Being Denmark Vesey (Redux)

9:56 AM Today, INT. Main Terminal
Dulles International Security Check Point

I can feel the tension as I approach the checkpoint. My wife looks at me like "Please don't make this difficult. I'd like to make the flight." I can hear the TSA $12/hour storm troopers as I get closer. They are speaking to no one in particular and everyone at the same time.

"Take your laptops out and place them in a tray! Shoes, belts and cellphones go in a tray! Have your boarding pass and ID ready for display! Step to the shortest line sir!" 

I look over my shoulder at the winding line of multicultural debt burdened depression era, Walmart wearing, semi-obese Americans, dutifully and unthinkingly doing The Airport Strip.

I know right now... I aint taking my muhfuggin shoes off. I 'll just have to miss the plane.

I drop the LV duffel on the tray and throw the iPhone in the cup. Take my ticket out the breast pocket of my blazer and snap open the wallet. "Your shoes sir." A TSA agent says to me in a country accent. He's a brother. About 35. Wearing that ridiculous TSA quasi governmental storm-trooper uniform with the black boots.
"I don't want to take my shoes off."
(beat)

The brother looks a little confused. Then asks me again, as if he's amused.  
 "Put your shoes in the tray, and step dus way please."

I look him directly in the eye. I smile. "I don't want to take my shoes off."

By this time, my wife is hustling though security like she doesn't know me.

He looks over his shoulder searching for instructions from a younger black woman in braids. She's about 22 or 23 with playful eyes, but she's wearing the same ridiculous black Big Brother Orwellian uniform complete with masonic symbols and badges.

She motions for me to walk through the metal detector towards her. I'm thinking: 'Cool. Sista going to feel me.' I step through the detector. Bzzzzzzzzzzzing! Buzzer goes off. Of course. Sista says. Could you step back please. I step back. "Anythung in your poket? Cell phone?" Nah. I shake my head and pat my pockets. "I thanks its yowr belt." '

I unbuckle the belt with my left hand like a gunfighter. Whip it through my pants Zorro style. Hand it to the country TSA brother standing behind me. He runs it through the scanner. She motions me to my right. I look up and see some big Start Treck Transporter looking contraption. "Step thru dey please!" 

'Oh shit.' I think.  
'Aint this a bitch! This that shit I read about 5 years ago. Scan your hole muhfuggin body. Fuck that!"

I must have looked at her like she was crazy. I said: "What is that?". She doesn't answer. I can see she wasn't trained to deal with people who ask questions. 'Must get a lot of Plantation Negros through here' I say to myself. She's starting to get annoyed. "Just walk through please."
I asked you what is it? I said looking directly at her. Her entire expression tells me I'm behaving outside her pay grade. But her eyes give her away. She feels me. She knows this shit is ridiculous too.

She said: "You don wanna walk through here neither?"

I shake my head. "Nah. I don't like Xrays and Scans and stuff like that". 
(beat)
She pauses then says at the top of her lungs: ".... Male Scan!".

I'm escorted to a special squared off section of the seurity checkpoint. Big Yellow feet are painted into the carpet. A 45 year old brother with a beard, armed with an electronic wand and wearing the same Orwellian black uniform with the masonic patches, as the country TSA sista, is scanning my Paul Smith wingtips. I ask him in damn near a whisper: "Bra. Have you ever actually found something in anybody's shoe?" He tenses. It occurs to me we are probably being recorded. He says "Sometimes". "Like what man?" I ask. "um. um. people put cigarette stuff. You know. Like Bics. They put it in they sock sometime. Thinking we won't check. Stuff lik dat."

I ask him: "Bra ... Am I cactching a flight or entering a prison?"