Basement Files: The Treasures of Campania, Part 2

This morning, I found myself standing barefoot in the security line at LAX and thinking the big thoughts. I was thinking about the effect one man's actions can have on the wider world. I don't mean the visionaries, statesmen and inventors who shape our lives with their genius, but just your standard, garden-variety fucktard. Like the shoe-bomb guy.

Two and a half years ago, an airline passenger named Richard Reid made his scant contribution to the global jihad by trying to ignite an explosive hidden in the sole of his shoe. Curiously, this discreet act aroused the suspicions of his fellow passengers and the full-grown Englishman was wrestled to the ground and subdued by a French stewardess. (Has England endured a darker day?)

But because of Richard Reid's hapless little Guy Fawkes plot, the shoe has become the primary focus of all airport security. Shoes now have to be removed, dumped into a busboy's tub and ushered through radioactive scrutiny. And entire industries have risen around the shoe-as-bomb scenario. There are special mats that scan our feet for heavy metals, re-shoeing stations for those found blameless, even foot stickers that show us where to stand, crucifixion-style, for our patriotic wanding. (I suppose the foot appliqués might be leftovers from 1960s dance studios, but their graphics suggest a more modern, post-9/11 urgency.)

Is it possible we've granted this guy too much power? On the one hand, I have to question the conviction of a holy war that can be thwarted by a French flight attendant. On the other hand, I wonder if the French might be the key to stopping all terrorism. In line today, I allowed myself to wonder what might have happened if all the 9/11 hijackings had taken place on French airliners.

I imagine the Saudi terrorists making skittish eye contact as the plane reaches cruising altitude. I imagine them bursting from their seats and shouting furious prayers for Allah's guidance and blessing. But mostly I imagine them making their way up the aisle toward an impassive French stewardess who sits smoking Gauloises and leafing through a tattered copy of La Vie Sexuelle de Catherine M. I can see her bored disdain as she pretends not to understand their fractured French grammar. The indifferent shrug as she refuses to offer the simplest directions to the cockpit. And only when they'd fallen into a fitful, stupefied silence would she look up from the book, regard their touristy clothes with haughty, Gallic disdain and shoo them away with a demeaning wave of the hand. Really, what could they do but return glumly to their seats, apologize for the disturbance and envision the punishment that awaits their failure?

I know a little about in-flight terrorism because I travel with my wife. Theresa is a smoker and the airborne hours are anxious ones for her. And, thus, for me. Any attempt to engage her in conversation more than 30 minutes into a flight will be met with exasperated sighs and curt, cruel responses. Knowing that these attacks lie waiting in her nicotine-starved bloodstream, I do what I can to launch my own pre-emptive strikes.

Just as my wife closes her eyes and curls into her Xanax-induced coma, I start fidgeting with the armrest ashtray. First, I'll just slowly lift the chrome cover. I love that subtle squeak of surprise as I awaken the springs from their long-dormant sleep. Then I'll just swivel the cover back and forth for a bit, letting the rusty coils wheeze like an old accordion. I know Theresa can hear it, but she won't yet give me the satisfaction of glaring at me.

She'll probably just feign sleep, but I know she's aware of the ashtray now. She can feel its not-quite-recessed hood pressing into her fleshy forearm. Slowly, it will begin whispering to her..."Hey, remember me? The armrest ashtray? Yeah, I'm still here. I still work and everything, but you can't use me. We had some good times, though, didn't we? I bet you're pretty much dying for a smoke right now, huh? Well, don't worry, by my watch it's only about 4 1/2 more hours until we land."

It is pretty cruel that smokers have to stare at the ashtray the whole time. My wife can't smoke in L.A. restaurants either, but they don't leave ashtrays on the tables to mock her. But the airlines found it too expensive to retrofit the seats, so the now purposeless ashtray just sits there with no function other than taunting the addicted. That's the part that tickles me.

I imagine the same temptations and anxieties grip today's flying bulimic. I mean, there's a barf bag RIGHT THERE. Not two inches from her knees, in the kangaroo pouch of the forward seat, is tucked a socially acceptable form of public vomiting, with a built-in excuse for nausea. And yet she can't use it. Seriously, what can she do? Demand that the stewardess bring her another 400 packets of peanuts?

Next, I like to prop the lid all the way open, until the springs are stretched as taut as my wife's nerves. With a simple flick of my finger, it will slam shut with a sharp crack. Theresa will turn in her seat and glare at me. I'll give her an innocent shrug, as if to say I'm sorry if my nervous habits have somehow implicated her own. And then I'll turn in my seat and fall asleep with the satisfied smile of a husband who has won a small but significant skirmish in the ceaseless war of marriage.