A Sharp Knife Is Safer 2: Timeline
As I mentioned last week, this year I’m writing 100 versions of the same story. I’ve done about a dozen so far. As a refresher, here’s the original:
Minimum viable product
In the summer between high school and college, I sold kitchen knives from a catalog. I couldn’t convince people to buy much, but I did convince myself these were the best knives at any price. I did get my mom to order a jackknife for my dad’s birthday. It came in the mail; the package was in the car as my mom drove me to the airport for a church missions trip. In the passenger seat I opened up the knife to demonstrate the safety mechanism, and in the attempt I sliced open my palm. Next summer I sold donuts from behind a counter.
And here’s this week’s version:
Timeline
In the spring of 2006, I graduated from high school. In the summer, I sold knives in people’s homes. Typically: In the morning I looked up driving directions on MapQuest. On the way, I got lost. A half hour after the scheduled time, I arrived. I apologized.
For the next ninety minutes, I sold the knives: I praised their patented ergonomic handle. I praised their patented stay-sharp edge. I demonstrated with a rope. I demonstrated with a carrot. I sometimes demonstrated with a penny but this was challenging and often counterproductive.
I finished my pitch. I asked if the listener wanted to buy the knives. I named the prices. They gasped. They said no. I asked for referrals, friends and family with whom I could repeat the process. They said they’d think about it.
For two weeks I had a cold. I called it allergies. I blew my nose in people’s bathrooms.
By August the referrals dried up. I had run out of people to not sell knives to. But my mom looked at my catalog, and she bought my dad a jackknife for his next birthday.
On a morning in late August we pulled out of the driveway in the direction of the Rochester airport. At the top of the driveway and across the road, I pulled a package from the mailbox. I identified it as my father’s gift. As my mom drove the backroads toward the highway, I opened the package as well as the box inside. I pulled out the knife. I opened the knife. I tried to close the knife. I cut my palm.
A minute later my mother pulled us into a gas station. A few minutes later we were back on the road, my hand wrapped in gauze. An hour later I was on time for my flight.
The next summer, I sold donuts at a Canadian donut chain.
Thank you for reading! In future weeks, you’ll see this story as haiku, and as limerick, and as magic realism, and with more adjectives, and in that 19th century style that’s 150% more fun to write than to read, etc. I am also taking requests.