Home. And now I'm an honorary air marshall.

Jerry B. dropped me off at the SLC airport at about 4:30 am today. It was snowing off and on pretty hard. Roads were icy. I went and found a TSA agent. Told her in a small voice, since I didn't want to advertise carrying a weapon mostly since I didn't want anyone stealing it, "I'm checking a firearm. What do I do?" She got real close to me, nodded knowingly, and said, "Oh. Ok. Well, just wait until the ticket agents arrive and tell them about it and then come on up to security and go to the "exit" lane, and find me. I'll be there." "Okaaaayyyyy....". This was not exactly what I expected. But, hey. I've never carried a weapon on board an airplane before.

When the ticket agent got there, I told her, "I'm checking a handgun." No problem, show me the hard sided locking case. I did. Opened it like she said to do, then locked it up again. She ran me through the process of checking my bag, but walked me over to the TSA xray machine guy and told him in a regular voice, "Got a hand gun here. I looked at it, he's locked and ready to go." The other agent said, "You got the keys?" "Yes, sir. Right in my pocket." "Good. Keep 'em there." "Yes, sir." "Do you want a plastic tie on the suitcase zipper? Some people do, some don't. Your choice." "Sure." He did and then said, "You're on your way!" No problems here.

Why all the secrecy, I'm wondering from the first agent? Like Barny Fife keeping the grand secret between law enforcement professionals.

So I head to security and get in line with everyone else. The first agent spots me and comes over, takes me by the arm and pulls me aside. "You don't have to stand in that line. Go to those agents in the "exit only" door and show them your credentials."

Credentials? Now I'm thinking, she misunderstood me. But I do as I'm told. Never piss off a TSA agent or you will never get home. I walk up to the guy and hand him my boarding pass and drivers license. He says, "Can I help you?" "That agent over there told me to talk to you since I'm checking a handgun." Blank stare. Continued blank stare. Shared blank stare between him and the other agent at the exit gate.

Then he asks, "Checking a handgun and she said to talk to us?" "Yes, sir." "Hey, Bud. Come over here." Fourth agent walks up. "She says since he's checking a handgun he has to talk to us." "What? Why? Who are you with?" "Me? I'm with me. I'm going home to Tennessee and I've bought a handgun and I'm checking it in my suitcase, and it's locked in a hard sided case, I've got the only key in my pocket and it's even got a plastic tie on the suitcase zipper. She told me to come over and talk to you and show you my credentials [as I extend my boarding pass and driver's license toward them again, like Louis Tulley handing Egan the lamp in Ghostbusters].

Blank stares all around. "She's wrong."

Light bulb goes on over Bud's head. "I'll bet she thought he said 'packing a handgun' and thinks he's with us." "OOOHHHHH. No. I'm CHECKING a handgun and now I just want to get on my plane and go home."

"Oh, yeah. Get back in line." "Ok."

So I get back in line and forget the bottle of coke I just bought and they stop the security line and make me either drink it all in one gulp or surrender it so I surrender it and they have to run my bag through again. So then I have to walk through the human xray machine which sees through your clothes so they can laugh at your body, er, I mean see if you have a weapon on you. I have my driver's license in my pocket. The newest guy says, "Is absolutely everything out of your pocket?" "No. My driver's license is in there."

He then tells me rudely to take it out, put my thumbs together over my head and stand up straight. I do. They look at my body parts and nobody laughs, I'm sure because they still wonder if I'm a pistol packing federal air marshal undercover for the CIA and they let me have my shoes and crossword puzzle book back and send me on my way.

I buy a new coke on the way to my gate. I am still two hours early for my flight after all that. They are wrong, but very efficient at it.

On the first leg from SLC to Detroit, I sit next to Man Mountain Mike. Easily 6' 4" and 400 pounds. My butt will not quite fit in the seat. His butt will not quite fit in the plane. We touch. I feel like I am on a date at the Utah State Prison and I'm the prom queen. He is a nice guy, real gentleman, which scares me even more. I am not used to people being so much bigger than me. I'm reduced to putting my back to the bulkhead and sitting sideways for three hours. My iPod is in danger of going dead and the table for my chair will not come out of the arm, so I can't do crosswords and I will no longer have music. His table is hiding, scared, in the arm of his chair, whimpering. I don't want to engage in conversation with this man. I'm trying to end the relationship, after all.

Somehow I make it to Detroit. I have never been so happy to be out of a tight spot. I am a bit claustrophobic if I can't move my arms. Kung fu breathing got me through. When he stands to retrieve his bags from the overhead compartment, his belly falls out of his shirt right in front of me and spreads all over the plane. Several people are injured and I believe one small child is still missing.

On the home leg between Detroit and Knoxville, it looked like Japanese tourist day. I ended up next to a tiny little Japanese man and thought, "Oh, good. Plenty of room." In Japan, see, they have so many people, they are used to touching everyone else everywhere they go. We do not do that. Even though my personal space is very small, it is rather large planes. I do not touch other people, especially men.

Fuji proceeds to spreads his legs out into the aisle and into my luggage compartment under the seat in front of me. I now have my black satchel (filled with two new cokes I bought legally) and his right leg in my space. Also, he is tending to lean toward me. I am not going to be the prom queen to somebody shorter than me who does not know how to show a girl a good time.

About thirty minutes into the flight, I want to work on a crossword so I lower my table and the support of the table hits Fuju in the knee. Rather hard. Oops. He wakes up and gives me a dirty look and puts his leg back in Japan. I enjoy the remainder of my flight.

I go to get my bag and everything else works out just peachy.

Now I am home, showered off the grime of the Utah State Prison and the Tokyo Transit System and three airports.

And now I know what it takes for.....shhhhhhhhhhhhh.....a federal air marshal to get on board a plane.