to pick up the fallen condiments and stuff them back into the gaping hole in her hat, “I guess that’s everything then. You can follow me back out.”

I led Pink Freak back to where Blue Monster was standing, putting his neon shoes and azul belt back on in front of the X-ray scanner. Pink Freak was absently holding her unzipped cap in her hands, where a teetering packet or two threaten to fall back to the floor.

“Oh my fucking God. They better not fucking take your ketchup as well,” Blue Monster whipped an irascible glance from me to Brüno, “Those packets ARE under the 1000ml limit. And they’re unopened as well, you assholes…” Blue Monster continued to curse under his breath as I waved him and Pink Monster on toward the signs that led to their boarding gate.

As they bumbled away, Brüno and I shared one quick glance that spoke of suppressed amusement, bewilderment, and relief – feelings that we would have no opportunity to attend to until the long day’s end. Sharing a sigh of deep understanding, the two of us leaned down to return to our work, our hands brushing slightly as we reached to pick up the same flagged lap-top case that rolled down the conveyor belt.