Job Hazards of a Professional Unpaid People Watcher: The Decorum Chapter

Job Hazards of a Professional Unpaid People Watcher:

The Decorum Chapter

 

 

Stepping on the escalator at LAX headed for passport control and customs–and ultimately to the upper echelon of Global Entry–I noticed If-you-like-my-body-and-you-think-I’m-sexy Rod Stewart so close I could reach-out-and-touch-him. I didn’t, of course. Pullease. I have some sense of decorum.

 

John and I had just spent 18 ½  hours straight traveling. Rome to London, London to LA. It was five a.m. to our bodies and we hadn’t slept more than the five-minutes-here-and-there in twenty hours+. We were more than a little punchy, but I’d know that spiky-haired-raspy-voiced Brit rocker from across a tarmac. Mr. Stewart was likely (in first class) on our flight from London and he, along with his entourage of two, were also headed toward Global Entry and, as fate would have it, we ended up in the same line, inches apart.

 

So I did what any God-fearing, sleep-deprived, star-struck person would do, I whipped out my iPhone to snap a picture. Okay, three. I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I’m that person. I was tired, not thinking clearly, and forgetting this was a post 9-11-world no-no and bypassing my brilliantly honed, clandestine-style, professional people-watching photography skills. Raising my camera, a little higher than I should, I snapped the shots when all hell rained down on my bed head (airplane head). Off in one direction I heard a thunderous, “HEY!” and then from all angles, more unnecessary, over-the-top yelling, arms waving, eyes bugging and rude finger-pointing from uniformed, border protection agents.

 

All eyes were on me.

 

Including Rod’s.

 

Well, I couldn’t say for sure because he did have dark sunglasses on, but considering his proximity and his head directed at me, I’m confidant he was also witnessing my shining moment. An overly excitable male border protection agent (let’s call him Biff) charged me and I knew things were ratcheting up. Off in the relative distance (and in hindsight, it seems like a little more than a coincidence) I could see John’s head shaking, accentuated by his disappointed, Ricky Ricardo “Oh-no-you-didn’t”-face. He may as well have had his hands on his hips.

 

Thanks for the support, John Ricky.

 

With the more-than-a-little-friendly pat down in London twelve hours before AND particularly the one eight days before in Marrakech that could serve as my next visit to Dr. Anderson-my-lady-parts-doctor, I knew anything was possible now, especially since I had done absolutely nothing wrong in London and Marrakech, and here I had actually broken a rule.  All bets were off.

 

Um.

 

There is more.

 

Based on their volume here and SWAT-style body language, I began to panic imagining what measures they might take next. You’re going to need some backstory here. Bare with me as I digress:

 

I was wearing my big, scrunchable, fluffy, feather-down jacket I always bring on long flights because it serves brilliantly as both pillow, blanky, as well as outer wear. In my seat during this London to L.A. flight, I had stealthily removed a binding article of clothing and modestly covered myself with my blanky-pillow. No one was the wiser, not even John Ricky. When we were preparing to land at LAX, I put my jacket on with the intention of heading to the restroom after we got through passport control to put my binding article of clothing back on. (I value decorum.)

 

So now, as the hyperactive, hyper-vigilant agent Biff came barreling toward me, I feared he would tackle me and maybe worse, ask me to remove my jacket to check for concealed weapons.  The only thing I was concealing was a scantily-clad-me.

 

The moment I had been caught, I went into what I call sheepish-feverish-mode and began doing damage control, sheepishly apologizing, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I forgot (the rule). I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I forgot”—and feverishly deleting two of the three photos of Rod.

 

Biff ordered me to delete all the photos (which he hadn’t previously specified, to be fair) and so I dutifully complied by deleting the third.  Biff then said he wanted visual confirmation and so I stretched my arm out, showing him a benign, non-Rod image on my phone. Oddly, this was all he needed to be convinced, which, was a little weak if you ask me, considering the uproar. Silly Biff; I could have just scrolled back a few images.

 

After my stop at the restroom to get my decorum back on, I met John Ricky at baggage claim. He showed me how to restore recently deleted photos.

 

I win.

 

(Score one for Lucy.)