The Knifemaker (english homework, D1)

The Knife Maker

                The first thing you learned in Del Mureto, was not to mess with "Knives" Greer...

At least, that's what you heard from the barflies, who never learned to shut up.

Del Mureto was your average roadside town, all lined up against the road in two straight columns. Not much had changed after a hundred years; there was still a three man sheriff's office, the doctor's and the general goods store. A motel had moved in, next to the truck stop. A diner went up in the empty lot where children used to play. The auto shop went up at the undertaker's.

But the Saloon stood were it was, a hundred years proud.

That's where you'd find the talk of the town: the talk on tough young Knives Greer.

It was the same old talk:

Man was as big as a bull, all 5'7 of him, stronger than two,

Trained himself in all things mechanical

                                                                                 but that's not all he do

                                                           Some girl-friend of his died some weeks ago,

Night after night since then, you'd hear the muffled noise of metal greeting metal,

drifting from the auto shop, not enough for anyone to raise a holler,

but there none the less

He was a quiet man, never said much,

If you asked what he was doing in there,

He'd just say "Making knives",

And every third night, he'd get in his pick-up, knife packaged and all

Drive to God knows where

And come back empty handed,

You ask where it went, he'd just shrug

                Now, folk got all sorts of crazy stories about what he do. Most say he be some hit man. Ask why the Marshalls got cold toes, they'd say: "Boy, knives would get you between the eyes before you could touch the trigger".

Now, anyone with two cents worth of wit shut right up when Knives walked in. But there was always some drunk idiot shooting his mouth. Now most folk watch in horror, while placing two bucks worth that "knives was gonna get him this time.

But He'd walk straight on past

Paul Greer, mechanic, the knife maker, knew all the whispers on him.

He heard the nicknames, and smelled the fear.

But he'd just shake his head, thinking

Only if they knew, only if they knew...

***

His name was Paul; and he was all alone for the most part,

he felt even emptier when Roxy died.

She Was a Childhood friend, his only friend growing up.

Most kids feared the strength of his fist,

Those all consuming eyes that could strip you bare.

Not Roxy:

She stared into his very soul

                She was a frail child, and had these big, clear blue eyes that could match his dirt brown ones anytime. She was the only one who saw through his tough facade, who saw all the pain and loneliness spun from a dead Ma and a drunk Pa. She saw the hunger in his eyes. So she showed him the meaning of kindness; she gave him his first decent meal. They became fast friends, and in late adolescence grew to become everything to each other. He was her strength and protector; she, his provider and nurturer. He taught himself metal shop; she taught herself how to cook. They never had much; just each other. On her twenty first birthday, he gave her a set of decent kitchen knives, her very own; the sharpest,  finest he'd made. Day in and day out, he'd  come to her kitchen and sit on the table after work, hands unwashed just to tease her. She'd nag him to wash for a bit, then served the master piece she had come up with that day, on her mother's silverware. Conversation was loud, but the neighbor's didn't mind; she had none, lived alone. After the meal, he'd thank her, and she'd reply before he left, "you're always welcome in my kitchen".

                As time flew by, he moved to Del Mureto, but still dropped by every weekend. Same story; her thin frame always welcomed him with a warm hug and hot food. He'd always thank her, and she'd reply "you're always welcome in my kitchen".

                Months went by, and one weekend, she wasn't there to greet him. The door was left ajar (she never locked it). Everything she had was gone; the kitchen, picked clean. He found her in the bed room; too weak to move; the only thing untouched, her cookbook. As he picked her up, effortlessly, he stared into her clear, fading blue eyes as she whispered her dying, delusional words, "you're always welcome... in.. my.. kitchen..."

                Those words tore through his soul and into his existence, and resounded in his mind like a gunshot in a canyon, as he drove to her place again and again. He had cremated her, and buried her in her favorite place. Every third day, he finished a knife and went back to her place to place it on the rack, and use his strength to fix what he could before work started (the place was his now). But before he left he'd fix him up a meal from her cookbook, those words still echoing: "you're always welcome in my kitchen".