Philadelphia,
Pennsylvania
Veterans Day
November 11, 2017
The Transportation Security Agency's new recruitment center opened its doors in the shadow of City Hall just two weeks prior to Veterans Day and had already met its first month's projections of offers to screened and qualified candidates despite the fact that more than fifty percent of the walk-ins failed to meet the minimum standards and were not moved to the next processing step. Another fifteen percent would wash-out of the training program. Compared to other US Government jobs, TSA standards were set low. Too low for most of the seasoned hands: recruiters joked that all you needed to do was fog a mirror and pass the urinalysis testing on your test day and you were in. Right downtown and with a nearby parking garage accepting TSA validations, the Center attracted a large number of potential applicants from the decaying and corrupt "City of Brotherly Love." There were few real job opportunities in the city, and the applicant traffic was heavy. Four agents rotated from their normal airport duties and staffed the center. This was great duty: no airport hassles, no passenger complaints or investigations, per diem pay which allowed you to pocket some extra cash, and a standard work day with every Holiday and weekends off.
"Dave Gadsden?" asked the young man. A tall, muscular man with a shaved head topping a sparkling white TSA uniform with razor sharp military creases straightened behind the counter.
"Yes, that's me." He stood and extended his hand to the boy and smiled. "What can I do for you?" The big brass buckle was polished to a rich, deep shine that was clearly part of a daily routine.
The son of an itinerant farmer from Monck's Corner, South Carolina, Dave Gadsden starred as a left guard on offense and middle linebacker on defense for the High School making it all the way to the State play-offs. Big Dave went 110% on every play...football would be his ticket out of Monck's Corner. The small town's official description, "where life is a little slower, a little calmer, and a little bit sweeter", attracted many of his teammates and friends who would live out their entire lives struggling and then die, having never ventured outside South Carolina's low country. He hated the smell of the paper plant that permanently scented the air and made the stifling humidity even more unbearable.
His hopes ended violently near mid-field when a pulling guard from Summerville slammed into his right knee on a well-executed trap play. Dreams of continued gridiron glory were dashed in a heartbeat, though he did have the distinction of being the first member of his family to complete high school. Some consolation! He enlisted in the US Air Force soon after graduation.
Dave thrived in the service...he listened closely, appreciated the certainty of the routine, and loved the disciplined and predictable environment where there were rules for everything. He gravitated to flying and became a C-141 loadmaster, leading his team with the same drive that made him a star on the football field. His strength, stamina and focus coupled with his model military bearing supported a strong service reputation as a man people would listen to and follow. He gave the Air Force twenty years, rising to the rank of Master Sergeant. He thought joining the TSA would be more of the same. He was determined to become a standout there as well.
The recruiting center opened its glass doors on Market Street right on time and Big Dave clapped his hands loudly and raised the energy level with his booming voice "Another day to excel, people. Let's make it another great one! Let's go!"
The young man who asked for Dave Gadsden shook his hand enthusiastically.
"Good morning, Mr. Gadsden, I'm Jose Santos. Happy Veterans Day!"
Jose had been carefully selected. His tall athletic frame was a rich brown, a mixture of sperm from Puerto Rico and an egg carried from Guatemala. Manuel and Maria, his common-law wife of twenty-two years, lived with their family in a dilapidated tar-papered shack no bigger than a garden shed. Built long ago to house seasonal workers, the shack had been abandoned when mushroom farming became more profitable. The family accepted their current living conditions...there were no hopes or dreams of anything better in the small eastern Pennsylvania town they called home. Manuel worked the mushroom farms, spending most of his waking days in a dank humid atmosphere that came from the ground and the fetid mushroom compost which gave him headaches and caused fits of violent coughing that only subsided with cough medicine and clean air. He feared his constant wheezing would shorten his life, but there were no alternatives for someone who didn't have the papers to get another job. Many others found themselves in the same boat. He would continue working and make the best of it.
The Santos family was devastated when Jose was struck by a car just outside Kennett Square, the mushroom capital of the world. The driver didn't stop. Jose nearly died because the splintered bone in his shattered leg severed the femoral artery and only some quick thinking by an EMT saved his life. The doctor showed no emotion when he came out of surgery still wearing a sweat-soaked gown.
"Are you Jose's parents?" he asked. Maria gasped and fell to the tile floor when the doctor explained the clinical facts. There was too much internal damage, and the crushed leg couldn't be saved. He'd done what he could with no heroics. The boy's family was not going to pay, and he knew he'd get called by the medical director to justify why he'd done so much. Only four years out of med school and already numbed by a profession where most physicians remained detached and aloof without any involvement or feeling...not enough time or energy for that.
A few days after his discharge, Manual and Maria thought they'd won the lottery when a man appeared out of nowhere and offered not only to handle Jose's medical bills but also to provide a used Buick station wagon to the family. Six weeks after the accident, Jose's leg was fitted with a high-tech composite prosthesis in a private clinic. Jose couldn't believe his good luck in having some benefactor make all the arrangements and pay for his custom-fitted leg. He quickly learned to walk and felt very positive about his future. From time to time, Brian the benefactor called Jose on a cell phone he'd given him, asking about his leg and how he was doing, and how the station wagon was running. Later, he also asked him to do a couple of things around the city and even paid his cab fare. So Jose looked forward to visiting the TSA recruiting center and presenting David Gadsden with a distinctive wooden pen engraved with the US Air Force logo and words "Top Loadmaster."
Brian surprised Jose with a new cell phone just that morning and tested it with a call as the two of them sat in Brian's car, just before he entered the TSA Recruiting Center. Jose was thrilled. This was going to be a great day. Brian promised he would take him to the city's interactive science museum, the Franklin Institute, later in the morning.
Towering over the boy, Dave smiled broadly as he examined the new pen and excitedly exclaimed "Wow, Jose, this is just great. What a surprise!" He extended his hand again and asked, "By the way, how did you know I was a Loadmaster?"
The two were both smiling and still shaking hands when the composite shell of Jose's prosthetic leg disintegrated into thousands of razor-sharp shards followed closely by an ever expanding circle of steel pellets which surrounded the twelve pounds of C4 explosive that replaced Jose's flesh and bone.
Gadsden's torso fell to the floor, his shaved head landing between his polished black shoes. The white TSA uniform with its sharp military creases was torn from his body in the blast. The polished buckle lay several feet away, its shine covered with a bloody froth. The TSA banner hanging from the ceiling was shredded. The first responders estimated fifteen to twenty people dead, about a half dozen who might die before the day ended and perhaps ten others who would wear their injuries for the rest of their lives.