It’s okay. You’ve got
lives of your own and have no need to remember stories I wrote months ago. (Though it would be very flattering if you
did.) (On the other hand, ask me what blog
post I wrote yesterday, and there would be an extended pause before I remember. Sometimes infinitely
extended. I’d have to actually go back and
look it up.)
Okay, so a reminder.
My bodywork specialist whom I colorfully though not
inaccurately call “The Horse Doctor” – because he works three days a week on
people and three days a week on horses – claims – and I am not prepared to
dispute his assertion, as he was a former police officer and has the
physiognomy of a linebacker – he claims he has a personal collection of more
than eight hundred knives.
(He also has a stash of collectible pens. Believing, he explains, that in case the pen
turns out not to be mightier than the
sword, he can always resort to the knives.
I was about to say “fall back
on the knives” but the wording sounded precariously dangerous.)
Anyway…
While he was working on me one day, trying to unknot the
consequences of longtime postural deficiencies, I mentioned meekly that I myself
have one knife. (Not counting the ones in our silverware
drawer.) My single knife is a Standard
Issue Marine “K-Bar” knife which, when I worked on Major Dad, was given to me by its star Gerald McRaney as a
Christmas present. (Mounted on a
plaque. The man didn’t just hand me a
knife and say, “Merry Christmas.”)
I mentioned to “The Horse Doctor” that once, when I was
twelve, my Uncle Irving, per my insistent request, had given me a Bowie Knife
for my birthday. But it was
disappointing because it was too small – it seemed to me like a “Bowie
Knifette”. I had seen the genuine article,
or at least its representational replica on The
Adventures of Jim Bowie (1956-58) TV series. I still remember the theme song:
“Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie…
He was a bold,
adventurin’ man
Jim B…
Ah, never mind.
The original Bowie Knife was a weapon of gargantuan
proportions.
Why did I need a weapon of gargantuan proportions? I didn’t.
The knife would primarily come into service at camp, cutting, debarking
and sharpening the points of
hot dog and marshmallow sticks. Otherwise, I would just look at it. Maybe wave it around a little when I was
alone. Though I did none of that with the embarrassing “Mini-Bowie.” I just put it in a drawer.
“The Horse Doctor” revealed that he had an actual-sized
Bowie Knife, and, triggering an involuntary shiver, he abruptly promised to
give it to me.
Months passed, and he forgot. (Which is what the original post on the
subject was about – controlling my anticipation of a bestowment that might
never arrive.
A couple of visits ago, I tangentially – and manipulatively
– broached the subject. I mean, it’s not
right to say, “Remember that Bowie Knife you promised to give me? Well where the heck is it?”
And yet, gul darnit, I really wanted that knife!
What I did instead was, a
propos of I no longer remember what, I said,
“You said you were going to show me your Bowie Knife.”
Do see the “sneaky” part there? Well, it worked! The “Horse Doctor” immediately jumped to the
bait, replying,
“I was going to give
it to you.”
And on my following visit, he did.
It was magnificent. A
real Bowie Knife beauty.
A wide nine-inch blade (I measured it later), polished
hardwood handle, made of Damascus steel, an alloy meant to both hold its edge
and not easily shatter.
I held it in my hand, and I immediately began singing.
“Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie…
He was a…
You get the idea.
I thanked “The Horse Doctor” profusely. I was in “pig sticker” heaven.
The question now was,
“How do I get it home?”
My thoughts run immediately to 1981 when I announced that I
would be visiting a Best of the West
actor who was in the hospital, and my boss handed me a brown paper bag full of
marijuana and told me to take it to him.
Despite enormous peer pressure to fulfill this “harmless
request”, I adamantly refused to do so. At
that time, I was not a citizen, just
a “Resident Alien”, and being caught transporting marijuana meant immediate
deportation back to Canada, where, for a number of reasons, I was not excited
to wind up.
As with carrying illegal contraband in my car, I was certain
being caught with a knife with a nine-inch blade in public would cause
difficulties should I encounter the constabulary.
“Your brake light is out, and… wait! What’s that in the passenger seat?”
Not that I feared he would take me for a mass murderer. For practical reasons, among mass murderers,
knives are rarely, if ever, their personal “Weapon of Choice.”
“Am I going to be next?”
“Just as soon as I pull it out of this guy.”
But still, a man driving around with a nine-inch-long Bowie
Knife…
“The Horse Doctor” had sensibly delivered it in a plastic
bag. I was not entirely certain if that
was worse. Is a knife in a bag
considered a “concealed weapon”?
I drove carefully, though not inordinately slowly, not
wanting to draw unnecessary attention to myself. And, consequently, to the “thing.”
But I kept looking at it, eager to enjoy its curvaceous
company as soon as I could. (A
traditional Bowie Knife has a curved blade at the bottom, and for the first half
or so of it, the top edge of it’s
curved into a blade as well. As a result,
if it is required, you can simultaneously cut both upwards and downwards. This, in its day, was a game-changing
innovation. It was the “Clip-on Bowtie”
of knives.)
At every stoplight, I had to battle my impulse to take it
out. But I couldn’t. What if the driver beside me looked in
through the window and reported me.
“Yeah, there’s this guy with a giant knife driving beside
me. I just thought you ought to know.”
I did not want anyone to see me with that knife. And then, this revelation suddenly hit me:
I did!
I mean, what’s the use of having a Bowie Knife if nobody
knows you’ve got it?
My struggle was not about keeping others from seeing my
Bowie Knife. It was in preventing myself
from showing it to them!
“Look what I got!”
And I have to tell you.
I had to fight really hard to prevail.
I counted the number of streets left till I was home. Then the number of blocks. Then the number of houses.
Finally, I turned into my driveway…
And I could breathe.
Right now, my long-anticipated Bowie Knife rests in its pristine
leather scabbard just a couple of feet behind me. I have to stop writing now.
And go play with it, and sing.
I am not a dangerous person.
But, God help me, I am enthralled by exquisitely tooled
weaponry.
Oh, and fire.
2 comments:
If you were stopped by the police you could say that it was not yours and you were holding it for someone. I understand that always works.
It's not illegal to carry one of those in California, though, is it? The UK, however, has very strict laws about carrying knives of any size. It's a thing. I guess because there aren't enough guns to worry about.
wg
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