THE THREE-DAY WEEKEND

FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 2004–SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 2004

That Friday morning, Morris screwed-up his courage, called his district manager at Celfex, and lied as best he could about “a stomach flu or something, some kind of bug I must have caught. Maybe something I ate.” Then he and Rona drove to LaGuardia Airport.

Morris lugged two suitcases, some light reading, and an excessive amount of guilt over calling in sick to Celfex. The terminal echoed with the plunking and rattling of plastic bins and the occasional beeping protests of metal detectors, the barks of TSA agents for “bag check” and “male secondary” and the repeated and urgent directions on the basics of air travel. Because in a nation of frenetic multitaskers, a nation derived from restless immigrants who managed to leave their villages and cities and cross vast and roiling oceans a world away, today’s Americans have trouble removing their shoes, placing their belongings on a conveyer belt, and walking ten feet through a metal detector.

Morris was not a nervous flyer. But when he arrived at the small podium at the front of the line, and saw the strange reaction to his boarding pass by the guard from the Transportation Security Administration, his nerves activated, bringing small beads of sweat across his forehead. The guard’s eyes widened in seeming alarm the instant he saw the boarding pass. They darted from Morris’s flushed and perspiring face, to the driver’s license, and back to the boarding pass. Which made Morris sweat even more. Which made the guard sweat also.

Something’s wrong, Morris thought.

“Uhhhhh, Mister Feldstein, I’m going to need to call my supervisor over for a moment,” the guard reported.

Supervisor? Morris hated supervisors. They were authority figures, and authority figures intimidated him. It didn’t matter whether it was a Celfex district supervisor, or a supervisor at the Bloomingdale’s shoe department when Rona returned merchandise, or a TSA supervisor. When a supervisor was called into a situation, there was a situation.

This particular supervisor happened to be about seven feet tall, with broad shoulders that seemed to extend about the length of three airport gates, and a scalp so cleanly shaven that it refracted the bright overhead lights, making Morris squint. And when he examined the boarding pass, Morris could swear he saw some frothing on his lips.

His voice was deep and officious. “Sir, we’re going to need you to step aside for secondary screening.”

Secondary screening? Terrorists get secondary screening! Criminals! Not Celfex employees who tell white lies about a stomach flu.

“Male secondary!” The supervisor bellowed. Which fingered Morris to the entire line in back of him. Like a picture in the post office.

He was mortified. And behind him, Rona whispered, “Oh my God, Morris, now what did you do?”

Something told him to turn around, right then and there, and go home. Go home and pick up the phone and tell Celfex, “I am feeling much better now, it must have been a twelve-hour thing, and I’m starting my sales call right this second.” He wanted to drop his luggage and relieve his guilt and forget the free weekend vacation offer at the Paradise. But he couldn’t, because the hulking TSA agent had already clasped his humongous fingers around Morris’s elbow and tugged.

The supervisor led Morris to a screened-off “privacy area,” which offered all the privacy of the stage at Radio City Music Hall.

Morris Feldstein was a highly private man. Men who guard their privacy generally don’t like removing articles of clothing in public, having scanners waved in front of their genitals, and then feeling the palms of strangers pressing and squeezing against the insides of their thighs. But Morris did what he was told: standing and sitting, holding his arms outstretched and resting them at his sides. He watched as they swabbed his luggage to test for explosives.

Finally, he was freed. “Have a nice flight,” said the supervisor. Morris detected a tone that said, “We’re watching you, Feldstein!”

As he and Rona rushed to the gate, Rona said, “I heard on the news that Senator Kennedy got stopped five times at the airport because his name was on one of those lists. Maybe you’re name is on one too, Morris.” That’s what it must be, she thought. A no-fly list of terrorists, United States Senators, and adulterers.

The plane lifted off the runway. Morris craned his neck and watched the vague outlines of Long Island slip away. He felt relieved. As if he was leaving the tsuris behind.

Later they arrived in the Palm Beach International Airport terminal, searched for the luggage carousel, got lost, and found their way; met a cheerful young man with bronze skin and blond hair in a yellow shirt and khakis holding a sign that said, WELCOME TO PARADISE, MR. AND MRS. FEINSTEEN; drove with him in the yellow Paradise Resorts courtesy van; settled into their room; watched TV until they fell asleep; woke up on Saturday to a complimentary VIP breakfast at the Paradise Grille; watched a ten-minute Welcome Home video; boarded a yellow golf cart and enjoyed a private VIP tour of the grounds followed by a sales presentation at dinner. On Sunday they inspected the designer model, peered into the subzero freezer and cooed at the walk-in closets; nodded their approval at the twenty-four-hour world-class gym; tentatively dipped their toes in the lapping turquoise waves of the Atlantic, sat for two minutes under a yellow-and-white Paradise Residences beach umbrella, and wiped the sand from Rona’s sweater; repacked their bags, which now included a yellow-and-white complimentary Paradise Resorts carry-on; flew back to LaGuardia, and drove home to Great Neck.

And when they plunked their luggage down in the front hall, they were the proud new owners of nine hundred square feet of paradise, with a nice view of the ocean and the Major League Baseball upgrade on satellite television.