"What is that?", demands the TSA drone, glaring at me and pointing a fat finger at the large blotch on his view screen. One drone appears for each bag, toting my possessions to a table where the bags are tested to see if they are bombs. They're not, of course.
Then, each bag is re-scanned, perhaps in case the coins had magically transformed from a metallic form into something else in the intervening 5 minutes. Supervisors are then called to stare at the blotch on the screen. So there are now 5 or 6 TSA grope-meisters ogling my coins while I wait at the table. There's no hurry, not for them anyway. After a few minutes of staring and conferring, two TSA gropers along with a TSA grope manager appear at the table with the bags. The manager dude, in his mid twenties I am guessing and speaking with a thick hispanic accent intones "we have a problem".
Turns out that since you can't see or x-ray through the coins, they have to be hand inspected. But they promise not to dump out the contents. They say they just need to take a look to verify they are just coins. Off we go to the grope room, where countless thousands of innocent travelers are humiliated and violated. Wheee!!!!
Manager groper opens the bag and immediately dumps the contents into a bin, ignoring what he had said before. Why not, there's no penalty to him for being a liar or for being reckless with my property. He picks up a coin and grins "I always wanted one of these JFKs [fifty cent pieces]" he says. Did he pocket one? I doubt it, as I was watching closely, but you never know. The other grope agent asks me why I don't check in the coins instead of carrying them on. Manager groper answers for me, letting her know that the coins are valuable and would be stolen [by other TSA employees] if checked in.
It's almost 45 minutes into the process and time to rifle through the second bag, when manager groper asks his friend what time it is. Turns out it's noon and obviously time for his lunch break. He briefly runs his hand into the bag without looking carefully and rushes out of the room without saying a word. Or as Fred Flintstone might say, "Lunch Time!!!!!!!"
The more junior TSA gropster silently turns to leave, presumably I can depart as well, which I do. Off to the gate, onto a JAL flight, and a mere 11 hours later, landing in a civilized country where I am treated with dignity and respect and my possessions are not rifled through by government goons.
