Pollyanna Busted (Story at Eleven)

POLLYANNA BUSTED!!! (Story at Eleven) by Kris M. Smith 

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Written in 1996 or thereabout…

 

I’m a DeForest Kelley fan. I’m an executive secretary at Warner Bros.

 

I don’t smoke, drink, take drugs or carouse. I was raised a Lutheran.

 

Given this scant description, I hope you will surmise that, over-all, I present the appearance of a harmless, pleasant and decent (borderline dysfunctional decent) human being. So, imagine my shock and embarrassment (in that order) to find myself temporarily detained at a local airport by their security team — and the city peace officer they summoned!

 

At Christmas time last year, I received — from a dear friend and co-worker — a fire engine red, kitty-cat shaped, brass key chain. (Brass is the operative word, here.) I was tickled pink to open Bonnie Duehring’s little package and find such a thoughtful item with which to symbolize a part of the tie that binds us: a mutual love for felines.

 

I called Bonnie to thank her for the gift, and she said she was glad her idea had struck a responsive chord. “Oh, by the way … ” she offered (way back then, months and months ago) “– you are aware that your new kitty key chain can be used as a weapon if the need ever arises, God forbid.”

 

I looked at the gift again. Sure enough! It was entirely possible to put my fingers through the kitty’s eyes (which were holes in the brass “face”) and to hold the item in such a way as to jab it into an attacker’s eyes or stomach or groin, thereby making the brass kitty ears one whopping pain in the whatever.

 

Needless to say, that’s about the last time I regarded my cute kitty key chain as a weapon — UNLESS I was in a parking lot or anywhere else that the potential for an attack seemed possible.

 

Well!

 

A co-worker, Greg Heimbigner, and I were going through airport security on Sunday, headed to Sacramento for a Star Trek convention at which my favorite actor, DeForest Kelley, would appear. I was decked out in my one-of-a-kind DeForest Kelley Walk of Fame jacket (I’m Mr. Kelley’s official star polisher on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, but that’s another story) and a De-shirt, and was feeling cheery, confident and decidedly casual, with not a care in the world and with a happy day looming on the horizon.

 

Beefy Greg, in sharp contrast, wore a leather jacket and a scruffy beard. (In all candor, Greg looked for all the world like his brother could have been the Unabomber. But because he was my friend and I knew he was a teddy bear, I had long since forgotten about his initially unfriendly-looking appearance.)

 

So, here we are. Lights, camera, action!!!

 

Greg and I are at the security counter, where everything we own that isn’t on us goes through a scanner — and then WE go through a scanner so that everything ON us that isn’t OF us is checked out, too. We’ve ALL been through this — and usually everything turns out just hunky-dory. At least, it always had BEFORE.

 

Obviously I’m not a frequent flyer. I hadn’t traveled with my kitty kat key chain since before Christmas.

 

The fellow manning the security scanner asks me, “Do you have a set of keys in there?” ·

 

“Yes, I do,” I reply.

 

“Would you mind taking them out for me?”

 

“Not at all. ” (with a smile)

 

I pull the keys out and he inspects them minutely. (I think that’s VERY odd, but… okay… )

 

Finally, he says, “This key accessory could be used as a weapon.”

 

(Oops … ) THAT’S when I remember!

 

I agree, “Yes, it could. But I’m harmless — really!” (He can SEE that, can’t he, wearing my one of a kind DeForest Kelley Walk of Fame jacket? Silly man! But he’s just doing his job, and I know it. It’s understandable.)

 

Then he say, “Just a moment, please … I will have to call a peace officer.”

 

I stutter, “A peace officer?! What for?!”

 

I’m quite concerned by this shocking comment and add, “You don’t need to do that! I’m happy to leave the key chain here and pick it up when I get back. That’s NO problem. I understand your concern regarding boarding the plane with it … ”

 

He repeats, “Just a moment. A peace officer needs to speak with you.”

 

The situation is by now attracting a great deal of attention from other people passing through the security area — it’s almost becoming an EVENT, and I’m becoming acutely self-conscious and embarrassed.

 

 

I re-assert, smiling and sweating, “I don’t understand why you’re inconveniencing an officer when I’m willing to leave my keys here until I return … Please … ”

 

That’s about the time The Man In Blue Wearing An Official Badge arrives …

 

The security man hands the offending article to the officer and, as the officer wordlessly inspects them, I again reiterate, “I understand the concern here. I’m happy to leave them here while I travel; no problem.”

