2"Non-terrorist?" I responded hopefully. "Line B," he said, wheezing. Line B stretched around the block from deep inside the terminal.

There was only one man in line A -- a skinny, swarthy, bearded man, constantly scanning the room, nervously fingering his lumpy vest. Gutsy, I thought, but dumb.

No one was paying any attention to him, however.

All eyes were focused on the white-haired lady spread-eagled across her walker. The security agent didn't mince words.

"Vas is los, zis metal shpike concealed viss-in yoo-ah hip choint? Do you ssink vee ah foolss?" He wasn't actually German. To cut costs these days, airlines must rely on off-the-shelf training materials -- in this case, Third Reich, circa 1939.

Eventually they let her through -- Triumph of the Will, circa 2008.

As a great river flows to the sea, so moved line B, inexorable, unstoppable, coiling without breach beyond the horizon like Jörmungandr, the World-Serpent of Norse mythology.

Just as my sustained-release airsickness pills were wearing off, it was my turn. It occurred to me briefly that Edvard Munch might've been inspired in a place like this, that his real intent had been to title that painting "The Screen."

"Please remove your shoes and place them on the belt." Whatever you say, I thought. I removed my left shoe and put it on the conveyer next to my carry-ons.

It used to be kind of fun, but these days flying, at least the kind that requires aircraft, has become a hassle. This makes each of us responsible for our own amusement. For starters, there's a genuine challenge in intimidating the security personnel without also making them suspicious and vengeful.

Normally the sense of smell isn't directional, but everyone within a 15-foot radius of my empty shoe turned to stare at it with horror and dismay.

In the olfactory equivalent of throwing himself on a grenade, an agent rushed up. "That's all right, sir," he gasped, voice muffled by his shirtsleeve. "You can replace your shoe -- and we won't need to check the other one." He'd turned a color somewhere between lime and dill pickle. He gratefully accepted the air-sickness bag I always carry for such occasions, and I slowly, deliberately donned my shoe. No rush -- I had arrived two hours before scheduled departure, as instructed.

The requisite quart-size plastic baggie has room for plenty of the currently prescribed 3-ounce bottles: in this case, two each of golden shampoo, golden conditioner, golden bath gel and original Listerine. Actually, I'd filled these bottles with rotgut tequila, which I myself don't drink. It just comes in handy for bribing the stewardesses, in case I really have to go to the bathroom while the "Fasten Seat Belts" sign is on. Also, there's nothing more entertaining than a Cuervo-crazed, mean-drunk flight attendant.

The coastal lights had long since receded behind us, and an ugly sea, black as used crankcase oil, spread below us forever. I re-read the in-flight magazine, which explored the cuisine of Albuquerque and offered a lengthy biography of a man who made a fortune selling tennis racquets. The Sky Mall catalog was full of overpriced chrome and colored plastic, apparently designed for disillusioned interior decorators burnt out on feng shui.

I was seated next to -- very next to -- a nice man who graciously occupied my attention with his good humor and witty banter. Unfortunately for me, he was also occupying much of my seat, due to his impressive girth. Picture Falstaff, or Pavarotti before his stomach-stapling, or Rosie O'Donnel after she ate Jackie Gleason.

These seats aren't very big to start with. While I am medically aware that many overlarge persons are that way because of their genes rather than any character flaw, I cannot fully accept that this automatically entitles them to part of the seat I paid for. Airlines should reserve a few extra-wide seats to assist people with this handicap, and do so at their own expense, the way we expect other businesses to put in ramps and special bathroom stalls to accommodate other handi-capable people.

Eventually it was time to eat. I'm not one of those people who bash airline food. I'm usually grateful for it, and I'm used to eating things that are less tasty and just as cold at home (where, you'll recall, I do the cooking). The dinner rolls can be kind of dry, but that's useful when the turbulence starts. Just hurl a couple rolls at the ceiling, and when they explode into dust and crumbs, holler "We're going down!" People are generally amused by this bit of chicanery, and it helps take their minds off the bumpy ride.

Eventually we reached our destination. It's not difficult to decide where to go first -- bathroom or baggage claim. Unless you plan to spend an hour in the bathroom, you'll have plenty of time before your suitcase arrives. Or doesn't.

After another hour your shuttle arrives, with plenty of room for either you or your luggage. You will be the last person in the van to reach his hotel, which has no bathroom in the lobby. Some wag has punched all the buttons on the panel in the sole functioning elevator. Your room will be on the top floor.

Enjoy the view.

Jon Hauxwell, MD, is a retired family physician who grew up in Stockton and now lives outside Hays.

hauxwell@ruraltel.net