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A knife is a simple device. A few inches of steel - one edge sharp, one blunt.
Perhaps the division of these sides reveals its sole purpose. On January 4, 1991, after cutting though
some grade C steak in the meal hall, one such knife cut through my cellmate. From that moment,
I was cut off from any human contact.
Needless to say, I did not look forward to a new roommate. When the door clanked open and those shiny new prison shoes trudged in, I looked up to see a scarred face, worn-out like an old knapsack. "Hey," I mumbled, not even smiling. |
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"Hello, I'm Harry." The man stretched out a huge, muscular hand.
"There's your bunk," I said. "What're you in for?" "Strangling my doctor." I flung my arms wide. "Me, too! Orthopedic Surgeon?" "No, Podiatrist." I felt stymied. My hands tensed, but then it occurred to me: "Same difference." From that day on, I made Harry feel at home, and we soon found that we shared similar tastes in dogs, Yanni, and places to ditch bodies. So it is: a knife divides; strangle wire binds. |
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