I remember making a deal with the poet Eric J Priestley about publishing his work in a small press edition and we ended up agreeing after some negotiation in Elysian Park where we had a knife-throwing contest. Rico’s knife kept sticking in the tree and he was his happy kid self. My bone handled double-blade pocketknife that Paul Jondreau gave me kept bouncing off the bark.
I still own though I do not carry a slim Case stainless steel knife that I bought back in the early ‘70s for agricultural work. Its blade is thin and slightly angled when opened. Good for cutting rope like a stevedore’s blade though not as crooked. I used it for opening potato sacks but it was never intended for throwing. It’s more like a straight edge razor and will stick in a target if balanced well in the hand. Though I now find it a little too obvious to heft around in my dress pants pocket.
They say never bring a knife to a gunfight but I got no gat and I like the compact penknife I got from Paul. A little weight along with my pocket change gives me at least something secure to hold onto other than my dick when faced with danger. I’ve always carried a knife for utility and the merest protection ever since I was in the Boy Scouts—mostly as a tool yet definitely as a weapon of last resort. But then I’m so old-school that I once took up fencing as if a duel of rapiers would settle a score. If it comes down to a fight to the death I’m realistic enough to understand my chances of surviving overwhelming force are extremely limited. Especially caught unawares and incautious. The best offense in such situations is a well-developed sense of defense. But if you have to fight for your life you fight to the death.
Rico reminded me that the gangs that cruise L.A. these days don’t face off mano a mano. Not like the old days. They’re cowards he tells me. Today they do drive-bys and it doesn’t matter who is in the line of fire. Bang bang bang it’s automatic you’re dead whoever you are: infant child teenager adult or elder. How do you defend yourself against that kind of random violence?
I’m reminded of the old saw well known among the gangster class: Never sit in a public space with your back to the door. And if they start shooting hit the ground below the line of fire. I’m not sensing that there’s an assassination in the cards for me. Or that I walk the streets in fear of killers. Just to say that in all cases a keen street sense is the best defense. Knife or no knife—or gun for that matter—fear is an open invitation to attack—vulnerability measured by some instinctual calculus by the predator towards the prey.
What little advice I’ve offered you I hope will be of benefit. A forthcoming treatise will concern the handling of hostile literary criticism.
[photo by Elise Rodriguez]
