Replacements

The time had come, the ultimate deadline. My security pass was about to expire, a sign that surely too much time has been spent ghoulishly floating around the twisted corridors of the airport. Putting the longevity of my service out of my mind I made the trip down to the dreaded Pass Office. This is a sick place deep in the basement of the airport. The room itself smells of an old smoker’s carpet that has had Shake N’ Vac scattered liberally on it by an aging housewife. This scent is a warning as behind the counter are a group of the most vicious, power-crazed pigs. They never give instruction on how to apply properly for a pass, never hand out instructions to applicants, they merely sneer as people blindly try to achieve security clearance. These people believe the entire fate of the human race to reside in their gnarled hands and there are always dozens of them behind the counter. There is, however, only one person serving – the rest loiter in the background not even trying to look busy as a queue of monumental proportions builds up on the other side of the counter. The person serving usually turns half of the queue away without issuing a pass in the most condescending of ways. It is as if these peoples’ wages are docked by a certain percent every time they grant access to someone. I was eventually granted a new pass, but the six weeks of toil have left there mark. There I am, in the picture, a look of sheer disgust etched onto my face, my dead eyes stare forward into the camera like a diseased loon. From now on, even when I am happy, laughing and smiling, my face will still be there, hanging in weariness and anger, showing my negative to all.

There are plenty of people in the airport for which any form of authority is a narcotic (the airport being a perfect microcosm). The security guards are of the same calibre as the Pass Office clowns. They have been driven crazy by this fictional authority, turning them into rude, semi-human trolls. Imagine my delight when, last week, I arrived at work and noticed that the guards all had new uniforms. The old uniform was a rather non-confrontational blue shirt with a clip on tie. Now the clip on tie remains but the shirts now have aggressive shoulder patches stating that the person is a member of AVIATION SECURITY. Now they don’t just act like the fascist wardens of the underworld, they look like them too. The new uniforms have given the security guards a new sense of authority, and they parade around, chests puffed out – a team of alpha males on the prowl, in their minds they own the airport. They are welcome to it…

Speaking of fictional authority – we have now been supplied with a replacement manager. Out manager is still sick and the company felt it wise to draft in a temporary manager. This particular creep’s mind has been turned inside out at the prospect of power – it’s a wonder he has never worked for AVIATION SECURITY. Here is a person that lives for the company and will die for the company.
“Surely you are delighted,” said Stockton after a particularly gruelling day filled with no breaks and a nasty attitude from on high. “Surely you are delighted that these people do not like you.”
“How come?” I asked, typically naive in the face of Stockton’s outlook.
“Well, think about it,” he said. “The fact that these people don’t like you means that they are not like you. You operate on separate planes.” I had never looked at it this way, and my anger and discomfort subsided. Power, it seems, is not a drug I require. My chest will never be puffed with the false thrill of telling an underling off. If that means that I am half a man, so be it. Even the nasty taste from the reflected mental illness