We’d Rather A Big Momma Than A Big Explosion

I’m working the TSA line, guiding passengers through trays and scanners. It’s busy but moving steady. My coworker is basically ‘Big Momma’ from the movies of the same name, down to every stereotype. A larger-than-life African American woman who is full of love but suffers no BS.

A passenger comes up rolling a carry-on and is already annoyed.

Passenger: “This is ridiculous. Shoes, belts, laptops, every time I fly, there’s something new!”

Me: “Same protocols as last time, sir. Nothing’s changed.”

Passenger: “Exactly. That’s the problem. It’s theater. You don’t need all this.”

Me: “We follow federal procedure.”

Passenger: “I travel every week. I know what’s actually necessary.”

He starts unloading reluctantly, muttering the whole time.

Passenger: “You people just like to make it harder than it has to be.”

He finishes tossing his items in the bin when ‘Big Momma’ has had enough and stands directly in front of him, separated only by the tray conveyor belt.

Big Momma: “Honey, cleared passengers catch flights; cleared throats catch delays. We here ’til 6 AM, you wanna still be here when I be done?”