When the Pocketknife Leaves, it Rarely Returns

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comThe recliner finally gave me back my pocket knife.

I exclaimed when I saw it on the floor next to the back chair leg.

I had been convinced the whole time it was somewhere in there amidst the frame, the springs and other parts that make up a chair.

I had searched for it everywhere my hand would fit, but I never could retrieve it.

Then weeks later out of nowhere, poof. There it was.

I still carry a pocketknife just about all the time. I guess it’s a holdover from my fairly rural upbringing.

I have a few old ones and some that have never seen the inside of a pocket.

My collection would be bigger if it weren’t for my uncanny ability to lose them.

Here are three examples.

Several years ago, we tagged along with Grant to Florida on a group diving trip. During the course of the day, my pants pocket developed a hole and my knife fell out. It was a beautiful knife and almost new. I was crushed.

After we got home, however, I got wind that someone else on the trip found it. I was able to get his phone number, and I called him.

As unbelievable as it sounds, he said he might remember finding it.

Come on, Bubba. I think you remember whether you found a pocketknife or not.

And then, he said he thought he remembered tossing it in his toolbox. He would look for it and let me know if he found it.

Click.

Example No. 2 was my own fault.

I was building a deck at our house. I don’t remember why I had my knife out in the first place, but I did.

Soon after I had finished the project, I realized it was missing.

So, what looked like a brand new deck only seconds before now looked like a structure where one entombs a knife.

I’m not sure how I managed to lay it down then nail a bunch of boards on top of it, but I did.

For the last one, let’s jump in the way-back machine to 1984.

Kim and I had tickets to the Jacksons concert in Neyland Stadium.

In the days leading up to the show, some nut job, somewhere, had threatened Michael or maybe the whole family. I don’t remember.

As a result, security was tightened, and the security guard wouldn’t let me take in my pocketknife.

I scoured the concourse area of the stadium trying to find a hiding place for it. It had a significant amount of sentimental value. It was my first knife, plus my uncle had given it to me.

I walked around and surveyed the criss-crossed I-beam skeleton until I found what I thought would be a good hiding place.

When I got closer, I realized it must have in fact been a great hiding place, because someone else had already hidden their knife there.

Yes, of course I put my knife right next to it, and the word naiveté was forever redefined.

That was a long time ago, and I’m more streetwise now. 

Maybe I’m getting better at keeping up with them as well. Not counting the recliner incident, I haven’t lost one in a while now.

Of course, as long as pockets have holes and the world has crooks, there is always a chance.

About Barry Currin

Barry tries to be funny and poignant, and he's usually satisfied when he succeeds with one or the other. (Being both is awesome. And sometimes that happens.) Email him: currin01@gmail.com

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