Birdie was apparently a threat. Just a random threat, but a threat nonetheless. This did not sit well with her. She always perceived herself as being a peaceful, “don’t stir the pot”, sort of person, and here she was setting off buzzers and being subjected to a random security check at the airport. It was a disappointment.
The young man who represented the TSA kept sending Birdie back into the glass tunnel, then telling her to step to the side, to go back, then to step on through. Back and forth. But the tunnel refused to trust her, so she was designated as a “random check”. Out came the wand and the hand wipe. Birdie had her small town smile plastered on her face the whole time, as if that would help, but the agent refused to be mollified by her good natured cooperation. The only way she could have made it up to him was if it had never happened.
The TSA agent’s gaze, as he put Birdie through the security di-si-do, made her feel as if there was something inherent in her very soul that he found offensive. His lip curled, his nostrils flared, his eyes engaged in icy stare, proclaiming that he thought Birdie had a lot of nerve triggering the alarm when she didn’t have any hidden explosives anywhere on her body. In fact, he was downright sniffy about it.
Perhaps he had been trained in the practice of unpleasant demeanor. After all, if Birdie had turned out to be an underwear bomber, it wouldn’t have looked good on the surveillance tape if the TSA agent were smiling at her.