"Is this bag yours, miss?"  
  "That one is mine, yes."  
  "All right if we take a look?"  
  "Oh, ya, yes, certainly."  
  "Great—step over to the side please."  

  I'd gotten in a taxi at 3:45 am, that was now a half hour ago. When  
  I arrived at the airport, security itself had not yet woken so we had  
  all slumped into a slumbery line, that was now 10 minutes ago. I'd  
  forgotten to take my shoes off when going through the security x-ray,  
  that was now 2 minutes ago. At this moment I followed the TSA friend  
  who carried my bag.  

  "Any chance you have a nail gun in this bag?" he asked and I thought  
  "You poor TSA friend." Had his mind been so conditioned that he could  
  hallucinate weaponry into the tangles of my innocent clothing? Where  
  would it all end? The last time the TSA frisked my bag was on account of  
  my lightbox, which, to everyone's credit, really does look like bomb.  
  But what could they be mistaking for a  nail gun, of all things?  

  I thought back to packing my bag and suddenly remembered  
  "oh, actually, You're Right: I do have a nail gun in there."  

  As he swabbed it down for explosive residue I figured I would have to  
  leave it behind, in a plant someplace. Or if it wasn't too late, check  
  it in a small bag or mail it home. More likely it would just be confiscated.  
  "There are also two sizes of nail cartridges" I pointed out, helpfully.  
  "Keep your hands back" my TSA friend warned.  

  Ultimately the TSA holiday spirit of generosity found me blameless  
  and allowed my freshly swabbed/x-rayed nail gun and two sizes of  
  ammunition to board my plane with me, where we all drifted into  
  dreams that make more sense than life itself.