The Work We Choose

Short Story

I had been carving wood for a few months. It wasn’t so much a decision but an urge. It began as a soft pulse in my back mind to hold that knife, so I did. For a month or two I held that knife every morning at 6 am. I eventually came to know my knife intimately. I would pick up its wooden handle and caress it. I knew that the right side had a little rust around the screw that held the pieces of wood on each side of the blade together. I learned how it smelled and memorized the weight of it. In short, I learned to love that knife.

Then, one morning, I woke up with the growing urge to use the knife on wood. I just needed to know how it felt to dig that blade deep into wood. I had to know how it felt to cut, shape, and mold it into anything I wanted. Mostly, I just needed to slice into something dense. I went out and searched ‘til I found the perfect piece of wood. It was a nice cedar, not too heavy; a very smooth, and pretty plank. It smelled like hot summers in my parents’ living room. That made me happy, so I took it inside. I paid close attention to the way it banged against the knife in my pocket, and how the blade felt cold and heavy against my skin even through my shorts.

I didn’t eat lunch that Saturday. Cutting into that wood erased any other thought from my mind. I felt possessed and fell deep into a frenzy. It was like biting into a peach at peak ripeness. I dug in, scraping and shaping for hours. It was like prayer, church, sex, and happiness. By Sunday I had carved a very pathetic hand. I rubbed my own hand against it in awe; I had created something!

On Monday at work, I thought about the knife and the hand all day. Each click on my keyboard was too light and easy—nothing like working that knife into that wood. The typing was repetitive too, but in all the wrong ways. Keyboards, for one, are in no way as satisfying to caress as knives. Take my word for it or try it yourself. There’s no cold sharp edge balanced by a dull edge, wrapped in beautiful wood. Secondly, I couldn’t use a keyboard to cut anything. So, I watched the clock closely leg shaking… 4:58, 4:59, 5:00, and ran out of that office straight home to my knife.

The next day I carried it in my pocket. I had to, you understand, or I just wouldn’t get any work done. I sat at my desk again, but this time, between emails, meetings, task, after task, I could press my palm into my pocket and feel all the hard edges and curves of my knife. It was a relief to know that it was there, that I could create or destroy on demand. Sometimes I snuck into the bathroom and ran the edge along my palm applying just enough pressure to remind myself of the power of it all.

At home, I had been working on several small pieces all significantly better than my first pathetic hand that I had created. There was a spatula, a very shallow bowl (I had placed in my kitchen and filled with fruits), a cup (I had placed in my bathroom for my toothbrush), a cross (I made for my dad and put on his grave), and a heart (I had put on my mother’s grave). On the day I visited their graves, I brought the knife too. I think my dad would’ve liked it. He enjoyed working with his hands too and had fixed my car on more than one occasion. While I sat in the garage, on one of his steel stools inhaling the smell of old iron, he droned on and on about things we do for passion and things we do because.

“Work? Work is all a damn scam.”

“You’re only saying that cuz you’re retired and sit on your fat butt all day Dad.”

“Ask your mom she’ll say the same thing, I swear it. It’s like one day you’re working and one day you’re done, and all you have to show for it is a pension and a black hole of missing time in the middle of your life.”

“And a house, and a car --or two in you guys' case, and stocks, and a kid you could provide for, and—”

“And if you don’t shut your mouth I’ll pop you with my oil-stained hands.”

“Ha! That’s cuz I’m right Dad, just admit it!”

“You don’t see it now cuz you’re green and are just happy to be making money, but one day you’ll wake up and feel the urge to do more than hoard money. One day you’ll see.”

“Yeaaahhhhh I’ll be sad in my house with my car and no impending debt. Later old man. I’m going to see what mom has cooking.”

“Uh huh, you’ll see.”

I think about that conversation now, sitting in my car, pressing my hand on the pocket that nestled my knife. I think about going to work. I debate myself on wasting another 8 hours not shaping wood, a debate I know I’ll lose and is futile, but I do it anyway. I send my boss an email something about some sickness and me being out for a few days. I find myself back home in my warm garage with my wood, and my knife whitling and loving it. My hands get numb, but I don't stop. Until the next morning, I carve and carve until I have created the most meticulous and realistic copy of the knife in my hand. It’s so beautiful that I want to use it for real. I want to see if it’s real.

