By David Shapiro

I should have known better than to grumble about the cursory security examination my wheelchair and I received the last time I flew out of Honolulu Airport.

Inspectors were all over the baggage. My checked suitcase was singled out for special attention, and a screener tore into my messily packed bag and spread my most personal belongings on a table for all to see.

It didn't get really embarrassing until she repacked my luggage far more neatly than I had in the first place, giving me snide looks as she worked.

When it came time to examine my person, though, there was no such scrutiny. They pushed my wheelchair through the metal detector, which yields little useful information since the metal of the chair would mask any contraband it carried.

I was asked to lean forward for a quick pat-down. The screener made me take off my flimsy slippers that couldn't possibly hide anything, but didn't bother to check to see if I was sitting on a stick of dynamite.

Still spooked by the Sept. 11 terrorism, I was alarmed by what I could have sneaked through security under the cover of my wheelchair and considered saying something.

But I held my tongue, figuring that if I brought attention to myself with critical comments, I wouldn't have to worry about metal detectors the next time I traveled; I'd be examined with an endoscope.

Well, be careful what you wish for. On a trip to Hilo last weekend, I found the feds had taken over gate security, and they were leaving nothing to chance.

My screeners skipped the less-than-useful metal detector, bringing me in through a side entry where they separated me from my chair and gave both of us thorough inspections.

I made the mistake of admitting I can stand up for a minute or two, and they insisted I do so. That's where the fun began as the screener went straight for the crotch. I asked if it was necessary to get so personal, and he reassured me, "When I touch your privates, I'm doing it with the back of my hand and not the palm."

As if that makes all the difference!

He said I was lucky I wore shorts, which left me wondering if they would have made me drop trou in the middle of the airport if I had worn slacks.

Being as opposed to exploding airplanes as the next guy, I took this pretty meekly at first. I was in a public area and I smiled sheepishly at curious passers-by as the screener poked and prodded.

My mood changed when I felt a finger (I couldn't tell if it was the front side or the back) start to work up a certain crevice I considered out of bounds.

"That's enough," I said. "How come I have to be subjected to this when the people who walk through the gate don't?"

"They have a right to request it if they want it," my examiner replied.

Right. Like they wouldn't be able to resist such magical hands.

A screening supervisor explained apologetically that security is on high alert since the reappearance of Osama bin Laden. He proudly reported that Honolulu Airport has been judged one of the safest in the nation.

I still didn't like being subjected to indignities that ambulatory passengers were spared, but decided to take this one for my country and move on. I could only be thankful that I didn't disgrace myself by responding to the touch.

Sheesh.

David Shapiro can be reached by e-mail at dave@volcanicash.net.