19: Magical realism
I’m proud of this one. It could almost work as standalone flash fic.
Magical realism
In the summer between high school and college, I found myself fused to a paring knife. I was supposed to be selling the knife, or other units of this model; mine was provided as a sample for in-home demonstrations. More accurately, I paid a deposit on it; in fact I bought it from my employer at a discount.
My sales pitch was ninety minutes. It incorporated the six demonstration knives, a piece of rope (provided by the company), a carrot or other hard vegetable (provided by the customer), and a penny (provided by me). It won me zero customers. My manager blamed this on its length. In my view, omitting any part of the pitch could only weaken it. I changed nothing. I continued to sell no knives.
I was presenting to Mrs. Carotid, the school receptionist, when the issue began. I finished peeling a carrot and went to put down my knife, and realized I could not.
At first I believed my hand was just resisting the command. I shook it, spooking Mrs. Carotid as the knife flicked through the air between us. But it was stuck fast.
With Mrs. Carotid’s help, I wrapped the knife in a tea towel and duct taped it firm. I drove home slowly. When I woke the next morning with the knife still attached, I gave up and showed my mom. I’d already memorized a pitch: Let’s see this as a blessing. Maybe this was my calling — maybe (although I knew not to put it to her this way) I was the next step in transhuman evolution. Mom took me to the doctor.
Dr. Ness said she was fine with her current brand of knives, thank you, and as for my situation, it was best to avoid escalating intervention. Try alternating ice packs and heat packs, and call back if the issue hadn’t resolved itself by September. Why waste the co-pays?
The fusion didn’t impress my sales prospects, and my leads dried up in August. At home, my family role became increasingly lacerational. I was useful in the kitchen and, more off-label, in my father’s basement workshop, where he ran a growing small business end-milling machine parts for local shops and inventors. In this way we tried to carry on as normal.
But in late August, as she drove me to the airport for a church missions trip, Mom brought up the knife. We’d played a silent game of chicken, me assuming I’d have the knife forever, her assuming that by now I’d let it go. “How will this look to some poor church in Mexico? How will we even get you on the plane with it?”
“I can’t just rip it off, Mom,” I sneered. “It’s part of me. It’s my best part.” I uncovered the knife and waved my arm to demonstrate. The knife caught in the seatbelt mechanism, and when I pulled away, it slid across my palm and fell into the pocket on the passenger door.
Mercifully, my new wound proved superficial, and cleaning it up proved easier (presumably) than getting a knife-hand through airport security. I arrived in Mexico with three bandaids across my palm.
I never thought to ask after the paring knife until November, when I came home from college to find my mom wielding it on a block of cheddar. I was horrified, but I quickly realized what she’d already guessed: to anyone but me, it was no potential cyborg addendum. It was just another kitchen tool. Although not really one intended for cutting hard cheese.
“Mom,” I teased, “I could sell you a better knife for that.”
I’m a cringe meme nerd so I’m used to watching 500 versions of a thing. Anyway there’s a meme called “Dr. Livesey Walk,” starring this character from a Russian adaptation of Treasure Island, set to the phonk song “Why Not” by Ghostface Playa. Here is a compilation of 55 versions of the meme.
I’m happy to see, a decade after I stopped paying attention, that people still spend way too much time mapping every dumb part of pop culture onto every other part. It’s a lowbrow art, but it’s an art, and an exercise.