I go into the kitchen and take a banana out of my whittled bowl. Slide my new wooden knife through it and it’s like I’m cutting butter. I lick the banana off the wooden knife and it tastes the way soup tastes in the cold; like a deep and necessary warmth. It tastes like earth, banana pudding, and the warmth of wood. I take an apple out of my whittled bowl and slice through it too. I meet no resistance! I realized then that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s breakfast! I am honestly starving. I swallow the banana. I swallow the apple too, covered in peanut butter that I take every opportunity to smother with my new wooden knife. When I’m done I stare at the knife covered in peanut butter. I lick the flat side. I stick the whole thing in my mouth. I need to taste the wood and peanut butter. It’s sticky and warm and tastes faintly of copper. I pull the knife out and it’s red. I feel my mouth getting filled with warm liquid. I’ve cut my tongue but feel no pain.

My wood is special. It must be, to cut through fruit, skin, and muscle.

And just like I felt the urge to hold that knife, and just like I felt the urge to carve the wood I feel the growing urge to see if my knife can cut through bone. I say “no”. I think “no”, but I press the knife against my palm dragging it slowly to the base of my fingers. I apply a little pressure like sitting at work typing on the keyboards. I apply more pressure like impending deadlines. I repeat the motion like going to work Monday to Friday only this has consequences; this has a thrill. In this I have power. I stop thinking now and pay attention to the action. I bring the knife close to my nose and smell the smell of wood, and peanut butter, and blood, and fear, and power—urgency. My palms make it a little wet so I squeeze it tight and drag it a little harder across the base of my fingers. I don’t think anymore. I need it.

I need to know if I really created this thing so sharp. So I chop a finger, then two, then three, then four, and still feel nothing but awe and yes I am bleeding, but mostly I am staring at my knife. It can cut anything! I have made a knife of wood that can cut bone! With my own two hands, I carved until I created. I cut my thumb off too in disbelief and to check that it was true. I giggle. There’s no fucking way this is happening, but it is. I slide my slipper off and chop off a toe too. Then three more. I look at the knife changing color from soaking up the blood. It’s the most beautiful thing I have seen. I think about texting my boss that I’ll be out of work longer than expected but my good hand is holding the knife and I can’t be bothered to let it go. I stay there on the kitchen floor whittling away at myself until my head feels light. I hold onto the knife though or at least I think I do. I need to feel the power and somehow I know that if I let go of my creation I will feel the pain of the cut toes and fingers.

My wood is special, it must be to cut through bone and life. I wonder if I carve a clock will it be special too?

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I wrote this piece in January of 2018! I still remember sitting in my cubicle when the idea struck me. I would’ve much rather be writing stories than writing emails. This piece is essentially about choosing to write (the knife and carving) rather than choosing the mundane soul-sucking monotony of work. Yes, even choosing it at the risk of self-harm/sabotage like losing the ability to pay bills etc. I still would rather write stories than emails but I’ve reached a much better place with my relationships with work. It has taken a perspective shift from “ugh I hate doing this” to “this is a means to an end” (remind me to revisit this). Anyway, I’m sure many of you can relate and I urge you to read the piece again with this knowledge in mind.

TELL ME:
What feelings did this story evoke? What did you originally think the story was about? Is there a particular scene that stood out to you? Is there anything you’d like to know about the character or something you wish was flushed out?

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As usual tune in next Tuesday for my next newsletter.

Read some of my other pieces here:

1. Smiling With No Teeth
2. The Angry Black Woman Deserves to Rage
3. Humbleness Is A Luxury I Can't Afford
4. Black Business: Blackness, Rejection, and How Wealth & Whiteness Works Against You Because It Worked For You
5. Love Can Be Quiet Too

BIG UP:

Jamal Robinson

for featuring my work recently including this piece. Worth a read for gentle reminders and thoughts about life.

READ:

Stanley Fritz

timely and relevant take on rap beef and the way women are used like plot devices instead of people here.