O O Ø O O O O
Airport-style
I had an occasion to visit the new courts building in Calgary this week, and let me tell you, it was a breathtaking experience. (Before you get your hopes up, I was only at the building to pay a speeding ticket. For reasons I’m not going to get into, I chose to pay for this one in person.)
I arrived in the building, and took a look at the carefully color-coded map. There, next to the warning about what not to bring onto the premises, were the words I was looking for:
Traffic court: 2nd floor.
If you haven’t been to visit it lately, the new courts building has what is referred to as “airport-style security.” I presume, by “airport-style,” they mean pointless and irritating.
Of course, the traffic court cashiers are also behind airport-style security—presumably so that no-one commandeers a cashier booth in order to fly it into a, er…
Well, I’ll get back to you on that one.
Airport-style security screening is a grotesquely dehumanizing experience to begin with, and unlike an actual airport where the end result generally involves being someplace nicer than you started, at the courts building your end up someplace worse—much worse. The net effect is a level of crankiness not not experienced unless you work as an auditor for Revenue Canada, or New Democrat booster in Caroline.
The other drawback, of course, is that the other people in line for the ritual strip search are all insane, criminal, or both. The nasty lady in from of me was the former. The Willy-Pickton-looking gentleman being coached by his lawyer behind me was obviously the latter.
If there was any doubt, the insane-looking lady ahead of me chose that moment to spin around and prove my hypothesis:
“If you get that on my jacket, you are bloody well going to dry clean it!”
Admittedly, I did have an empty coffee cup in my hand, and admittedly, I was a mere two feet away. I was formulating the correct level of sarcasm for a reply when she spun back, pointed a finger at the man working the x-ray machine, and snapped:
“If you get my jacket dirty, you are bloody well going to dry clean it!”
Apparently, there was a global conspiracy to dirty her outerwear.
By the time I got to the metal detector, the security guard was having a nice conversation with the jacket harpy about the likelihood of her being ejected from the building before she even got into it. A new guard, this one even crankier-looking stepped up to the machine and motioned for me to strip and be humbled.
I dutifully placed my belongings on the belt and waited to me motioned through the metal detector. The security guard on the other side turned his back and began to study the wall. I waited. Eventually, my belongings emerged on the other side. There was still no interest from the guard. I walked through the metal detector anyway, failing to set it off. This received a glance and a nod from the guard on the other side. Since there was no further interest in my belongings, I picked my jacket up off the belt, hefted my bag, and began to walk away.
“Hey you!” snapped the security guard, “do you have something in your bag?”
I assumed the question was rhetorical, but the jacket harpy and willy-picton-alike’s laweer had put my teeth on edge, so I answered accordingly. “Yes,” I said, helpfully.
“Do you have any recording devices in there?” snapped the guard.
“I have a laptop,” I replied, choosing my answer carefully. The fact that my cellphone was obviously a recording device didn’t bother me, as the security staff had supposedly watched it go through the x-ray machine in the pocket of my jacket.
“I know you have a laptop,” she snapped, and demanded to search my bag. “What else do you have?” she asked.
“I have a lot of computer parts. They’re in the front pockets—” I offered, this time being genuinely helpful.
She cut me off. “I don’t care. I’m going to search it all anyway.”
Of course, she didn’t. In fact, she ignored the front pockets entirely, just like she ignored my cellphone. After a cursory glance inside, she seemed to bore of my belongings, and thrust the bag back at me. I gingerly accepted it, and slowly backed away worried it was some kind of trap. Slowly, I backed away, and headed up the stairs to the cashier. Nobody followed me. I paid my ticket and quickly left the building.
In short, the airport-style security really bugged me. With no clear idea of what threats they were protecting against, and no clear interest in their jobs, the process seemed more about theatre than security. But what’s a poor Pint Day Saint to do about the situation?
Apparently, I should have done this. I suppose nobody saw that one coming.
To sum up, I learned three things about our new courthouse:
- You are not allowed recording devices, except cellphones, laptops, and anything that fits in the front pouch of your laptop bag.
- You are not allowed weapons; at least you are not allowed then until the inevitable court challenge says you can bring them for religious reasons.
- Always pay your tickets by mail.
Kjell Wooding
January 15, 2008
OOØOOOODCCCLVI