jbwikeley
01-04-2011, 06:50 PM
Thanks for reading
A man who gives away knives, and also sells them, was in the store today. Invited, I assume, perhaps paying. An odd thing, a throwback to some old decade, though I am not sure which. He announced himself over the tannoy; a free knife for everyone in the store, over the age of twenty-one. The representative would be down shortly. He was the representative and down he came. A tall, suited man, stood behind a red plinth, speaking to an audience. Or lecturing. Maybe even entertaining, He spoke quick and he spoke structured, and certain syllables sounded as if he had stored them up earlier, then slotted them into the sentence, not entirely sure of their meaning. But he was certain and sharp, and his knives were certain and sharp, and they were both free. So people listened.
After the performance he wandered around the shop floor. A lot of us, mostly the women, came towards him, held short conversations. Something daring, to those of us stuck behind a counter, about a man who takes his wares on the road. He is long and thin. His suit is steel grey. His serrated white hair is combed over. Something about his arms reminds me of Cary Grant. Something about his face reminds me of Leslie Nielsen. He comes to my desk and talks to my boss. He has made a hundred and twenty-five pounds. No-one thinks to ask how many knives that is. He says it as if it is good, so we assume it is good. But he has cut his finger. The first time that he has done it in ten years of selling knives. My boss is keen to get him a plaster.
The second time he performs I go to watch. On to his red cloth plinth his Cary Grant arms put a number of objects. I can’t recall what order they came in but there is a tomato, a loaf of bread, and a hammer. Only five or six people are watching but he acts as if it were hundreds, as if he were being broadcast to the nation. But occasionally he will talk to us as he demonstrates, and sometimes not even about knives.
“With this knife I can make a single tomato last a whole day.”
It certainly slices the tomato very thin. The loaf of bread is stale, deliberately stale.
“It is as hard as a rock.”
Bang. He hits it against the flat surface. This knife though, watch, it slips through, butter like. The hammer- it must be next. I imagine he is going to smash the knife, though of course the knife won’t break.
There is a flourish to everything he does now. He hands the hammer to a willing assistant who confirms, laboriously, that it is indeed a hammer. But it is not the man’s fault that he is not a young lady dressed in nothing but feathers. The Cary Grant hands take the hammer and lay it on the blood red cloth. He raises the knife. Watch. There is no angel and there is no ram. The knife descends from the heavens. It saws into the hammer. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times it leaves a perfect scar line. Another hundred and twenty five pounds.
Later that day a small, regular man in a green top, sporting a small regular moustache and an expression of bored determination sidles up to my till while I am serving another customer.
“The free knife,” he says, “I’ve come for the free knife.”
In the distance, behind the escalators, the man who sells knives is giving another speech. His Cary Grant arms waft through the air, knife clenched in right fist but completely dangerless. I look at the small man and feel as if I have done something wrong. I could give him a free knife if he wanted- if have no great attachment to my own. They sit in the cutlery draw and occasionally spread jam. But I point him in the direction of the show.
“That would be the man doing the presentation, just over,” I say.
The man turns and heads over, doggedly.
The man who sells knives, and also gives them away for free, has been in the store for the past week. He announces himself on the tannoy four times a day. Four times a day for the last week there has been a very special offer; today only. The tannoy is in the office upstairs. This afternoon I went up to take a call and the man was there, standing motionless, about to make his announcement. He checked his watch once, head turning and wrist rising in unison, then bent over to the board to press the button. He leant over the microphone like you lean over a washing basin to shave.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there is a very special offer in the store today.”
Customers are instructed to take their knives, the ones they are paying for, over to the Home Hardware counter. Just once, late on, a woman and her little child bring one over to me. She is also buying a shirt. I fold it and she thinks. The box is simple, white with a full-size picture, some red for emphasis. She holds it between two hands and thinks. Does she really need it? The thinking takes so long that the decision becomes important. Folding finished, I try to offer some support, as her little girl kicks the counter in impatience.
“I won’t tell him,” I say.
When I have a minute I take the unbought box back over to him.
“Someone had second thoughts," I say, and smile.
It is ok with him, not a problem, although my attempt to be friendly clearly doesn’t go down well. The Leslie Nielseness drains from his face. As I turn to leave I catch a glimpse of something tucked behind the plinth. It is a whole bag of tomatoes.
