The TSA guy at the front of the line was shouting about how our bags had better not contain explosives
or firearms or anything liquid over three ounces, and I said to Augustus,
“Observation: Standing in line is a form of oppression,” and he said, “Seriously.”
Rather than be searched by hand, I chose to walk through the metal detector without my cart or my tank or even the plastic nubbins in my nose.
Walking through the X-ray machine marked the first time I’d taken a step without oxygen in some months,
and it felt pretty amazing to walk unencumbered like that, stepping across the Rubicon,
the machine’s silence acknowledging that I was, however briefly, a nonmetallicized creature.
I felt a bodily sovereignty that I can’t really describe except to say that when I was a kid
I used to have a really heavy backpack that I carried everywhere with all my books in it,
and if I walked around with the backpack for long enough, when I took it off I felt like I was floating.
After about ten seconds, my lungs felt like they were folding in upon themselves like flowers at dusk.
I sat down on a gray bench just past the machine and tried to catch my breath,
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