The World Without Airports
Right now, I'm flying. So here's a rant about the airline industry.
It starts early. You awaken in darkness to catch your flight, yet no matter how early you start, you’re still running late. And if you think you’re miserable now, just wait.
Once you arrive at the airport, you pay $10 - $20 for parking. Per day. It’s an exorbitant price, but you’re too fatigued to protest, so you pay up, then trudge to the terminal like a zombie. Here’s where the real fun begins.
“Do you have aerosols in your bags? Live animals? Radioactive materials? Bear traps?”
Get ready for questions like those. You might be tempted to reply with jokes such as, “You know what? I left my fireworks in the Shire.”
Don’t. You will not get a laugh. You will only get arrested.
Airport employees are a humorless people, and I can’t blame them. They work in an airport. From the poor saps trapped behind the register at Cinnabon to the front desk reps with scarves knotted around their necks like nooses, no one’s happy. Yet their grumpiness can’t compare to the TSA.
I’m pretty sure TSA stands for “Touch Stuff, Always.” I know they’re keeping everyone safe, but it’s tough to remember that when you’re getting frisked. At this, I have firsthand experience.
A few years ago, Sara, Sasha, and I flew to California. We arrived late to Albany International Airport because, as I mentioned, you’re always late when flying. And we didn’t have Clear or Pre-Check or whatever.
(Side note: Why are there, like, five express lanes at airports? They’re like Disney’s Lightning Lane, only without the joyous laughter.)
Anyhoo, there we were, shuffling down the line with the other plebs at the pace of a chain gang. Fortunately, the TSA agents were kind. Almost too kind.
A younger guy approved our IDs. An older guy ushered us toward an empty security line. They both cracked tasteful jokes about the wait, then made faces at Sasha to make her smile. That’s when I realized it: Adorable children can melt even the coldest of hearts. (When flying, I suggest bringing the cutest kid you’ve got.)
Everything was so expeditious I even dared to dream we’d make our flight. Sara and Sasha stepped through the metal detector, then me. No beeps. No alarms. Not even so much as a tasing. We were in the clear.
…Until an accented voice boomed, “Whose stroller is deese?”
I turned. There stood a woman with tight black curls, a face chiseled from granite, and the eyes of a shark. She was pointing at Sasha’s stroller. I raised my hand.
“Okay,” said Shark Lady. “One of you is getting a paddown.” She had a European accent, I think Russian, so when she said “pat down,” it really did sound like “paddown.”
I’m unsure why our stroller warranted a paddown. I don’t know why we were given a choice of victims. Yet I knew what I had to do.
“I volunteer as tribute!” I proclaimed.
Just kidding. I mumbled my assent.
Those disposable gloves always frighten me. Makes me worry fingers might explore orifices. Fortunately, none did. And it wasn’t even Shark Lady doing the paddown—it was the younger and older guys from the front of the line.
They reminded me of the headlining duo in an 80s buddy cop show. Not that they were cracking jokes anymore—they just looked the part. Their movie could’ve been called Bucky & Bruce: Snap on the Latex.
So Bucky—that’s the younger guy, I’ve decided—he began giving me a play-by-play of the paddown. I don’t remember much other than the demonstration of his hand technique.
“I’ll be turning over my hands over sensitive areas.” He swept his hands through the air to demonstrate. “Do you want a private room?”
In general? Sure. At that moment? No, our plane was boarding. It seemed my paddown would be performed in front of a live studio audience.
They’re thorough, those TSA agents. Bucky seemed to spend way more time below the equator than above. And when someone’s running their hands over your ass, it’s hard to tell if they’re using knuckles or palms.
The penis is a different story. Bucky definitely brushed my penis. I suppose that’s his job, and I’m wondering if that’s specified in the description, e.g. “Must be able to lift 15 to 20 pounds and stand for long periods of time. Must also be willing to backhand reproductive organs.”
I can only think of two things that could make a stranger touching your genitals more awkward. One: If I had a chub (I did not—this was actually quite the turn-off). Two: If I’d made eye-contact with any passerby. Again, I did not. In airports, people look in one direction only: Forward.
