A little more than five years ago, I sneaked a pocket knife into a rock concert.
It was (and is, I think) the smallest Swiss Army knife available. The primary blade is an extremely formidable inch and a half long, and it doesn’t lock. Even if your victim held still for you, you’d have to work pretty hard to hurt them seriously with it.
And of course, I didn’t set out to sneak it in. I was a well-adjusted guy in his mid-40s with practical things in his pocket, and wholly devoid of malicious intent. But none of that matters when they wand you.
It was much too long a walk back to the car. I briefly considered throwing it away—to replace it would cost all of about $12—but then I said to myself “you know what? No.” I slid it into the side of my sneaker, it was undetected, and that was that. When we got to our seats I put it back in my pocket.
And guess what? It never occurred to me to go on a homicidal rampage.
It used to irritate me when my dad would so often flout the rules. As the rules get stupider—and, probably more germanely, as I get older—I’m understanding more.
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