The Sultan of Oman, Bar Mitzvah Dreams, Bob Hope

Dad comes home one day. He's on cloud-nine. He's just booked a huge job in Oman. Something about the Sultan's birthday party. Maybe it seems weird to us that Dad, who does big events like the Olympics and the Oscars, would do a birthday party, but a gig is a gig. There's just one question: where is Oman?

I'm 11. Allison is 9. We get out our globe.

"The Middle East," Dad says.

We spin the globe, find the Middle East. But we can't find Oman. It’s not a big nation, so cartographers don't exactly focus on Oman.

"Do they have money, Larry?" Mom asks.

Allison and I continue looking for Oman.

"Are you kidding? Huge oil money. Huge."

"I can't find it," I say.

"Me neither," Allison says.

We get out the Atlas, find Oman. It's easier to see Oman on the page than the globe. The country borders Saudi Arabia, UAE, and Yemen.

That night at dinner, Mom asks about security. There is no U.S. embassy in Oman, so Dad and the other Americans will register with the British embassy. Mom doesn't love hearing that, but something else really makes her nervous.

"Larry, you're going to be the only Jew in the country."

"No," Dad says. "I'm going to be one of two Jews in the country. One of the producers is Jewish."

Dad actually finds this funny, Mom not so much. Of course, Dad has done shows in dangerous places before. USO shows with Bob Hope in Vietnam and Beirut, for instance. So, Dad doesn't see any reason to be nervous. Even at that age, I had a rough idea that Dad got a little tickled whenever Mom felt nervous.

"Linda, they're not going to let anything happen to us," Dad says. "This show is a really big deal for them. The Sultan wants to impress his friends. That's why they hired a first-class international team."

Mom doesn't buy it. She doesn't trust the Sultan as far as she can throw him. But her real concern is that some terrorist group that doesn't like the Sultan, or the idea of Westerners in Oman, or Jews in general, will try something.

"Just don't tell anyone you're Jewish, Larry."

"Linda, they know I'm Jewish. I'll be fine."

Dad spends the next few weeks in pre-production meetings and trying to figure out how to ship gear halfway around the world. Then, he leaves for the next four months.

Long trips like this were common for Dad. But he always figured out a way for us to talk on the phone every day—a ridiculous luxury in the 1980s.

For the Oman trip, Dad worked it so that he'd call us every day from the production office. I can't remember what the local time was for Dad, but the calls reached Allison and me in the middle of the school day. Thankfully, our elementary school was run by a woman who was both fantastic educator and a very understanding human. Each day that semester, Allison and I would leave class, go to the principal's office, and talk to our dad on the phone.

Our conversations were probably all mundane stuff. I told Dad about playing sports with my friends, whatever book I was reading, and a million other things. He told me that the Sultan was so wealthy that he had Baskin-Robbins ice cream flown in three times a week. He also told me that the labor force was mostly immigrants from Pakistan. The Pakistanis would lug heavy gear through the sand on their backs. They made flatbread every morning and asked Dad to join them for breakfast.

"The bread is so fresh and delicious, Michael. And the Pakistanis are very friendly.”

I wish I could remember more details from those calls, but mostly I remember thinking Dad was right there in the thick of my life. I missed him, of course, but it was sort of normal for our family for him to be away for long stretches. I know that horrifies some folks, but what can I say? Thanks to Dad, the Estrin family learned how to hack the whole social distancing thing way before it was fashionable.

Anyway, time goes by. Allison and I lose teeth, make new friends, and do all the things kids our age do. Dad knows every detail of your lives by heart. Fifteen minutes per day doesn't sound like much, but when it's just a father and his kid on the phone, the distance and time can work to your advantage in ways that maybe aren't so obvious when you take proximity for granted.

Then, one day Dad calls the house. It's late at night, but he asks Mom to wake us up. The show was a huge hit. Dad is over the moon. It's what I call a Larry high. No drugs, no booze. Just a pure rush of FUCKING-A AWESOME SAUCE that accompanies the end of a perfect live show. Because a show is a thing didn't exist before, then a group of talented and eccentric people work their asses off to will it into existence, then it unfolds, like magic, in front of the audience's eyes. One show only. A once in a lifetime experience.

Dad tells us all about the show. Thousands of dancers and performers. Fireworks. Lights and music. It's a big show, like the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, except it lasts for days, with parties all over the country. But it's also a birthday party for one man, so in my head I picture flights of 747 airplanes landing at some desert airport, offloading pallets of ice cream.

About a week later, Dad returns home. It's a long flight, but he's still on a high from the show, and he's thrilled to see us. We go to Jerry's deli, because this is what we usually do when we pick Dad up from LAX. For one thing, Jerry’s is open 24 hours a day. Also, it’s tough to get Jewish deli in places like Oman.

"So, listen," Dad says, a giant brisket sandwich on the plate in front of him. "The Omanis were really happy with us, and they're giving us all bonuses."

Bonuses? In Dad's line of work bonuses are unheard of. It's more common, sadly, for the client to stiff you on final payment, but that's another story.

"They lined up the senior members of the production staff," Dad explains. "And the Sultan comes to see us. He wants to thank us for a job well done. And he says, we can each have one gift."

Allison and I are in awe. A Sultan—whatever that is—talking to our dad. Mom is skeptical.

"What did you say, Larry?"

