Mark Davis

While staring down at the shiny floor with all of my precious belongings in a standard gray checkpoint screening bin at Denver International, I was happy there weren’t holes in my wool socks. It hasn’t always been the case.

As I waited in the non-preapproved Transportation Security Administration line I wondered how many thousands of people were directed to take this slow walk to the body scanners to place your feet on the yellow foot markers and lift your arms.

The machines are seemingly harmless, that is until your photograph shows up in some sort of airport security adults-only website.

They call the machines “millimeter wave advanced imaging technology scanners.” For the small price of $150,000 to $200,000 you can have your own. For that much you’d think they could have invested in technology to check your shoes as well so I wouldn’t be infected by the seemingly clean, yet actually probably dangerous floor.

I once asked a TSA agent how often the floor was cleaned. You know that path must be covered in particles of whatever foot fungus, athlete’s foot, stench and sock lint those thousands of people left behind. I wore my boots on the trip; the same pair I wear most days. They’re made of water-resistant leather and need to be sprayed with Lysol and left outside about once a week due to the accumulated stench.

I was once told if you put your shoes in the freezer overnight it would kill the smell. I tried it, leaving my shoes in an extra night to make up for a particularly stinky week. It doesn’t work.

The kind TSA agent told me quietly, “once, if that,” about the daily cleaning routine.

As I left their purview with my shoes, belt, wallet, phone, coat, glasses, computer satchel and small package of Skittles left over from Halloween in my hands, my phobia-addled brain also wondered if the germ factory would now live in my boots for the rest of their lifespan.

“Spray them with Lysol,” I told myself.

It was then that I realized that there were no helpful features to help a fat man with a bad back tie his shoes. I had to plop my arse on the ground to get the job done. Then I wondered what kind of germs were on my pants.

I had endured the holidays without my sweet wife and dog. I quickly ran out of vacation days in 2024 and hadn’t seen the loves of my life since August. So I took the first 12 days of the year to schedule a visit to her family’s farm in Indiana.

I had a flight out of Yellowstone Regional Airport that would get me to Denver for a 9:45 a.m. connecting flight to Indianapolis. I was up at 4:30 a.m. — something I’m not particularly fond of unless there’s a fishing hole calling me — so I could be sure to be at the airport just before 6 a.m. for the 7 a.m. fight. If I’m not early for scheduled events, I’m nervous.

We boarded on time, which made me very happy. With my seat back in the upright position I could almost feel the warm embrace of my skinny wife and the tongue of my sweet, sweet blue heeler on my cheek.

In actual reunions with my pup, that tongue is a little more intrusive on my face than a quick lick. I have to close my mouth tight to keep him from tasting my morning coffee most days. My wife detests public displays of affection, so no worries about her tongue.

Then, as our time to take off approached, we found out through a lovely flight attendant our little plane had a mechanical issue and there would be a 10-15 minute delay. She told us the same thing 20 minutes later, and again in about 30 minutes.

The passenger next to me said we were in “creeping delay hell” and that one or two more delays would mean most of the kind folks on the plane would miss their connecting flights. Six 15-minute delays later and we were finally airborne.

The flight to Denver was short, but I had missed my connecting flight by nearly an hour. Soon I realized I wouldn’t be able to get on another flight for several hours and that flight was to O’Hare in Chicago before heading to Indy.

The plan was to have a wonderful dinner with my family after a quick afternoon drive north to the farm. Now the plan was to be picked up at 10:30 p.m. and taken to the farm, where my 90-year-old mother-in-law was attempting to stay up until midnight to see me for a brief moment before nodding off.

My frown refused to turn upside down. I had waited so long to see my Indiana girl, but that eight-hour delay seemed like the cruelest form of torture.

The passenger next to me was a frequent flyer. He knew I was steaming with frustration — probably because he speaks mutter and knows all of the four-letter words in the ancient language. My frustration heightened after receiving answers to my naive questions by a courteous check-in agent that I would need to be stranded in the airport for two days before they would check with another airline to get me back in the air to hasten my trip to the caring embrace of my sweetheart.

Suddenly my flight went from visiting the friendly skies to “you’re lucky we’re going to get you there today and you can forget about that upgrade for a couple extra inches of leg room that had been paid for in advance,” essentially a Christmas gift from my generous brother-in-law.

I do understand the need for security in mass transportation. I understand mechanical issues and how important courtesy is in the American experiment. And, as a sexagenarian, I fully understand life can at times serve up a turd sandwich no matter how much you want to be closer than four states away from your spouse.

What I can’t understand is the lack of concern from a federal administration for hygiene in a system that requires the reuse of surfaces by tens of thousands of people who can carry fungal, viral and bacterial infections that are readily passed from person to person.

Trays used to carry shoes, phones and clothing are reused constantly without as much as a wipe from an overworked antibacterial product. You’d be safer touching a toilet, according to recent research. Floors see twice as many chances for sharing disease as they do people (‘cause most people have two feet).

There is a huge concern for safety from terrorists as you pass through mass transportation systems, and I support that vehemently. Yet there is very little, if any, effort to protect customers as they are made to all funnel into close proximity to every other passenger who has passed through the airport that day — or longer. Has anybody ever seen a guy with a mop at the checkpoints?

I’m glad I didn’t have holes in my socks that day and likely wouldn’t have had time to write this column — or to consider disease safety concerns — if I hadn’t spent two hours and 45 minutes on the YRA tarmac and another four hours at Denver International on New Year’s Day.