Why I Went to the Spy Shop

A few years ago, I decided—on a whim—to take a trip to San Francisco. The reason: my book club had scheduled Kerouac's On the Road, and I was curious about the author's legendary haunts. My cyber hunt took me to The Beat Museum, which, in turn, had an online store. In the store I saw a super cool Hunter S. Thompson mug. (Any time that I need a laugh, I read HST's Rolling Stone essays, especially "The Battle of Aspen" and "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas".) I envisioned myself, during the book club discussion, drinking coffee from that mug (or, maybe, Wild Turkey, in the spirit of HST). However, when I tried to order the mug, they didn't appear to ship to Canada. But I really wanted it, and so decided to book a trip to San Fran to buy one in person. And besides: I felt that this was very much in keeping with the ethos of On the Road. (Except that I flew.)

So what does all this have to do with the Spy Shop? My hotel was perfectly located in the Fisherman's Wharf area, and on the first day I took a stroll around the neighbourhood. Everyone knows that, as a kid, I desired to become an A-list actor, but less known is that I also wanted to become a secret agent. So, naturally, when I saw, on the horizon (actually, two blocks away) a building called the Spy Shop, HST mugs became the secondary objective.

My anticipation built as I approached. But I stopped to take a breath, to compose myself. Then the following thought occurred to me: How do they afford to pay the rent? I imagine that spy paraphernalia must be a niche market—and that professional spies probably don't shop there, to avoid being compromised and whatnot. Plus, I imagine it would be a paperwork nightmare to get reimbursed. (In my day job, I sometimes do statistics and psychometrics. If, in my wanderings, I came across the Statistics and Psychometrics Shop, I'd probably go in for a laugh—but definitely wouldn't buy anything out of pocket!)

When I entered the shop, I felt like a kid in a...no: an adult in a spy shop! They had everything—and I mean everything—that an aspiring secret agent could ever want. It's what I imagine someone who doesn't work for the government thinks that the government has behind closed doors. They had everything from official looking badges to super-high-tech surveillance equipment, lock picks, weapons, spy clothes, books and DVDs on espionage and the like...everything!

My eye was immediately drawn to the gleaming display of brass knuckles. Brass knuckles are definitely illegal in Canada. But...so are ninja stars. And when I was a kid, my family used to go to Key Largo each Christmas, and I bought some real, very sharp, carbon steel shuriken from a shady proprietor at the flea market, and brought them back with me. Also, I once asked a friend, who's a police officer, to get me some nunchucks (also illegal) during his trip to the U.S. Then I told him I was joking. But he said (of customs officials) "They don't care about nunchucks. They only care about drugs." Nevertheless, I didn't want to get him in trouble, so I thanked him and said, "I'll just make them myself."

As I was looking down into the glass display case, a voice with a vaguely Eastern European accent said, "Want to try them on?" Obviously a rhetorical question! So I tried them on. They felt good on my knuckles—natural, like these bad boys were the one thing missing from my life (aside from chicken). But, alas. And I was a bit surprised that these were actually legal in California, so I asked. He replied that this object was, in fact, a belt buckle. (It has a little stub that, in theory, allows it to function as a belt buckle, a little stub that, if the customer breaks it off...well, that's not the Spy Shop's problem.) I pictured myself showing up at work with my gleaming new belt buckle, to great plaudits from management. But I could also imagine the customs official (who supposedly wouldn't care) asking about them, and me replying, "I'm telling you—it's a belt buckle!"

Next, I eyed the automatic knives—the ones for which you press a little button and the blade shoots out of the handle. Another touch of the button, and the blade disappears in a flash. Definitely illegal in Canada. I knew, without even touching it, that it would feel good—natural—in my hand. "Try it?" And I did. He wanted to sell it to me and I wanted to buy it. It was capitalism at its finest. Of course, this item didn't even pretend to be something else. There was no way I was going to take the risk. I told him, "This is also illegal in Canada."

He frowned, shook his head, and replied, "You can't have any fun."