Things Have a Way of Working Out -- Part II

So -- thanks to a bunch of margaritas and free internet -- five hours flew by at the airport and I even found myself rushing to the gate at 9pm for my 9:30pm flight.

The flight had many empty seats in the back, and I began to wonder if American just really, really wanted to free up some standby room on the 4:25pm flight.

My suspicion was confirmed when I arrived late at the luggage carousel at JFK (I figured since my bag had been the first on it would be the first off) and did not see my giant rolling duffel among the circling remains.

"Carol Anne Henning!" burst the speakers overhead, "Please report to the luggage security desk!"

I looked around and found the podium with a young woman standing next to my lonely bag. I walked over.

"There you are!" said the attendant, "I've been calling you for a long time. Here..." She pulled my bag up. "It's been waiting here for you for five hours!"

My jaw dropped.

"Yeah. They put it on the earlier flight, I guess."

She pulled the bag towards me. It flopped over. "Ah, it looks like they broke the wheel.... "

"What..??!" I spluttered. "You mean I waited five hours in an airport because they said they couldn't check my bag, and they checked it anyway??"

"Yeah," she signed, "Sometimes they do that."

"Well, this is not cool! I mean, I have to drag this all the way home with a broken wheel like this?" I turned the bag over. The duffel had three wheels sitting in the metal frame at the bottom. The part of the frame between the center and left-hand wheel had been crushed, leaving the wheel to flop at an angle.

"Come over here," she started walking towards the far corner of Baggage Claim, "You can file a complaint in the office over here. Sometimes they have a bag they can give you to replace it."

I did not like the sound of putting my belongings in some random bag, but I also didn't want to drag a gimpy wheeled boulder.

The clerk at the desk took my claim and gave me a number, then said, "They don't reimburse for luggage. You might get something, a replacement or repair maybe. But they never cover wheels or handles or anything sticking out..."

"But it's not the wheel," I protested, "It's the frame of the bag where the wheel sits!"

She looked at the bag blankly.

"They don't cover wheels."

I grabbed the paperwork in huff and stormed out. Waiting for the Air Train, I shuffled some of the heavier items so they sat directly above the right-hand wheel, shifting the weight mostly over the working carriage. Not ideal, but at least it rolled now.

When I got home, got some sleep and repaired my own broken frame of mind, I realized that even if American Airlines did not cover the bag -- American Express might!

I had bought this bag specially for the trip to Japan in mid-November.

For weeks I had been tearing my hair out looking for a bag that would fit the 35.5" uprights for the PURE Reflections mirror frames (which are actually collapsible standing clothing racks), without requiring an oversize charge -- as, say, a golf bag would.

Target came to the rescue with their 36" Rockland Rolling Duffel -- a mere $45 ($40.50 with my AAA discount!).

As we are planning to mount this show in other cities, we definitely needed this bag in good condition. So I checked my AmEx records -- sure enough, I had bought it within their 90-day Buyer Protection window (with only a few days to spare!).

I filed a claim pronto, pronto and AmEx reimbursed me with no questions asked.

The replacement is due to arrive next week!

Rockefeller Center Security Guard -- Drunk on Holiday Power?

They say absolute power corrupts absolutely -- but petty authority is far more dangerous, in that it is pervasive, insidious and wreaks its damage not as the single blow that brings down the house; rather it's the nibbling vermin that shreds the structure from within.

And a verminous mouth nibbled me today.

Now, bear in mind, I'm no fan of security guards.

Often underpaid and desperately underqualified -- especially after the post-9-11security frenzy -- they manage to make me feel safe and threatened at the same time.

In the wake of 9-11, as security in one form or another was ubiquitous, stories of abuses were rampant, as guards made a sport of fondling, bullying and otherwise victimizing air travellers.

In the past few years, thankfully, this has abated.

But every once in a while, in a high-profile, high-volume situation -- like Rockefeller Center at Christmastime -- security gets a tad overzealous. And I start to wonder if we're heading back down that slippery slope.

So today, as I headed back from a lunchtime gig at the United Nations, I trudged through the 4pm crowd around the Rockefeller Center ice skating rink.

I had done a sword routine for the show, and carried the prop in a shoulder bag that is too short, so the hilt sticks out of the top corner.

Bear in mind, I had passed through UN Security without even a nod, and weaved my way through gaggles of NYPD without a second look.

According to my pal in the NYPD, "Legally, under NYC Admin Code, section 10-133, possession of a knife with a blade longer than 4 inches is illegal. No intent, no recklessness, not even not having knowledge that you possessed it. Up to 15 days in jail."

And, if indeed, this item were a "blade" it would have had a sharp edge and a point.

But it doesn't.

This "blade" is a clumsy, blunt, bronze scimitar -- perfect for balancing on my head...



... and not much else.

It's less threatening as a golf club -- a fact obvious to the NYPD and UN Security.

(It is refreshing to know that SOME people in authority can recognize a theatrical prop when they see one.)

But not so at Rockefeller Center.

Somewhere along the northern path above the rink I became aware of a tall, wiry, middle-aged black man walking next to me.

"Hey, is that real?" he asked with a hint of a chuckle, in the way that men do when they are hitting on me.

I ignored him.

"Is that real?" he asked again as we walked up the staircase in front of 30 Rock.

