Anatomy of a Column
eggy Noonan had just finished being inappropriately patted down and walked through the X-ray thing that seems to function as a mammogram, with her arms up straight, at Reagan National airport.
“I didn’t really want a freelance mammogram, and I’m not sure it’s right that you give me one,” she whispered to the TSA prison-matron. They took her First Aid Kit away (the amusing name she had given her hip flask, Christofle, so chic, so elegant) telling her it was too big, and held more than was allowed by law. She was brusquely told to sit down “over there.”
Noonan padded over to a bank of chairs in her stocking feet and proceeded to slip on her well-worn Weejan loafers. It was yet another grim trip into the gaping maw that had become airline travel. “Some things should not be commodities,” she noted. Sitting next to her was an elderly gentleman wearing a full Cleveland: plaid polyester pants, white belt and shoes, and a short-sleeved blouse of dubious quality and heritage.
Her little bird-like hands fluttered up to her ever present pearl necklace (so classic, so comforting in a rough storm of life) that the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever, Ronald Wilson Reagan, had given to her.
Cleveland leered at her, his rheumy blue eyes dully sparkling, “What’cha in for, sweetheart?” He looked amused as if he might put one of his knobby hands on her knee.
“I have to tell you that it’s not polite to block my path and attempt to force a conversation.”
After the requisite lecture about bringing on liquids, the TSA agent told her she could empty the flask and then bring it on board. They were not amused when she asked for ice.
“No one has any sense of proportion anymore, now that we are a service economy, forced to interact with each other, every day, in person and by phone and email. And it makes us all a little mad.”
She stumbled onto the plane, so garish and full of the unwashed masses yearning to breath free, and struggled to get her Louis Vuitton into the overhead bin. The nice young steward came over to help her. She handed him her bag, sat down in her seat and fiddled with the air nozzle.
“I’m sorry, lady, I’m checking this bag in. It’s too big and too heavy to safely stow overhead.”
“I’m not paying you to be rude to me,” she snapped back, reading the card about what to do in an emergency, and noting the location of the evacuation slides.
UPDATE: – We have photographic proof that Peggington Noonington was on that flight:
All the illustrations are courtesy of DistributorCapNY – my very good friend and talented artist!
UPDATE 2: Our good friend and Scissorhead, LibHomo, has an excellent reaction to Nooner’s usual dithering.