I unearthed a plastic storage container from my closet with some childhood items in it
One of the items is a book I don't remember reading or buying.
The book has a bunch of short stories written in a southern affect.
It seems extremely shitty.
Hidden in the pages of the book was a knife.
So the book isn't so shitty, I guess.
The knife has a serrated edge.
There is a heaviness in it.
Manufactured in Oregon by a company named Gerber.
A triple x (XXX) stamp is on one side of the blade near the hilt.
The last time I carried this thing I was a teenager.
And homeless.
I stole it from a friend.
I felt really bad when I did that.
The kid's name was Wally.
He was the child of divorced parents.
His father owned a business reconstituting pallets.
His mother had large breasts, red hair and missing teeth.
She rarely left her bedroom.
Both were heroin junkies.
I remember one day I stopped by his mother's house in SE Portland.
Tired from walking on the streets.
Just wanting to sleep.
Wally was there smoking weed like he always was.
I think we were both 15 at the time.
He was really excited about something and wanted to show me what it was.
There was a large leather binder resting near his bong.
He opened it.
Inside were 14 knives.
All different styles and shapes lining both sleeves.
They were shiny all in their own right.
A skinhead friend had stolen them from a job site Wally told me.
I asked if I could have a knife.
"No."
He needed them he said.
The binder was closed.
His mother's weak voice came from behind a bedroom door.
She sounded like she hadn't slept in days.
Wally disappeared for a few minutes.
During this time I opened the binder again.
Out of the many I selected the least desirable.
And placed it in my right pocket with the tip pointing upwards.
The silver tab jeans I wore had accomodating pockets.
They were useful for stealing supermarket food and krylon cans.
Something I did frequently during those times.
I closed the binder just before Wally returned.
He said his mother wasn't feeling well and that I should leave.
I was really worried he would suddenly feel nostalgic and inspect the knives again.
He let me take a lungful of medicated smoke instead of saying goodbye.
I walked outside without a known destination
The rain broke my high.
I fell asleep in a park with my back against a handball court.
The knife clutched in my fist.
I still feel bad for taking the weapon.
But feel grateful for having it now.
I think I'll need to carry it once more.
Maybe soon.
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