The Illusion of a Shutdown: Why the TSA Is Still Signing You Up in La Crosse
In the quiet, orderly terminal of the La Crosse Regional Airport, a peculiar scene is unfolding this week. Amid the low hum of ventilation and the distant rumble of regional jets, a temporary office is processing applicants for TSA PreCheck. People are walking in, getting fingerprinted, paying a fee, and enrolling in a federal government program. This scene, in itself, is unremarkable. What makes it a fascinating data point is the context: it’s happening during a federal government shutdown.
The national narrative is one of paralysis. Non-essential services halted, federal workers furloughed, political brinkmanship grinding the gears of Washington to a halt. Yet in this corner of Wisconsin, the machinery of the state continues to turn, not with a shudder, but with the quiet efficiency of a business transaction. The event runs daily, 9 a.m. to noon, then again from 1 p.m. to 5 p.m., a rhythm undisturbed by the chaos consuming the headlines.
This isn't just a fluke. It's a signal. The situation in La Crosse offers a perfect case study in the modern architecture of American governance, revealing a system far more resilient—and far more transactional—than the political theater suggests. The question isn't how this is happening. The question is what it tells us about which parts of the government are truly insulated from the dysfunction we're told is crippling the nation.
A System Designed for Resilience, Not Governance
To understand the stability in La Crosse, you have to dissect the airport's operational structure. The first key variable is the air traffic control tower. It’s not staffed by federal employees on the verge of a missed paycheck; it’s run by a contractor. This single fact immediately decouples a critical component of air travel from the direct impact of a congressional appropriations failure. The government’s role shifts from direct operator to contract manager, a layer of abstraction that provides immense stability.
Then there’s the statement from JD Roberts, the airport's business manager: "Air travel is an essential service. It's not completely affected... here we're good to go." The word "essential" is doing a lot of work here. In the calculus of a shutdown, "essential" means TSA officers continue to work. But the PreCheck program itself isn't about security in the abstract; it's about efficiency. It’s a premium service. And this is where the financial architecture becomes so telling.
TSA PreCheck is a user-fee-funded program. The cost is $78 for a five-year membership (a fee that creates a predictable, non-appropriated revenue stream). This effectively ring-fences the program from the budgetary squabbles on Capitol Hill. I've analyzed hundreds of corporate structures, and this model is precisely what a savvy CFO would implement to protect a core profit center from broader organizational turmoil. It creates a self-sustaining ecosystem. The government isn’t funding this enrollment drive out of a contested general fund; it’s funded by the very people it's serving.
This isn't a story about dedicated public servants toughing it out. It’s a story about intelligent system design, where critical economic infrastructure has been deliberately insulated from the whims of political process through a combination of privatization and user-fee models. Is this good or bad? That's a normative question. From a purely operational standpoint, it’s brilliant. But does it feel like a public service, or a members-only club?
The Monetization of Inconvenience
The very existence and popularity of PreCheck are a market response to a government-managed inefficiency. As air travel returns to pre-pandemic levels—or to be more exact, surpasses them at many hubs—the baseline security experience degrades. Lines get longer, the process becomes more arduous, and the friction of travel increases. This degradation of the standard "free" service makes the premium, paid alternative more attractive.
The TSA isn't just selling speed; it's selling the removal of hassle. No removing shoes, belts, or laptops. It’s a tiered system of convenience. This enrollment event in La Crosse isn’t just a logistical exercise; it’s a sales event, bringing the product directly to a market of regional travelers who would otherwise have to drive to a larger city to purchase it.
Think of it like this: the standard security line is the free, ad-supported tier of a streaming service. It works, but it’s deliberately cumbersome. TSA PreCheck is the premium subscription. For a fee, you get a cleaner, faster, more pleasant experience. The more frustrating the free tier becomes, the stronger the incentive to upgrade. The shutdown, ironically, highlights the value proposition. While other government services might be failing, this paid-for convenience lane remains open for business. It’s a powerful signal that the things you pay for directly are the last things to go.
This leads to a more fundamental set of questions. What happens when this model is applied more broadly? Are we comfortable with a future where navigating public infrastructure is based on a tiered system of access? And if a service is so essential that it's insulated from a shutdown, why is the "premium" version of that service the part that functions most like a private business? The details of the program's internal finances remain opaque, but the outcome is crystal clear: money buys a better government experience.
The Shutdown Is a Feature, Not a Bug
Let's be clear. The event in La Crosse isn't an outlier; it's the blueprint. It reveals that the narrative of a government shutdown as a total systemic failure is largely an illusion. The political spectacle in Washington can continue indefinitely, but the parts of the government that are intertwined with major economic engines, funded by user fees, or outsourced to private contractors are designed to be immune. This isn't a system that's broken. It's a system that has evolved, shedding its dependency on political consensus for its most critical functions. What we're witnessing is the emergence of a hybrid state, where the experience of the citizen is increasingly determined not by rights, but by their capacity to pay for a premium service tier. The shutdown doesn't stop the machine; it just clarifies who has access to the express lane.