⊰ Tommy Gun, replica ⊱
In September 2001, my friend Y. had planned a week-long trip with her friend. They had already booked flights, hotel rooms and everything. Then the Twin Towers fell.
Her friend, understandably, no longer wanted to travel, so she sold me her ticket for half the price. As a student, that was all the money I had. And just like that, I found myself flying to England for the first time, almost overnight.
At Forbidden Planet, a geeky shop, they were selling a plastic replica of a Tommy Gun - just like the ones mobsters use in movies to spray down restaurants. It even shot tiny plastic pellets. Of course, I had already spent all my money just getting there, so when it came down to a choice between food and a Tommy Gun... well, food didn’t stand a chance. I ate all-I-can-eat, once a day at Pizza Hut for £5.
I couldn’t (didn’t even try) resist playing with it. I assembled the gun in our hotel room and started shooting. The chaos I created was so dramatic that when we came back and found the room turned upside down*, I exclaimed in a British accent,
“Oh my God - we’ve been robbed!”
This was before the age of cell phones, and we had a pair of walkie-talkies with us. That way, we could split up in the mall and each explore the stores that interested her while still staying in contact (within range).
I'd radio her in Hebrew: “The eagle has landed in the cave, over.”
And she’d reply: “Not now, I’m in the bathroom.”
On that trip, we also met the man who would later become my partner. He happened to be in London with his family. We knew of each other, but didn’t like each other at all - we had made some not-so-nice and very wrong assumptions. That trip was the first time we actually spoke.
When it was time to head back to Israel, I was worried that if I packed the Tommy Gun in my suitcase, it would get blown up. I figured it would be safer to keep it in its box, in a bag I’d carry onto the plane.
But this was right after 9/11, and the Brits had just updated and tightened their airport security. At the security check, we were handed a printed A4 sheet listing items we had to declare.
“Scissors” – Nope!
“Nail file” – Nope!
“Letter opener” – Also nope!
And then, second to last on the list: “Anything that could resemble a weapon”... Um. About that.
I showed the security officer the bag with the gun. He opened the box and said in his British accent:
“Oh, sure, it’s a toy, made of plastic - my son’s got one of these.
I’m just going to bring a marker to label it as a toy,”
and came back with two more security officers, who took us to a side room and searched us down to our socks.
She had bought black boots in Camden with studs and metal in the soles, which of course set off the metal detectors - making the security team even more nervous. They opened all our suitcases and even flipped through our books, searching for gunpowder.
They mostly wanted to know who I bought it for. They couldn’t quite wrap their heads around the fact that it was for me. It would’ve been way easier for them if I’d just said I bought it for someone else.
When my walkie-talkie crackled, they got spooked - and I honestly thought they were going to shoot me. They made it very clear: the Tommy Gun was not getting on the plane with us.
We almost missed our flight back. I had to leave the gun in airport storage, hoping someone local could pick it up for us. That never happened.
Years later, my partner surprised me with an incredible Tommy Gun replica - heavy, made of real wood and metal. To this day, I have no idea how he managed to get it into the country.
It’s displayed in our living room. Once, a technician came by to install something and said to my partner:
“Wow, you're lucky she lets you keep that!”
To which he just rolled his eyes and said: “It’s hers.”
We had probably left the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door.
Tommy Gun, replica.