 

I shut up then, because he seems to be deep in thought and I don’t think it’s appropriate to rile him by treating him as if he’s deaf and hasn’t heard.

 

He looks me straight in the eyes and informs me, “These are classified as brass knuckles, which are illegal in the State of California.”

 

I respond, lamely, “Oh, just ducky. I didn’t know.”

 

Then he adds: “Possession is a misdemeanor.”

 

Something in the pit of my stomach hardens and I feel suddenly colder and sorta sick. I can imagine the sound of a steel door slamming shut behind me, , , and the headlines in the newspapers — and the lead story on Entertainment Tonight and EXTRA: “DeForest Kelley’s Star Polisher Arrested.” (And I know that any retraction or clarification months hence would be on page 59 in teensy-weensy print and that I’d be branded for life.)

 

I stammer, “I’m sorry.” I try to explain, “I got it as a Christmas present from a fellow cat lover. It’s a KEY CHAIN. I really didn’t think of it as –” (wilting) “as brass knuckles …”

 

He nods and responds, “I understand. But you realize I have to confiscate them.”

 

“Oh, that’s fine! Take them away!” (Just PLEASE don’t take ME away!)

 

He adds, “I will have to write a report. You’ll receive a copy in the mail in a few days. It’s not a citation and there won’t be a fine, but there will be a record that brass knuckles were confiscated from you.”

 

(Oh, just great. l’M happy. Well, June Cleaver probably has a skeleton in her closet, too … )

 

I respond contritely, “Oh, dear.” (Gulp. I CAN’T believe this! I’m going to be on record at the Police Department. Lovely. Can’t wait to write home about THIS. My parents will both have heart attacks.)

 

He asks me, “May I see your identification?”

 

“Sure … only (omigod … blush) it isn’t accurate. What I mean is, it’s ME: the PICTURE’S me, as you can see, but I just moved into my new condo, so the address isn’t right on the license yet. I’ve informed the DVM … I mean, the DMV.”

 

He nods and says, “This will be fine. Just give me your new address and I’ll put it on the report.”

 

“Okay.” (Oh, crap, what’s my new address?!) I finally remember and give him the new address.

 

Then he asks me, “Where are you traveling today?”

 

I hesitate. I realize Sacramento, the state Capitol, is NOT a good place to be headed today, if he’s suspecting me and Greg of some  nefarious, political underground activity, but it’s my destination, so I answer weakly:

 

“Sacramento.”

 

“Why are you flying to Sacramento today?”

 

“We’re going to a convention there.”

 

“Which flight?” he asks.

 

(Jeez!?  If I ever KNEW it, the flight number has escaped me by NOW!)

 

I stutter, digging into my jacket, “Uh … the one in an hour … out of Gate A3.”

 

I hand him the itinerary the second I can locate it with my quaking fingers.

 

I reiterate, “To attend a convention.” I amend: “A Star Trek convention. At the ‘ Community Center. 14th and J Streets.” (I don’t want him left with any doubt that I’m not giving him every stitch of information I possess regarding my whereabouts for the day.)

 

I start to dig for my reserved seating ticket. IT  will certainly document my credibility, by golly!

 

“When will you be back?”

 

“Tonight. Around 9:15.” (My DAD had never asked me THIS many questions when I was a TEENAGER a quarter century earlier!)

 

He finally decides I really am a straight arrow and that I’m too forthcoming to be hiding anything. He nods and ends with, “Have a nice day in Sacramento.”

 

I responded, “Yeah. You, too … ”  I look around to see how many more erstwhile passengers have arrested their steps to see if I was going to be arrested. When they see I’m not, they shrug, sigh and move on.

 

(I belatedly realize that the peace officer very likely isn’t also destined for Sacramento today, but I’m confused and shook up and relieved — all at once — and don’t notice that my final words to him are a bit of a non sequitor… )

 

As we head for Gate A3, Unabomber lookalike Greg leans over and grins, “I can’t take you anywhere.”

 

For the rest of the day, he called me “Mayhem Mama,” “Jailbird”, and “Calamity Kris.”

 

I don’t suppose he’d have been that discourteous had they not confiscated  my brass knuckles.