The cough behind me squeezed me forward.

We shuffled down. Distinctly I tried not to glance at my phone. I was on time – early even – the sun not even glancing off the storm windows up above. Fluorescent light cast a pall over the proceedings.

“Shoes”, droned one agent.

I re-checked my identification, a third time, my hands clenched and, thankfully, glanced at my ticket, paper of course.

Finally, at the head, the agent stared heavily on my id, my document slip. My fingers perspired over the ink – smudging the destination.

“Laptops”, intoned the agent again.

I took out my travel bag, unloaded the laptop, the bag, pockets empty. Across the way I sniffed for the burnt coffee I knew would greet me.

A million times or more I felt certain in this routine, a smile whispered on my lips.

The agent’s eyes – black, like the corona after staring at the sun.

“Belt.”

Already on the conveyer.

“Shirt.”

I shook my head. He nodded sagely – the weight of refusal heavy.

The slowing of the line felt urgent. I took off my shirt – threw it on.

“Pants.”

More efficiently – my mind already working to rationalize this – through the conveyer too.

Stepping up in to scanner – a hand fell heavy on my shoulder. Pulled me back.

Another agent. The same as before – or was it – I mean he or she I couldn’t tell – different?

“ID.”

I didn’t have any moisture in my throat. Felt my… in a panic, the pants hungrily I looked at the conveyer-

“Follow me.”

Torn from the crushing press of the line – ten steps away, I avoided eye contact, my hands resisting the urger to cover my dick. This was normal – this was –

The line released, like a rush, a problem separated from the herd – marching through. Curious eyes combed over me – who was this being stripped.

I stood in front of the booth again – then they came

“Where are you from? Where are you going? What church did you attend? Did you used to live at this address? Were you ever in love? Have you ever tried to smuggle fruit through Canadian security?”

My throat burned. Marooned from the sea of weary travelers.

“Underwear.”

With gaelic relief, I stripped – offered my boxers. Was there a hint of disgust? I simply let them drop. Unconsciously, my hands clenched to chest. Soaked in perspiration.

I breathed out – longingly back at my things –

The agent – and for this I cannot fault them – shook its, yes its, head.

Without my things, my id, my phone, my….

I pushed through the lines, stepped in to the cold blast of air outside.

And screamed