A man who gives away knives, and also sells them, was in the store today. Invited, I assume, perhaps paying. An odd thing, a throwback to some old decade, though I am not sure which. He announced himself over the tannoy; a free knife for everyone in the store, over the age of twenty-one. The representative would be down shortly. He was the representative and down he came. A tall, suited man, stood behind a red plinth, speaking to an audience. Or lecturing. Maybe even entertaining, He spoke quick and he spoke structured, and certain syllables sounded as if he had stored them up earlier, then slotted them into the sentence, not entirely sure of their meaning. But he was certain and sharp, and his knives were certain and sharp, and they were both free. So people listened.
After the performance he wandered around the shop floor. A lot of us, mostly the women, came towards him, held short conversations. Something daring, to those of us stuck behind a counter, about a man who takes his wares on the road. He is long and thin. His suit is steel grey. His serrated white hair is combed over. Something about his arms reminds me of Cary Grant. Something about his face reminds me of Leslie Nielsen. He comes to my desk and talks to my boss. He has made a hundred and twenty-five pounds. No-one thinks to ask how many knives that is. He says it as if it is good, so we assume it is good. But he has cut his finger. The first time that he has done it in ten years of selling knives. My boss is keen to get him a plaster.
The second time he performs I go to watch. On to his red cloth plinth his Cary Grant arms put a number of objects. I can’t recall what order they came in but there is a tomato, a loaf of bread, and a hammer. Only five or six people are watching but he acts as if it were hundreds, as if he were being broadcast to the nation. But occasionally he will talk to us as he demonstrates, and sometimes not even about knives.
“With this knife I can make a single tomato last a whole day.”
It certainly slices the tomato very thin. The loaf of bread is stale, deliberately stale.
“It is as hard as a rock.”
Bang. He hits it against the flat surface. This knife though, watch, it slips through, butter like. The hammer- it must be next. I imagine he is going to smash the knife, though of course the knife won’t break.
There is a flourish to everything he does now. He hands the hammer to a willing assistant who confirms, laboriously, that it is indeed a hammer. But it is not the man’s fault that he is not a young lady dressed in nothing but feathers. The Cary Grant hands take the hammer and lay it on the blood red cloth. He raises the knife. Watch. There is no angel and there is no ram. The knife descends from the heavens. It saws into the hammer. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times it leaves a perfect scar line. Another hundred and twenty five pounds.
Later that day a small, regular man in a green top, sporting a small regular moustache and an expression of bored determination sidles up to my till while I am serving another customer.
“The free knife,” he says, “I’ve come for the free knife.”
In the distance, behind the escalators, the man who sells knives is giving another speech. His Cary Grant arms waft through the air, knife clenched in right fist but completely dangerless. I look at the small man and feel as if I have done something wrong. I could give him a free knife if he wanted- if have no great attachment to my own. They sit in the cutlery draw and occasionally spread jam. But I point him in the direction of the show.
“That would be the man doing the presentation, just over,” I say.
The man turns and heads over, doggedly.
The man who sells knives, and also gives them away for free, has been in the store for the past week. He announces himself on the tannoy four times a day. Four times a day for the last week there has been a very special offer; today only. The tannoy is in the office upstairs. This afternoon I went up to take a call and the man was there, standing motionless, about to make his announcement. He checked his watch once, head turning and wrist rising in unison, then bent over to the board to press the button. He leant over the microphone like you lean over a washing basin to shave.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there is a very special offer in the store today.”
Customers are instructed to take their knives, the ones they are paying for, over to the Home Hardware counter. Just once, late on, a woman and her little child bring one over to me. She is also buying a shirt. I fold it and she thinks. The box is simple, white with a full-size picture, some red for emphasis. She holds it between two hands and thinks. Does she really need it? The thinking takes so long that the decision becomes important. Folding finished, I try to offer some support, as her little girl kicks the counter in impatience.
“I won’t tell him,” I say.
When I have a minute I take the unbought box back over to him.
“Someone had second thoughts," I say, and smile.
It is ok with him, not a problem, although my attempt to be friendly clearly doesn’t go down well. The Leslie Nielseness drains from his face. As I turn to leave I catch a glimpse of something tucked behind the plinth. It is a whole bag of tomatoes.