People look at me strangely sometimes and I’m never quite sure why.
If you needed to move a mattress and the strongest part of your body was your neck, why wouldn’t you carry it on your head? If the abnormally elongated stairs near Henle don’t match your gait, why wouldn’t you walk on the railing? If you need to carry groceries but your arms get tired, why not hang the bags on your belt? I feel as if I am always doing such very logical things, but they always prompt snickers and strange looks.
One case in point is a small pocket-knife that never leaves my right pocket. I’m always using it to clean my fingernails, open packages, pry things open and assemble Ikea furniture, among a million other uses.
I use it several times a day and people borrow it from me all the time. So why doesn’t anybody else carry one? Why am I the only guy who whips out his lock-blade to clean the Taco Bell out from under his fingernails after lunch? Why do people stare at me when I do it?
The problem, I think, is that people view knives as weapons before tools; there is this stigma attached to them. The second someone sees you pull that thing out there is fear in their eyes.
“Why would anyone carry that except to hurt somebody?” they think, overlooking the fact that I am proffering it as they struggle to open a tightly sealed plastic package with safety scissors. People carry knives because they’re useful, but for some reason, possession of a knife is socially unacceptable.
In most cities you can simply ignore this stigma and continue carrying your knife for convenience and utility, but in D.C., the taboo is institutionalized.
The District, for knife owners, is like airport security on crack. Every museum, every federal building and half of the schools have metal detectors, and you can bet that they’ll take your knife away in a New York minute. With a good knife costing up to 60 bucks a pop, forgetting to leave your blade at home can get pricey fast.
I went through a few knives freshman year that way, but, being imminently practical, I had an epiphany one day outside the Capitol Building as I approached a kiosk near the entrance. Why not hide the knife outside!
Without a moment’s hesitation I dropped to my knees beside a flower bed and started digging furiously, depending upon the wide stances of my visiting parents to veil my efforts from the security guard. As I pulled the blade from my pocket and let it tumble into its temporary hole I made a mental note of its location: three inches from of the No-Loitering sign, towards the petunias.
Satisfied, I covered the hole, brushed the dirt from my hands and enjoyed a fascinating tour of the U.S. Capitol building, secure in the knowledge that my knife was safe. Unfortunately, I had not realized that the tour ends at the far side of the building, several blocks away. Since my parents had a lot to see and do in their short weekend, I had no choice but to leave it behind.
I tried living without it for a few days, to see how the other half live, but after a week or so I couldn’t take it anymore. I stole my roommates’ decrepit bike and headed for the Capitol, reaching the half-way point just as rain started to fall from the cloudy sky.
By the time I reached the kiosk I was exhausted and miserable. I wearily pedaled up to the No-Loitering sign, dismounted and started digging. As the security guard looked on, dry and warm with a rain slicker on his back and a coffee in his hand, I pushed aside the petunias and retrieved the shining metallic object from the flower bed. As I pushed the dirt back over the hole, I looked over at him and grinned before I got back on the bike and pedaled away into the city.
Since then I’ve had better luck hiding it under mobile signs and blocks of pavement than burying it, but sometimes I forget where I left it and have to lift up several signs before I find it. The guards never say anything; I like to think that it’s because they know I’m just trying to hold onto my trusty pocketknife.
Since I forgot it last week it has been underneath the bike rack in front of the Metropolitan Police Department; I haven’t had a chance to go back and get it yet. Anybody willing to walk up to the front door of the police department and search for a concealed weapon is welcome to it. In fact, I’d recommend it to anyone who doesn’t already own one, you might find it useful, even if it is strange.
After all, what if you were on a boat and the mast fell into the water? When the captain yells for you to cut the line and you’re standing there with just your keys in your hand? You’ll feel an awful fool.
