Being a cop who is a certified knife "nut", I get a lot of request to sharpen coworker's knives. I see it all too, everything from the latest whiz bang tactical folders to the cheaper import clip knives. I'll take the edges and put them back into shape and never charge for it. I figure that eventually, someone will "buy lunch" but so far, I haven't had that happen.
The other day at roll call I was assigned "the desk". Now to most cops, that is akin to being assigned to pulling your own fingernails off. It can be the most torturous of details because while the other guys are out chasing cars, felons, and the like, the desk officer is stuck at the desk dealing with the more, shall we say, routine type calls. And to make matters worse, you get to listen to the guys in the field having all the fun on your radio.
Begrudgingly, I wheeled my cruiser into the lot, parked in the shadiest spot, and got out to make the long walk up to my tour of duty post. The desk also has another chair where someone from the retired squad sits and greets people as they visit the jail. These guys are affectionatly known as The Dinosaur Squad. The Dinosaur Squad is a group of retired guys that basically could never hold a job anywhere else as decades of dealing with the worst in society has soured them to pretty much everything. They aren't really "fit" for anything else. Come to think of it, they aren't really fit to greet folks at our jail. The ones that aren't crazy are just plain mean. Billy, who is neither sane nor nice, is considered their king and there he sat ready to greet me.
"Geez, you are about the ugliest thing that has waltzed through those doors today. Pull up a chair, rookie, if you can muster the strength with those sad looking arms of yours."
Now, I am six foot two and around 220 pounds. I tower over Billy. I am also on the downslope of my career with nearly 16 years of service under my belt. But to Billy, we are all rookies in his eyes. I sat down and replied back to him "I may not be able to handle that chair as your wife has tired me out again this morning. Oh yeah, she told me to tell you to pick up some milk and stain remover on your way home."
This brought a smile to Billy's tired, droopy eyed face. Our sense of humor is similar and he is quick witted for an old guy. "Well, as long as you left some cash behind, I ain't got a problem with it" as he pulled something from his pocket. "Here, they say you can sharpen a knife. I bet you can't do anything with that."
He handed over a well used Case medium stockman with yellow scales. "Finally", I thought to myself, "something traditional to bring back to life." I pulled open the blades one by one and tested the edges. All three were dull but there weren't any nicks in the blades nor were any of the tips broken off. The blades were chrome vanadium and well stained from use.
"My little girl gave me that for Father's day some years back. You lose it and I will beat you down like you stole it." he said with a devilish grin.
I walked out to my cruiser and got my green tackle box that I keep my knife stuff in. When I returned, Billy watched closely as I started with a medium stone and then progressed to my Sharpmaker. He commented at the "neatness" of the Sharpmaker as I worked each blade, progressing on to the fine stones. When I sprayed some diamond slurry on a piece of basswood and started stropping the blades, he started making comments about "wood" not fit to type in this forum. Typical Billy.
When done, I handed him back his treasured Case stockman. The edges now caught and reflected the light of the room and he pulled his thumb down the edge istead of across it. His skin opened up right on cue and the blood flowed.
"Dang you rookie, you got it too sharp. I'll sue you for this!" as he cussed while I laughed.
Tossing him a bandaid from my green tackle box, I replied "Here, we will settle out of court before your altzheimers kicks in and you forget the whole thing." That brought a chuckle from him as he tended to his self inflicted wound.
The rest of the shift he cut everything up there at least once. Paper, packages, envelopes......all fell victim to his yellow stockman. I half expected him to nick me before the day was out. But I made it through unscathed. As I walked out the door he said "Hey rookie, thanks for sharpening up that knife. I'll get ya lunch one day."
"Yeah, sure you will, old man. Just let me know when chow time is at the old folks home and I will come down there and spoon feed you some soup or oatmeal while you tell war stories."
Billy waved at me as I left......but only with one finger.
Typical Billy.
