The Coonridge Digest: Herb’s maiden voyage

Greetings from the Ridge.
It was Herb’s maiden voyage. The old coot’s flown thousands of miles with me at his side, but until last week he’s never tried his own wings and taken to the skies solo.
He had a reunion of his army buddies in Tulsa and frankly, although I love them all dearly, I’ve heard the stories before. Herb made contact with a fellow veteran and after I made all the ticket arrangements, they started to pack.
Herb Crump is a lousy traveler under the best of conditions. Once he’s over ten feet off the ground everything becomes a crisis. I usually have to sit in the seat beside him and explain every bump and grind of a belching 747, and his only real injury came from a set of broken fingernails dug deeply into the armrest.
Like many travelers, Herb was an absolute Christopher Columbus when the first plans a trip and as the fateful departure date approached he quickly becomes Chicken Little. “It’s not the terrorists, Freida. It’s the airport security. I’m always afraid they’ll jerk me into some back
room and… well… God knows what.”
“Herb, you look silly, you look confused, and even a little idiotic, but nobody’s ever gonna label you dangerous. It’s obvious that anything lethal about you was exploded long ago.”
But there was absolutely no calming the man so I did an Internet search on airport security and came across what they call Personality Profiling. It has nothing to do with skin color, accent, or religion, but rather a series of psychological red flags that potential trouble-makers might trigger. In one airport alone, Boston’s Logan, they’ve identified 100 felons this year using this screening method.
I read the list to Herb. “Herb, it says that these questions they ask you at check-in about where you’re going and who you’re going to visit aren’t idle conversation. They’re watching for tell-tale signs of criminality. First off, it says to make direct, easy eye-contact with your interviewer. Can you do that?”
“Look ‘em in the eye?”
“Don’t crawl over the ticket counter and go nose to nose, just don’t look away when they talk to you. Next, it says you should keep your hands relaxed. Don’t make it look like you’re holding onto something in your coat.”
“Hands to my sides. Like this?”
“No, don’t flap. You ain’t Big Bird. Just act relaxed.”
“Eye contact. Hands to sides. What else?”
“Smile. It says that hijackers seldom grin. And make conversation with those around you. Let the ticket agent know that you know the people beside you.”
“What if I don’t know ‘em?”
“I don’t know, Herb. Make a new friend.”
This was not going well. Fact is, Herb has never had to remember anything since the day we got married. Most men’s marriage vows include their promise to rely on the woman for making every appointment for the rest of their life. Herb says that it does him no good to remember anything because I have the ultimate veto power for everything we do. He’s right.
“Okay Herbie, it says that a nervous disposition will get you pulled over quicker than anything else.”
“Then I’m sunk.”
“Herb?”
“I’m sunk, Freida. I can look ‘em in the eye and keep my hands to my sides and yuck it up with my fellow passengers, but I can’t be calm. Surely they don’t interrogate every flier who’s nervous. That’d be half the plane.”
“Just don’t be overt, Herb.”
“I took my pills.”
“Overt, Herb. It’s not a medical condition.”
“Sure you won’t go with me?”
“I’m sure.”
Herb got to the airport, stared so hard at the ticket agent that his eyes bulged, held his arms directly out to his sides like a starched penguin, laughed so loud with the lady behind him that the crowd parted around him and shouted “I ain’t overt! I ain’t overt.”
They strip-searched him.
You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.