How My Mother Abandoned Me to the Feds
Perhaps it is a sign of the times, but even I have had a brush with post-9/11 security measures.
It began innocently enough. As I was entering the courthouse for a mediation appointment, I readily complied with all of the security measures in place to protect me and my fellow Americans from lunatics carrying weapons. I placed my purse sideways on the conveyor belt to be x-rayed and moved in an orderly fashion through the metal detector. Behind me, my mother did the same.
I’ll admit to being somewhat distracted, but I never dreamed I was about to violate the security codes. As I exited the metal detector, I reached for my papers and walked to the conveyor belt to gather my purse. Unfortunately, my purse was no longer on the conveyor belt.
A stern-faced bailiff was holding it at arm’s length by the first two fingers of either hand. I glanced in alarm at my mother, and was further alarmed to find that she was already snickering. Apparently she had heard the code red that had gone out as my purse passed through the x-ray machine. I had not.
The bailiff demanded to know if the purse belonged to my mother (I suspect he thought she had the look of a criminal about her), and my mother, the woman who gave birth to me, said, “Oh, no, no way. That is not my purse!” accompanied by a rather dramatic waving of her hands.
Still uncertain as to why the bailiff was carrying my purse as if he was afraid it might go off, I did the right thing and laid claim to it. It was then he told me that I had a metal fork in my bag.
Yes, a metal fork.
He very helpfully informed me that I would need to remove said fork post haste. My mother, unhelpfully, continued to snicker. I began frantically searching for the offending utensil, somewhat annoyed that the diligent man-in-blue couldn’t tell me where the dang thing was since he obviously knew better than I did. At the same time, my mother asked me in a rather condescending tone, “Why do you have a metal fork in your purse?”
A number of sharp retorts came to mind. I didn’t know it was illegal. I didn’t know it was metal, I usually pack only plastic. Blast it, you’ve found me out, I have a fork fetish. What actually came out was something close to “I had lunch.” I know it was less than clever; however, I had just been handed a document by my stoic guardian-of-freedom that I assumed outlined my violation and the consequences of “packing heat.”
I am sure you’ve had moments when everything seems a little…well, surreal. Your thoughts aren’t exactly appropriate for the moment, and you have the strangest feeling that you just might be dreaming. This was such an occasion for me.
Here I was, trying to carry on a clever repartee with my mother regarding silverware, read a treatise on the dangers of fork possession, and attempt to find the blasted thing without getting arrested. It is at this moment when it occurs to me that not only did the courthouse have a fork document, but my tax dollars had gone to pay for it.
Eventually, I found the fork and handed it to the bailiff. He reached instead for the fork document and used it as a shield for his hand to keep himself from contact with my weapon of mass destruction. Then, in the voice I assume he only reserves for shameless felons, he informed me that he would not be able to hold the fork for me upon my return. What else could I say but “Of course, I understand,” when, in fact, I understood precious little of the last few moments.
As I slunk away in humiliation, my mother began to laugh in earnest now. Later she will tell me she raised me better than that. Thanks, Mom, and I won’t forget that when it came down to it, you had no trouble rolling over on me – “Good lord no, that is not my purse! I am no mindless fork-wielding-fiend! That purse belongs to my daughter!”
The boys got great enjoyment out of my brush with the law. My oldest son did lament that after all the time he’d put into scrubbing that very fork, to have it confiscated by the law was unfair; then he added that it did account for the fact that so many forks were missing from our drawers.
Everyone’s a comedian.
When all is said and done, in an age of rainbow-colored warning systems and a war on terror, I have to admit it – I forked up.
It began innocently enough. As I was entering the courthouse for a mediation appointment, I readily complied with all of the security measures in place to protect me and my fellow Americans from lunatics carrying weapons. I placed my purse sideways on the conveyor belt to be x-rayed and moved in an orderly fashion through the metal detector. Behind me, my mother did the same.
I’ll admit to being somewhat distracted, but I never dreamed I was about to violate the security codes. As I exited the metal detector, I reached for my papers and walked to the conveyor belt to gather my purse. Unfortunately, my purse was no longer on the conveyor belt.
A stern-faced bailiff was holding it at arm’s length by the first two fingers of either hand. I glanced in alarm at my mother, and was further alarmed to find that she was already snickering. Apparently she had heard the code red that had gone out as my purse passed through the x-ray machine. I had not.
The bailiff demanded to know if the purse belonged to my mother (I suspect he thought she had the look of a criminal about her), and my mother, the woman who gave birth to me, said, “Oh, no, no way. That is not my purse!” accompanied by a rather dramatic waving of her hands.
Still uncertain as to why the bailiff was carrying my purse as if he was afraid it might go off, I did the right thing and laid claim to it. It was then he told me that I had a metal fork in my bag.
Yes, a metal fork.
He very helpfully informed me that I would need to remove said fork post haste. My mother, unhelpfully, continued to snicker. I began frantically searching for the offending utensil, somewhat annoyed that the diligent man-in-blue couldn’t tell me where the dang thing was since he obviously knew better than I did. At the same time, my mother asked me in a rather condescending tone, “Why do you have a metal fork in your purse?”
A number of sharp retorts came to mind. I didn’t know it was illegal. I didn’t know it was metal, I usually pack only plastic. Blast it, you’ve found me out, I have a fork fetish. What actually came out was something close to “I had lunch.” I know it was less than clever; however, I had just been handed a document by my stoic guardian-of-freedom that I assumed outlined my violation and the consequences of “packing heat.”
I am sure you’ve had moments when everything seems a little…well, surreal. Your thoughts aren’t exactly appropriate for the moment, and you have the strangest feeling that you just might be dreaming. This was such an occasion for me.
Here I was, trying to carry on a clever repartee with my mother regarding silverware, read a treatise on the dangers of fork possession, and attempt to find the blasted thing without getting arrested. It is at this moment when it occurs to me that not only did the courthouse have a fork document, but my tax dollars had gone to pay for it.
Eventually, I found the fork and handed it to the bailiff. He reached instead for the fork document and used it as a shield for his hand to keep himself from contact with my weapon of mass destruction. Then, in the voice I assume he only reserves for shameless felons, he informed me that he would not be able to hold the fork for me upon my return. What else could I say but “Of course, I understand,” when, in fact, I understood precious little of the last few moments.
As I slunk away in humiliation, my mother began to laugh in earnest now. Later she will tell me she raised me better than that. Thanks, Mom, and I won’t forget that when it came down to it, you had no trouble rolling over on me – “Good lord no, that is not my purse! I am no mindless fork-wielding-fiend! That purse belongs to my daughter!”
The boys got great enjoyment out of my brush with the law. My oldest son did lament that after all the time he’d put into scrubbing that very fork, to have it confiscated by the law was unfair; then he added that it did account for the fact that so many forks were missing from our drawers.
Everyone’s a comedian.
When all is said and done, in an age of rainbow-colored warning systems and a war on terror, I have to admit it – I forked up.
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