It’s a little after 9 A.M. at Ronald Reagan National Airport, and a middle-aged man of indeterminate nationality has his hand in my pants. He’s not very far down into them, barely over the belt line; but a little of this sort of thing goes a long way.
He did ask first (“Can I touch your belt buckle?”) because the buckle had set off his metal-detecting wand, and so he had to make sure—manually—that I wasn’t hiding a garrote or pickax behind it. All this took only a moment, but you know the old saying: Time never flies when an uninvited civil servant has his hands in your pants. Besides, since I know I don’t have any artillery in my trousers (contrary to what I may have led some people to believe in college), I’m far more concerned about the risk this guy poses to me than the one I pose to him.
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