Living with the dread for every flight

Routines are no longer routine. Crazy is the new normal.

Early Saturday morning, Oakland airport, security check-in area. You’re an oldtimer if you remember when there was no such thing. That was back before shoe bombs, skyjackers with boxcutters, full-body pat-downs, air marshals. When flying, the worst-case scenario was getting stuck next to a chainsmoker.

I’m about to shove my bags into the X-ray machine when the quiet is broken by very loud shouting, a man’s voice, crazed and angry gibberish. The terrorist warning light flashes in my brain. This is how some attacks begin, with a madman ranting, right? I look around for a place to duck and hide if shots ring out.

Fifty feet away there is a scrum, a struggle, four or five people. I travel a lot and soak up all the accounts of disturbances and attacks. Often, passengers or bystanders jump in to help. It’s like Steve Kerr’s mantra: strength in numbers. Don’t just stand there, we could all die.

Three uniformed men, cops or security officers, have wrestled the wild man to the floor. He is face up, still fighting, resisting, highly agitated. White man, long brown hair, eyes wide and darting.

The cops manage to flip the man onto his stomach but he continues to struggle. Won’t be good if he manages to break free. I drop to a knee and grab the man’s left arm, notice the tattoos down to his fingertips. The guard next to me is sweating, shaking, earning the $20 an hour or whatever we pay him to be our first line of defense against terrorists or random crazies.

That cop/guard has one knee on the man’s back, fumbles to get his handcuffs and, with hands shaking, clicks the metal cuffs around the man’s wrists.

I get up and walk back to the X-ray machine. The security process has shut down during the commotion and now it quietly returns to life, business as usual. I push my bags into the machine and wonder if there’s a bar open this early.