The T Stands for Terror

I am a TSA agent with Generalized Anxiety Disorder based out of Florida. I share this so that you might understand what caused me to shut down the Miami International Airport on January 28, 2023.

It was a typical Saturday. My shift started at 3am so I was up by midnight. My usual routine included a lukewarm shower, marijuana with some meditation, tea and a granola bar. Smoking weed before clocking into a TSA job had its challenges but it became a necessity for me. 

As a kid, my father beat me mercilessly. Any slight infraction was my fault and I needed to be corrected for it. So I developed an unreasonable amount of worry. I worried I would miss the school bus, so I slept in my uniform most nights. In high school, the thought of someone pulling my pants down in the middle of the hall terrified me so I wore tighty-whities underneath my boxers...just in case.

As an adult, I lived in constant fear that a terrorist attack would occur and that the point of embarkment would be traced back to my gate. So I became vigilant.

Because of this unique personality trait I only have two friends - both are my cousins. For years they insisted that I "take the edge off" by trying out different illegal substances to help quiet my mind. I tried alcohol, but didn't enjoy the depression that soon followed. I tried cocaine, and that was a glaring mistake. Marijuana was actually my last attempt at controlling my compulsive worrying.

At first it seemed to exacerbate the matter. I called it "the lift off". My heart would race, paranoid thoughts of impending doom crowded my mind, and then out of nowhere creativity would emerge. Silent and steady. Showing up where I least expected it. Shining a bit of beauty in the midst of all my rumination. It became an unexpected release, a feeling I would chase almost daily.

So that Saturday found me finishing a spliff I would have parceled out had I not been facing a double shift, so I smoked the whole thing. Like clockwork I entered the feeling of inexcapabel dread: the idea of being piss-tested at work - the fear of being fired from my job. By the time I arrived at my post, most of that anxiety had settled and I began to conjure stories about different people that came through my gate.

This had become one of my favorite past times. I made up stories of lovers pretending to not know each other in the line only to join the mile high club later on. I conjured tales of royals flying under the guise of normality. I entertained myself thoroughly, and would often return home to write these little wonderings in notebooks I kept stacked neatly by my desk.

That day, as I stared at the computer screen illuminating the intimate belongings of each passenger my curiosity began to wonder. I considered the variety of items that showed up like neon toys across my monitor.

That's when I noticed it.

A small bottle containing some type of liquid. This was not an uncommon sight. All sorts of small liquid bottles were allowed to cross in carry-on suitcases. This bottle was of the shape and size to indicate some type of ordinary mouthwash or small cologne. Something completely standard, unconcerning. Yet for some reason my heart began to palpitate roughly against my chest making it difficult for me to swallow. I tried to push back the paranoia that had obviously U-turned back my way, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the bag needed to be opened.

In a moment of brief panic I yanked the bag out of the conveyor belt and asked for a screening. I whispered to my colleague to allow me to see what the small bottle was when she inspected the bag. She agreed and was soon waiving a small Listerine bottle in the air for me to see. I nodded and returned to the screen as if the whole ordeal had been inconsequential when in reality my heart had not stopped racing inside of me.

I could not get my hands to stop sweating, my mouth went dry, and yet I pushed back these symptoms convincing myself that I had simply smoked more than what I was used to. A few passengers later, and a similar bottle, same shape, same size, appeared again. This time in the dainty luggage of a young woman who seemed rush. I battled, debated with myself for what seemed like eternity before yanking that bag out as well and asking the fellow TSA agent to show me the content.

Again, a small Scope bottle this time appeared in the air promising minty freshness. Again I felt like an idiot. But the experience continued for about an hour. Time and again small, cylindrical mouthwash bottles brightened up my screen forcing me to ignore or make decisions that later seemed quite foolish. I kept this up for multiple bags, annoying the fellow agents assigned to my belt but I just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

On average, I see dozens of small, mouthwash-like bottles cross my screen throughout the duration of my shift. But that Saturday it seemed as though every other bag had one or multiple little bottles tucked inside. In an attempt to ease my desperation, I began to ask passengers carrying these small containers to show me their boarding pass. On a loose sheet of paper I jotted down their destination and departure gate.

After about an hour a pattern began to emerge on my paper. Out of the thirty-one passengers I had flagged on my secret investigation, twenty-two were headed to the same city. This could not be a coincidence. I knew it. My gut knew it. My heightened state of awareness knew it. Sweat began to accumulate at the edges of my forehead. I couldn't breath properly and I knew a panic attack was eminent unless I shared my discovery with someone.

No longer able to control my impulses, I asked for relief from my post, walked upstairs to "the hub" where all the supervisors worked, notebook paper in hand, and began to detail all the observations I had made. I went on and on explaining my perceived threat to an audience that stared back at me in silence.

"So you think a terrorist attack is about to take place using mouthwash?" Asked my direct manager, Mike.

"How long have you been working here, son?" Inquired someone I didn't know.

Chuckles and hidden smiles emerged from a few others, before my Mike asked me to step outside with him.

"Mike, something's up. I promise you, man. I've been working here for a little while now, but today something feels off and I know it has something to do with so many random passengers carrying those same little bottle on the same flight."

"Did you smoke before coming to work?"

"What?" I asked, feeling my legs grow weaker.

Mike persisted. "Did you do any drugs before you came in today?"

"No." I lied. "Please Mike, just check the plane. It's just one flight. It can be delayed. Please, I beg you something is off."

"I can't do that, Tommy. You said it yourself, you flagged nearly every bag, you saw the contents for yourself. I think you're just having a bad morning. I'm going to have to ask HR to perform a drug test, just in case."

"Fine. I'll do whatever test you want me to do, but please, just check Flight 1049 heading to Chicago."

"No. Go home Tommy. Expect an email from Internal asking for that piss-test."

I walked down the hall, out the airport, and crossed the street to the local diner where I made a bomb threat to that same flight using their phone.

I watched from a distance as the place was consumed under a purple glow as red and blue sirens descended upon them. All flights were grounded. People were evacuated. Every piece of luggage was surely inspected and absolutely nothing came of it.

Mike told the authorities about my scandal and before the end of the night I watched how my own apartment was consumed under that same purple glow.

I was arrested. Questioned. Jailed. And finally released with a $1.9 million dollar fine and an ankle monitor.

Three months later, ankle monitor still in place, I watched on my television screen as a plane headed for New Jersey exploded just above the city. It took months, but authorities finally discovered that a new explosive liquid, resembling mouthwash, had been distributed in small quantities throughout the airplane to help cause a simultaneous explosion triggered throughout the cabin.

I won a giant settlement against the airport. Mike was eventually fired. And the fashion statement wrapped around my ankle was finally removed. I was offered a supervisor role at a smaller, different airport but I declined.

I now have enough money to support myself without the need to rise for a 3am shift. I still smoke weed, and I still conjure up stories about the world around me. But instead of jotting them down on loose sheets of paper, I now submit them to random writing contest on the internet.

For years I thought my greatest fear was to be blamed for not catching a potential terrorist attack at my gate. After staring at my television screen, watching debris descend from the sky like an unholy rain, I realize that what I actually feared, the mark of terror throughout my whole life was the all consuming sense of helplessness whether or not I was to blame.