"It depends on what you mean by real," I finally answered.

"No, seriously. Is it plastic or something?"

I made a "WTF?" face and turned away.

"It's bronze," I said, flatly.

Then he grabbed the handle of the sword, trying to pull it from my bag.

I snatched it away. "Please don't touch that!" I spat and yanked it and myself back.

He didn't say anything else, but held up a walkie talkie and said, "Person of suspect is heading... "

I moved quickly across 50th Street, heading in a panic towards the Swarowski booth.

So.

Not the most terrifying encounter; but enough to scare me with images of being hauled off to some security desk, made to wait, bullied, harassed, whatever.

And then what do I say when I finally make it back to work?

(OK, they're pretty nice at my job, so it probably wouldn't have been an issue -- but still...!)

Then I thought about the incident, and how completely inappropriate his behavior was, for two striking reasons:

(1) He did not identify himself to me as a guard; indeed if he had touched my person rather than my prop, I would have socked him one in the jaw;

(2) He should never have touched my person or my prop at all!

So. How to handle this?

Well, I fumed about it at first.... posted it in my facebook, gnashed my teeth at a few tolerant friends.

And finally I decided to do something about it.

I found the concierge number on the Rockefeller Center website and asked to speak to security, explaining that I'd had an incident with a security guard.

The receptionist apologized and forwarded my call.

I repeated the story to a guard who seemed genuinely surprised by the offending guard's behavior. "Yeah," he said, "He definitely should not have done that."

He alerted the supervisor of my call and took details -- time, location, events, physical description. "Hmm.." he said as I described the guard, "That doesn't sound like one of our team."

He explained, "It's not just our guys out there... there's Fifth Avenue security, some NYPD..."

The supervisor became available and took the call.

I repeated many of the details and he, too, asked for a more detailed physical description.

I did my best: taller than me (about 6'3"?), late 40s to 50s, caramel skin, glasses, dark jacket and pants, dark hat, walkie talkie.

He had some kind of badge on his left side, but he had grabbed me with his right hand, so the left side was away from me. And I wanted to get away from him.

The supervisor expressed his apologies and said he would do his best to address the issue.

I thanked him for his time and hung up feeling not entirely resolved.

Perhaps I should have asked the supervisor the best way to have handled that situation.

Should I have stopped and faced him dead-on? Would that have left me more vulnerable?

Probably. Yes, I think so.

And that is the biggest problem here.

The petty authoritarians have their tiny taste of power, and are chomping at the bit to use it. And if you are on the receiving end of their unwanted attentions, it will rarely turn out well for you.

If you decide to stand your ground and fight back, then occasionally you can help ferret some bad ones out (if, indeed, the higher-ups are even interested in doing any ferreting -- and making such an assumption is in itself extremely risky).

And if I had been not been running late, I might have done that.

But in this case -- and in the case of many of us who are confronted with petty authority bullshit -- we just want to get on with our lives, make whatever obeisance these assholes want to let us be on our way.

And perhaps that is precisely what gets them off.....

My guess was that this scumbag knew very well that the sword was not a problem, and that he was, indeed, using its presence as an excuse to hit on me.

So.

To be continued.

Maybe.

En Route to Egypt

So far, so good.

As I write this, I figure we are somewhere south of Nova Scotia. The guy in front of me has decided to lay back,making it difficult to see the screen, much less type. And they are showing The Nanny Diaries on the monitors, such as they are.

Dinner was actually very good.

I had the beef, which was some kind of seasoned patty, with rice and surprisingly fresh veggies, and the usual accompaniments: cheese with crackers, juice, water, a roll with butter and salad, as well as custard and tea for dessert.

Egypt Air isn’t long on amenities (at least not for us poor slobs in coach), but the food is prett good!

As usual, I left my apartment later than I’d planned, missed a train, then the next arriving Air Train was taken out of service. So I didn’t arrive until 4:45pm for my 6:30pm flight. They tell you to check in three hours ahead of time, but it turns out two hours was enough.

Fortunately, there was hardly a line to check in, so I got my boarding pass and headed off to security, wolfing down my lunch and a protein drink – because apparently they don’t let you take any beverages past the security checkpoint.

And they won’t let you wear any kind of footwear at all through the metal detector. I’d put my sneakers on the belt and put on a pair of rubber thong slippers. But the guard told me to put those on the belt, too!!

Then the guard started grabbing my stuff as I was unloading it into the bins and I told him to take it easy. Big mistake!

He decided to go through my whole knapsack – five pockets, mainly containing my personal toiletries. He emptied out over $200 worth of lotions, perfumes, etc. examing each one trying to figure out what some of this girl stuff was, all the time going, “I’m trying to help you, ma’am.”

Petty dictator.

Then, after he pawed his blue rubber gloves through my things, he brought over a ziplock bag and, with deadpan glee, told me I could take whatever could fit in the bag, figuring I’d probably have to leave something.

But he underestimated my feminine packing powers. It all fit and I swept my bag away from his prurient gaze.

So.

Here I am. Happily flying along. The many children have finally stopped crying and they’ve turned off the cabin lights.

My seat-mate, a lovely woman coincidentally named Ranya, has plugged into The Nanny Diaries. Eek.

I think I’ll watch an episode of House.