Security Guard Vacation: Catching a Flight for Family Gathering

Flight Time: I'm more used to the automatic doors at the store entrance, the squeak of shopping cart wheels, the constant hum of refrigerator units. My post is usually near the main doors watching for the subtle signs: someone checking over their shoulder too often, a jacket bulging in the wrong places, teenagers daring each other to pocket candy bars.

But today I'm in comfortable pants and a button-down shirt that's been hanging in my closet for months. Today, I'm the one being watched as I fumble with my boarding pass at the check-in kiosk.

The gathering is this week. There will be people I haven't seen in years, conversations that need to happen face-to-face instead of over scratchy phone connections, moments that can't be captured in a text message or a hurried call during my lunch break.

I requested the time off months ago. My manager looked surprised, I never take vacation days, usually just cash them out at the end of the year. But something this year made me think differently. How many more chances would I get?

The security line snakes back and forth. I'm behind a businessman typing furiously on his phone and a college kid with headphones nearly falling off his head. Nobody's trying to steal anything here, but I still catch myself scanning faces out of habit, reading body language, looking for what doesn't fit.

"Next," the TSA officer calls, and I step forward.

She barely looks at me as she checks my ID against my boarding pass. I'm just one of thousands passing through today. At the store, I know the regulars by name, Mrs. Chen who comes in every Tuesday, the construction crew that buys lunch at noon, the kid saving up his allowance for trading cards.

Here, I'm nobody. And somehow, that feels like freedom.

I make it through the metal detector without incident, gather my belt and shoes, and head down the concourse. Gate 13. Minneapolis. Two hours and forty minutes until I land in a city I haven't visited in far too long.

My phone buzzes with a message confirming the rental car reservation. Then another with the address and a note about road construction near the venue.

I feel something loosen in my chest that's been tight for years.

For months, I've been the one making sure people don't take what isn't theirs. I've watched thousands of people rush through those sliding doors with their groceries, heading home to dinners and celebrations and ordinary evenings.

This week, I get to be one of them, someone going somewhere that matters, someone with plans that don't involve monitoring camera feeds or walking the perimeter one more time before closing.

The departure board flickers. On time. I find a seat by the window and watch planes take off, one after another, all of them carrying passengers toward reunions and gatherings and the kind of moments you can't get back once they're gone.

I settle into my seat and close my eyes for a moment, letting the unfamiliar sounds of the airport wash over me. No beeping registers. No overhead announcements about cleanup in aisle seven. No radio crackling with someone asking me to check on a suspicious customer.

Just the quiet hum of anticipation, and a flight to catch.