Losing Something

This is something I wrote for the "Losing Something" assignment, one of our first of the class.  I liked it when I wrote it, but now I'm not so sure how I feel about it. I'm not sure whether I accomplished the goal of including lots of detail, and I'm not sure about my style of describing the events that happened in the past from the point at the end.  Finally, I don't like the conclusion a whole lot.  Well, decide for yourselves.

Losing Something


“Dammit.” The word slipped out of me before I could stop it.  A mother of two standing in line behind me looked at me reproachfully.  I felt guilty but no less angry.  How could I have lost my boarding pass inside the airport?  I knew I had had it when I was checking my bag, and here at the gate I had lost it.  Stupid!  I stepped out of line and sat in one of the cramped leather chairs, trying to think.  Where had I had it last?
    I knew I still had it when I was checking my bags near the front of the airport, because the lady at the counter had asked to see it.  Then I stuffed it somewhere—I suppose it must have been an insecure storage place—and it fell out on the way here.
    Could I have lost it while walking from the counter to the security checkpoint?  I thought back.  I remembered seeing an old couple making their way down the long hallway as well.  They were walking slowly, holding hands but not talking.  When they got to the metal detectors, he got in line but she stayed back, waving to him across the crowd.  I wondered what their story was; why was he going somewhere and she staying?  No satisfactory explanation crossed my brain before I was jerked back to my task at hand.  No, I thought. I know I had the ticket when I went into the metal detector, because I felt it in my pocket when I was rummaging through them, removing my change and my keys.  Maybe it got put in the basket with the rest of my stuff and I forgot to put it back in?
    Thinking back again, I remember the man that went through the metal detector before me.  He was young, in his early twenties, with dark skin and a thick, curly dark beard.  I remembered thinking—and hating myself for doing so—that he looked like photos of the 9/11 hijackers I had seen on the news.  The security personnel seemed to be thinking along the same lines.  His bag had to go through the x-ray twice, and when he set off the metal detector, they were extremely careful with the wand waving, making him turn out his pockets and the hem of his shirt before they determined it was his belt buckle that was setting off the alarm.  The man was quiet and patient throughout the whole ordeal.  I wondered how many times this had happened to him before, and how many times it would happen again.  With another jolt, I recalled what I was supposed to be remembering—where had I lost my ticket?  No, I told myself.  I distinctly remembered putting the boarding pass back into my pocket after I was through the metal detector and had put my shoes back on. 
    Could it have been from my way to the metal detector to the terminal?  On the way there, I observed a couple arguing while walking.  She appeared to be close to tears, and his voice, already loud, was losing its grip on normality.  I couldn’t catch exactly what the fight was about, but I got the idea.  Following behind them, several paces back, were two children, no older than six, with their tiny little suitcases.  Their faces looked down and their gait mirrored how they must have felt.  I wondered where they were going, and what the cause of the argument was, and whether the kids were still excited about their vacation.  No, the boarding pass was in my pocket when I sat down to wait for the plane.  So I must have lost it between sitting down to wait and getting in line…
    “Excuse me, sir.”  It was a little girl, one of the children of the woman who had disapproved my language.  She was holding a large ticket in her small hand.  “I think you dropped this in line back there.”