Day after day people go about their usual business of getting up in the morning, doing their usual rituals, spending the day out in their world, and coming home to catch the news for reassurance their day didn’t suck as bad as someone else’s before gorging on whatever corporate America has decided is entertainment. It’s called the routine, and while it gives us order and stability, it robs us of the excitement of spontaneity and abandon, the stuff that keeps us young. When we lose that, we lose ourselves.
I remember the day our family left Saudi Arabia for the last time. Dhahran International crawled with police armed with machine guns, like usual, waiting to pounce at any hint of suspicion. I’d seen that before – a fellow got caught bringing in liqueur chocolates and the police dragged him away kicking and screaming. I’ve no idea what happened to him after that but could imagine it wasn’t pleasant. What else would it be in a country ruled by draconian laws and regulations?
Everything went just fine until the security guard stopped the baggage conveyor to scrutinize my mom’s carry-on with the x-ray scanner.
“Whiskey!” he shouted.
“What? No,” Mom said.
“Yes, whiskey!” The guy restarted the conveyor. As soon as the bag cleared the scanner, he pulled it off and tore the zipper open. He reached in and pulled out a brown jar. “Whiskey! Whiskey!” he shouted.
Nearby police officers looked our way and gripped their machine guns at the ready, and I began thinking of Billy Hayes from Midnight Express. We were heartbeats away from the nightmare of a Saudi jail.
Mom stood her ground and kept her cool. “It isn’t,” she said, her voice as regal as ever. “I assure you.”
The security guy opened the jar and sniffed. “Wh-what is this?”
“Olive oil,” Mom said sternly. “It’s very good actually. Would have brought more but didn’t have room.”
Sweat dripped from me and I trembled as the security guy studied us intently. Suddenly he jerked his head as his way of saying, “you can go.”
We headed for the airport restaurant for much-needed refreshment. Dad ordered a Pepsi for me, two tonics, and two glasses with ice and a twist of lemon each.
Mom pulled out a brown jar, poured some of its contents into the two glasses, and added the tonic.
“B-but I thought the guard checked that?” I said.
Mom smiled. “Ach not at all. Not this one.” She and Dad sat back, sipped their drinks of my brother’s Five Star Saudka and tonic, and laughed at the world they were leaving behind.
All these years later I smile every time I think of Jamie Lee Curtis saying, “See, I did that, that was me, I was reckless and I was wild, and I fucking did it!” Everyone, from time to time, needs to cast off the cloak of conformity and just say, “Fuck it!”
