Teterboro Airport, situated in the New Jersey Meadowlands, a short distance from the Lincoln Tunnel, is the LAX of the American plutocracy. It is an airport given over entirely to “general” aviation—general being a euphemism for “private.” There are many different types of “general aviation” aircraft. A majority are very small, four- or six-seat propeller planes. A minority are much larger corporate jets of the sort found in great numbers on the Teterboro tarmac.
I do not ordinarily have access to corporate-aviation flights, but a few of my friends do, and I feel very warmly toward these friends when they ask me to join them aboard their planes, which is not often enough. Such an invitation came recently while I was in New York City for an appearance on The Colbert Report, during which I discussed our country’s ludicrous aviation-security system. A friend let me know he was flying back to Washington that night on a private plane. Count me in, I said.
The Colbert appearance went passably well and, as a bonus, I had the chance to say the terms testicle and ball sack on national television. This was during a discussion about the vigorous pat-downs now conducted by agents of the Transportation Security Administration on passengers who decline to pass through the imagers. These machines create naked images of passengers, which the federal government promises are not captured and therefore could not leak onto the Internet, even when the passenger in question is, say, Lady Gaga.
Fifteen minutes after leaving Manhattan, we arrived at the airport gate. A private security guard asked my friend for the tail number of our plane. He provided the number—or he provided a few digits of the number—and we were waved through, without an identification check. The plane, I should point out, didn’t belong to my friend; it belonged to a company with which my friend’s business does business. We drove to the terminal—operated by Signature Flight Support, a leading provider of general-aviation services—where we met our co-pilot, who escorted us to the plane.
“You’re Mr. Goldba?” the co-pilot said to me.
“It’s Goldberg,” I said.
“Okay, the e-mail must have gotten cut off or something.”
We continued to the plane. I asked my friend—let’s refer to him as “Osama bin La”—if there would be any security check whatsoever before we went wheels-up. He laughed. “I think the law says we have to pat each other down.”
“Do these pilots know you well?” I asked. “Is that why they trust you to bring me along?”
He first met them that morning, he said, when they flew him to Teterboro.
We climbed aboard the eight-seat twin-engine plane. The pilot greeted us, took my bag from me, and placed it on a seat. I noticed that no door separated the cabin from the cockpit.
We took off a few minutes later and headed south, in the direction of the Pentagon, the White House, and the United States Capitol complex.