Fortunately, I was exonerated. Bucky and Bruce gave us parting waves, Shark Lady gave us a parting snap of her jaws, and we arrived at our gate, cursed stroller and all.
…Only to watch our plane soaring into the distance. The paddown made us miss our flight.
The takeaway? We should’ve shelled out for TSA Pre-Check.
That’s yet another gripe I have with the airline industry: You need to pay extra on top of the extra you’re already paying just to avoid having TSA lay hands on you like a faith healer.
Now that it’s taken hours to bypass the security checkpoint, you’re late for your flight, like we were. Yes, you’ve become one of those poor saps who sprints through the airport like Tom Cruise outrunning an explosion, only there’s no company paying you millions to do it. In fact, it’s the opposite, give or take a few bucks.
Assuming you’ve arrived in time, you’re sweaty, and your fellow passengers are glaring at you. Also, you’ve noticed there’s no space left in the overhead bins.
A flight attendant will inform you they’re checking your bags at the gate, which is code for, “You will never see these bags again.” The rest of the flying experience is designed to break your spirit, so by this point, you can do nothing but collapse into your middle seat and hope your body odor isn’t too pungent.
If the American penal system is looking for new forms of punishment, I’d recommend stuffing prisoners into the middle seat on an airplane. This already happened in Con Air, but still, I think it’s worth exploring outside a pseudo-Michael Bay film. There’s nothing worse than sitting between two strangers on a multi-hour flight, especially if they’re manspreading.
And let us not forget the possibility of motion sickness. My friend Jimmy once described a flight during which a woman next to him began dry-heaving during takeoff. Emphasis on heaving. Jimmy bodily reenacted the woman’s movements, which resembled my cats when they’re about to eject a hairball.
Let’s assume you’ve taken off and are now 35,000 feet in the air. You’d better not get comfortable, because your man-spreading window-seat neighbor will need the bathroom in about 20 minutes.
Speaking of which, I once witnessed a woman in the window seat across from me get up five times to use the bathroom.
Five. Times.
The poor couple in her row seemed pissed, and understandably so. After stand-up number three, I think it would be more polite to just go in the seat.
Whether you’re pissing yourself or not, I recommend avoiding Chatters. You know who I mean. They’re usually elderly people traveling alone who’ve forgotten to pack entertainment. They also wear visors. Avoid Chatters like lepers during the time of Christ. I recommend setting immediate boundaries by jamming earbuds into your ears and whipping out a book.
If you don’t do this, and do it immediately, the Chatters will chat at you from takeoff to touchdown. I write “at” and not “with” because you’ll struggle to squeeze even a handful of words between anecdotes about the Chatter’s recent Carnival cruise.
I despise flying and detest chatting with strangers (especially Chatters), so if such an interaction occurs, you can only escape by flushing yourself out the plane’s septic system. Never mind that you’re too large to fit—at this point, it’s better than sitting there listening to story number 18 about the Chatter’s grandson and his recent acceptance to Arizona State.
Did you bring snacks? I hope so, because the plane has none. Sure, you get two-ounce bags half-filled with adolescent pretzels, but who is that satisfying? Even Sasha was unimpressed by the fare on our most recent flight, and for her, a packet of liquefied fruit is most of a meal.
I still recall the days when airlines served food. Was it good food? No, it was more gruel than sustenance. Yet still, these were full meals. I’ll eat almost anything if I’m hungry enough. (Case in point: Arby’s.) So a meal, any meal, would help. However, if we’ve learned anything, it’s that airlines only appreciate their customers’ suffering.
By now you’ve finally landed. Never mind this experience took hours off your life, thousands off your bank account, and some shine off your soul. It’ll take another half-hour to de-board, yet still, you’ve landed. You’re here. You’re home.
Just kidding. This is your layover.
You know those videos of people rushing through airports to lift their loved ones into tearful embraces? It’s not because they’ve been away for months. It’s because they don’t have to fly anymore.
Someday, that might be you. But for now, you’ve got another flight ahead of you. While you’re trapped in the middle seat and being chatted at by the two Chatters flanking you, remember this: A world without airports would be a joyous place.
Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.
This is a chapter from my 2025 book The World Without Various Stuff. Read more chapters like it at this link.
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