Customs

Customs is an interesting word. In the singular form—custom—it could mean a traditional way of doing things or, if you’re shopping in Great Britain, going to the same vendor for all your ties and hankies. In the plural form—customs—you could still be talking about cultural usage, as in “The Fijians and the Finnish share surprisingly similar customs regarding house painting.” Customs also refers to “the official department that administers and collects the duties levied by government on imported goods; the place at a port, airport, or frontier where officials check incoming goods, travelers, or luggage; and the duties levied by a government on imported goods.” That’s a remarkable achievement for the letter S. Today we’re going ignore societal norms and focus on the art of walking past a Customs official wearing three watches and trying to convince said officer that you left the country with three watches and are now returning with them still on your wrist. That and other adventures in Customs Land. It turns out countries not only want to supervise what comes in so they can tax it, they also want to govern what goes out so they can protect it. My first experience with Customs was obtaining the appropriate licenses so products manufactured by the company I worked for could be shipped overseas. All went smoothly until the day our Federal Government decided America was shipping too many computer components to enemies of the Republic, so it created a new program to hire more gun-toting agents who would track down evil doers and send them to prison. This program was loosely referred to as “Customs Enforcement.” I first learned about Enforcement when I heard my favorite clerk at our freight forwarding agency had just been hauled off to jail. Why? Because he’d unknowingly signed off on a shipment of “computers” from a different manufacturer, unaware that the box was actually crammed full of unlicensed computer components. The poor clerk, who was an inadvertent accessory to crime, had to spend the night in custody until his innocence was established. Thus, the New Order meant getting hauled to the clink and sitting there until someone showed up with paperwork showing there’s been a terrible mistake. Having learned about Enforcement is this dramatic way, you can imagine my terror a few days later when one of the new agents showed up at our workplace dressed in a handsome business suit and presented his card: Department of Commerce, Enforcement. He graciously assured me there was no reason for concern. His was just a routine visit to say hello and look at our export licenses. I might have believed him except when he unbuttoned his coat jacket to sit down I could see his pistol and shoulder harness. Yes, this totally unnerved me. So what did I do? Naturally, I offered him tea or coffee and biscuits. He declined all three and sat in my office while I scurried off to retrieve every piece of paper at my disposal proving our shipments were made under legal sanctions. Yes, my hands were shaking as I set the stack in front of him for his perusal. No doubt my voice was a tad tremulous as well. As he leafed through them, he said something to the effect of “These look in order but I’ll need to take them to my office for future reference.” I replied, “You are more than welcome to them, of course, but would you mind terribly if I took just a moment more of your time so I can make copies of them to keep for our own records?” Apparently he was beginning to enjoy my groveling because he smiled indulgently, almost pityingly, and said, “I don’t need the originals. Copies will do just fine.” He soon left, copies in hand. No one got shot; no one had to go to jail. To my great relief, though I did keep his business card, I never had to see him again. That didn’t mean I never had to deal with Enforcement again. One of our customers from, let’s just say, a Latin American country, called in desperation. His shipment was being held hostage in his government’s warehouse and he had less than thirty days to either: 1) Bribe his customs agents with enough money for them to retire in luxury. 2) Prove the shipment in question was legitimate and they should release it. 3) Surrender the goods, pay for a new order, and risk ransom again. To save time, he flew to Los Angeles and we went together to the appropriate Customs office. Clutching legal documents with undeniable evidence that the export was legal and the import at the other end was legitimate, we asked if someone could please help us? A very nice official appeared able and willing to intercede until he noticed that the export in question now fell under the control of Enforcement. The man literally turned pale, returned our papers, and backed away as if we were typhoid carriers. “I can’t help you with this. You have to leave. Leave now.” Seriously, it was all he could do to keep from running out of his own office. The only solution for our stressed customer was to return to his land of origin and find someone who would release his shipment for only half the bribe money previously quoted. That was my experience from the shipping side of the Customs world. On the re-entry side, I gather claiming you only paid five dollars for French perfume and a bottle of aged Scotch is a common game. Customs officials are used to it. What they weren’t used to was when members of my family came through Customs after what was supposed to be a fun-filled cruise to the Mexican Riviera. “Do you have anything to declare?” asked the Customs officer. My sister, looking disheveled, clutching a feverish daughter to her side while her husband pushed Aunt Rose’s wheelchair, leaving her young son to support his distraught grandmother, said, “Yes. Yes I do. I have something to declare.” “My father had a heart-attack and died aboard the cruise ship we were on and we had to bury him at sea before we got into port in Acapulco but before that my aunt tripped and broke her ankle. The cruise line paid for us to fly home. Also, my daughter has the flu and is about to throw up on you.” Wisely, the Customs officer waved them through, no questions asked. I’m sorry. Those weren’t funny stories. Let’s try this one: My father’s best friend was a lovely lady who was his law school classmate. Her husband was a surgeon who rescued me a time or two. Nice people. Yet even nice people have their moments. Once summer, the nice surgeon was forced to spend the day in Tia Juana with his wife and visiting mother-in-law, who wanted to look for bargains. They didn’t need bargains; they were rich. That’s what the husband thought, but the wife loved a sale as much as anyone. She went to Mexico with a particular prize in mind. She needed a nice lace tablecloth to grace her huge table in the dining room of her gigantic mansion. So they roamed the streets of Tia Juana looking for the perfect deal. Well, she and her mother wandered. The nice surgeon stopped at the nearest bar and drank until the wife told him they could go home now. They all piled into their car and waited in line at the border so US agents could make sure they were declaring and paying appropriate duty for any newly-found treasures they might be bringing into the country. “Do you have anything to declare?” The agent repeated this tired phrase after he made certain the same three people who left the country were the ones returning. “No, sir,” replied the surgeon. Peering into the car, the agent could see a large parcel wrapped in paper and tied with string placed on the seat next to Grandma. “What’s in the package, sir?” asked the agent. “What package?” replied my friend the surgeon. Before things went any further, the surgeon’s wife said, “That’s my laundry.” The tipsy surgeon looked over his shoulder, saw the parcel and went berserk. “You left the laundry in the car? You brought our laundry to Mexico? What the hell were you thinking about?” “Don’t yell at me! If you hadn’t been in such a foul mood this morning I wouldn’t have been so distracted. I picked it up yesterday and then you started in on me so I forget to bring it in the house.” “Started in on you? Are you insane? Between you and your mother, the two of you are making me crazy! It would serve you right if I left you, your mother, and your laundry right here, in the street, and drove off without you, Goddamnit!” By now Grandma was in tears and the Customs officer was trying to put out the fire in the car. “Calm down, Mister, calm down. Everyone makes mistakes. Just drive on and pay attention to your driving.” The surgeon stopped yelling, said thank you to the Customs official, and drove back to Beverley Hills without saying anything else. Actually, nobody said much until they pulled into the driveway. Then the surgeon snidely said, “This time don’t forget the laundry.” “Oh, I won’t. And by the way, it’s not laundry. It’s a new lace tablecloth.”