“That’s ridiculous,” Connie said. And because she was snippy when she said it, we all knew she gave the machine her name and address.

Forty-five minutes later, we got to the counter and got ticketed. Lula checked two of her bags. Tank didn’t have any bags. I carried my single tote bag with me. Connie had one small suitcase on rollers, which she checked.

“We’re on our way now,” Lula said. “Boy, this is gonna be fun. Hold on. What are we doing in another line?”

“This is the line to go through the security check,” I told her.

“Say what?”

We inched our way along again. I had a low-grade headache from the terminal noise and the tedium and I had a backache from an hour of carrying the tote on my shoulder. Twenty minutes ago I’d dropped the tote onto the floor and now I kicked it along ahead of me. I suspected I was growing pale and in another twenty minutes I’d look like I’d spent fifteen years at TriBro testing nuts and bolts.

I was first in line. Lula stood behind me. Then Connie. Tank was in line behind Connie. We showed our tickets. We flashed our photo IDs. I approached the conveyor belt leading to the scanner. I placed my tote and my purse on the belt.

A security attendant asked me to place my shoes on the belt, as well. I looked down at the strappy sandals I’d put on first thing this morning. Brown leather and not a single part of the shoe thicker than an eighth of an inch with the exception of the slim wood stacked stiletto heel, which was a quarter of an inch. Guess security thought I had a bomb in the shoe. Bombs must frequently be hidden in women’s strappy sandals.

I took the shoes off and shuffled barefoot along the filthy floor, through the metal detector. I didn’t set the detector off but the security attendant told me I was a random female, so I was pulled aside and asked to stand spread eagle. I supposed they thought I had box cutters hidden under my skin-tight, slightly see-through white stretchy shirt. I was wanded and released. My shoes were returned to me after careful scrutiny.

An attendant in rubber gloves extracted all the items from my tote. Two pairs of bikini panties, a pair of jeans, two little white T-shirts, white socks, sneakers, a travel box of tampons (just in case), hair spray, roller brush, assorted cosmetics. Forty or fifty people passing by admired the panties and a couple women suggested a different brand of tampon.

The items were returned to my bag and I was told I could continue on my way. Lula was causing a scene behind me. She had to go through the same routine and they found fried chicken in her purse.

“You’re not allowed to take unpackaged food past security,” the attendant said to Lula.

“What am I supposed to eat?” Lula wanted to know. “I’m on a diet to be a supermodel. I need this fried chicken. Suppose they don’t feed me on the plane?”