More Bureaucratic Brilliance

After reading my last blog, my friend Willie reminded me of an instance of bureaucratic bull that ended rather badly for one of the bureaucrats. This in turn reminded me of another equally absurd encounter.

My kids—aged around ten and twelve—were flying down to the Dominican Republic to spend time with relatives. At the security check my son’s suitcase was opened and two plastic water pistols were discovered—one pink, one green. “I’ll have to confiscate these,” said the inspector.

“Plastic water pistols?” I asked incredulously.

He thought for a long moment. “They’re potential weapons. They could have acid in them,” says the genius.

“Acid melts plastic,” I informed him. “Besides, they’ll be in the baggage compartment. My children would have to cut through the floor to get to them should they intend taking over the plane with water pistols.”

Obviously confused by this simple logic, the inspector intrepidly confiscated the children’s toys. A man in a uniform was not about to be swayed by a mere member of the public.

The second incident didn’t end quite so blandly.

I’d been staying down in Florida for a few months and was returning to Toronto. In my luggage was a ‘bang stick’, a device that attaches to the end of an underwater spear. Should a diver be threatened by a shark he fires the spear which, upon impact with the shark, shoots a bullet into it.

I’d been travelling back and forth with this thing for years. It had been examined and passed on many occasions. This particular time, when a young customs officer spied it his eyes lit up. “We’ve been looking for one of these,” he announced gleefully. “They’ve been re-classified as a concealed weapon.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I explained. “To fire this thing it needs to be on the end of a spear gun. That’s not something you can put in a pocket.”

The young man was quite polite. He produced a book from somewhere and pointed out a section which said something like: A concealed firearm is one which could reasonably fit into a pocket or handbag, is capable of being loaded with a round of ammunition and is capable of firing said round. “You could get up to twelve years for this.” He said it as if a reasonable individual might hardly expect anything less.

“But that’s ludicrous,” I protested. “This thing is like a bullet without a gun. It can’t be fired without other equipment.”

He shrugged. “The wording of the law makes no allowance for that.”

I asked to see a supervisor, who turned out to be angry before even meeting me. Perhaps he’d been having a nap. Again I pointed out the ineffectiveness of the offending item as a concealed weapon but, as with his younger co-worker, any form of logic only served to agitate the supervisor further. Before long we were exchanging un-pleasantries.

The police had been called and were on their way to arrest me. Just as they walked through the door the supervisor’s rage reached a crescendo and his face reddened to the shade of a plum. Suddenly he clutched his chest, let out a howl of pain and crumpled to the floor.

One of the cops tried to revive him with mouth-to-mouth, but to no avail. 

The young inspector was in tears. “He was due to retire in a month,” he said forlornly. “I wish I’d never arrested you.”

Finally we agreed on something. “So do I.”

I was taken to a police station, booked, fingerprinted, photographed and a preliminary hearing was set for some two months hence. I later phoned the police ballistics department and told them of my situation. “Totally ridiculous,” said the cop.

The charges were dropped two days before the hearing.

Some time later I told this story to an acquaintance and she said, “Oh my God. You must have felt terrible.”

I was taken aback by the remark: Here was a man in a uniform, knowing I’d done nothing wrong, who was willing to send me away for twelve years - for what? So he could get a gold star in his retirement book?

No, I didn’t feel terrible. In fact, it’s probably the closest I’ve ever come to believing in a benevolent God.

(Edited by Davina Chapman)