"Well, everyone said that it wasn't necessary. But the Sultan insisted. I think everyone felt weird asking. So, the Sultan started by telling the two executive producers that they'd get new BMWs."

"What?" Mom asks.

"Yeah. Seven series."

"Are we getting a new car?" Allison asks.

"I get the BMW," Mom says.

"I didn't want the car," Dad says. "Anyway, other people got top-of-the-line Rolex watches. Or cash. Ten grand."

"Tell me you took the cash, Larry."

"No," Dad says.

"Oh god," Mom says.

"So, I went last. And the Sultan comes up to me. And he tells me the sound was perfect. Then he asks what I would like."

"What. Did. You. Tell. Him."

"Well, I told him that he had a beautiful country and that they really made me feel welcome, like an honored guest."

I can tell Dad is rubbing it in, teasing Mom a little about her fear that something bad would happen to him.

"All of this true,” Dad says. “I got to see the whole country, because we setup satellite shows all over the place. And I really did have a great time there. Maybe the other people didn't feel that way, but I loved Oman. My only regret is that you guys weren't with me."

"And?" Mom asks. "What is the bonus, Larry."

"I told the Sultan that it was my dream to have my son’s Bar Mitzvah in Oman.”

“Oy,” Allison says.

“What?” Mom asks. “Don’t be an idiot, Larry. What did you really tell him?”

“I told him I wanted to have Michael Bar Mitzvah in Oman.”

“Larry, I’m surprised he didn’t have you killed,” Mom says.

“The Sultan roared with laughter. Then he said, you shall have your wish.”

“Am I having my Bar Mitzvah in Oman?”

“No,” Mom says.

“Maybe,” Dad says. “It’s certainly an option. I’ll talk to the Rabbi.”

“So, you didn’t get anything, Larry?”

“No,” Dad says. “I got this.”

Dad takes out his passport and a piece of paper that looks like an official Omani government document.

“What the hell is that?” Mom asks.

“It’s a certificate of non-objection,” Dad beams.

“Huh?”

“It means that for the rest of my life, all Persian Gulf nations have to let me in without a visa.”

“Larry, I think you fucked up,” Mom says. “What about the money, the BMW, the Rolex?”

“This is better,” Dad says. “I’m the only one who got this. I’m an honored guest.”

Dad tells this story for years. Every time he tells it, Dad laughs just a little harder at the punchline. Mom shakes her head at Dad’s costly joke.

---

A few years pass. Dad joins Bob Hope for a USO tour to entertain the troops serving in Operation Desert Shield.

They land in Saudi Arabia in the middle of the night. It’ll take 24 hours to process everyone’s visa, so the crew is ordered to stay in their rooms at a hotel in Riyadh.

“Fine by everyone,” Dad later explains. “We’re exhausted. It’s not easy to sleep on a noisy C-130 all the way to Saudi Arabia.”

But one member of the team isn’t happy—Bob Hope. He wants to go out, get something to eat, do some shopping.

“Bob is in the lobby,” Dad says. “He’s yelling at an American colonel and a Saudi colonel. They are telling him there’s zero chance anyone leaves the hotel in the next 24 hours. Bob is yelling like you wouldn’t believe. He’s telling them that he wants to yell at some generals.”

Dad shrugs and goes to his room.

“Half-hour later, there’s a knock at the door,” Dad says. “It’s a Saudi officer in full dress uniform. I’m talking dressed to the nines. And he’s apologizing—to me! ‘Mr. Estrin, we’re so sorry we made a terrible mistake. You do not need to wait for a visa. Please accept our apologies. We have a car and driver for you. Anywhere you want to go. You are our honored guest.’”

At this point in the telling, Dad beams. He was known for his shit-eating grins, but the grin that accompanies this narrative beat is the shit-eating grin of a man who has waited YEARS for a joke to pay off. This is the mother of all shit-eating grins.

“Certificate of non-objection,” Dad explains. “So, I get dressed and go downstairs. Bob is now yelling at some generals, but the answer is still no. Well, it’s no for everyone else, but not for me. I’m an honored guest! So, I walk over to Bob so he sees me, and I wave goodbye.”

Bob Hope blows a gasket.

“‘How come my sound man gets to leave, and I don’t?’ Bob wants to know.”

Dad explains the situation to Bob. Yes, Bob Hope is comedy royalty. He is the headliner for the USO’s biggest show. He personifies USO shows in the 20th century. But Bob Hope is not an honored guest, as far as the Gulf states are concerned.

“But Larry is Jewish,” Bob Hope deadpans.

The American military people look nervous. The Saudi military people don’t seem to care. Only Bob and Larry laugh. Then Dad leaves Bob behind in the lobby to yell at the generals some more.

“Where did you go?” I asked Dad once.

“What do I know about Riyadh? I asked them to give me the grand tour, and so they did. It was fabulous. I got to see the whole city, had a lovely meal, and did some shopping.”

“What about Bob?”

“He had to stay in the hotel.”

“But was he pissed?”

“Yeah, a little. But not really. Not at me, anyway. The whole time we were there he kept talking about how the Saudis love his Jewish sound man for some reason. It became a running gag of sorts.”

“I don’t get it. What was the fun of eating and shopping alone?”

“Michael, how often do you get a military escort to go anywhere you want to go in Saudi Arabia?”

“I don’t know. For most people, probably never.”

“Exactly,” Dad said. “Life’s too short to pass on a good opportunity Michael. You make your fun wherever you find it.”