Cute Without the "E"

It’s 9:38 pm on a Thursday night, and I’m with my partner, Bill. We are on another date after the first few have gone so well. It’s almost closing time and we are outside this greasy Chinese buffet restaurant listening to the cooks mutter on in broken English about which guests are the most overweight and taking bets on who can consume the most grade D meat and stale noodles tonight. We don’t get in on this child’s play, we are here for a different purpose; we are meeting the third member of our ensemble, only she isn’t privy to the idea of going on a date with us yet. She thinks she is going home to her lonely apartment after her shift to sit and multitask her pointless existence between infomercials and social networking, but she is wrong, for we have bigger plans for her tonight.

The cooks finish their conversations and cigs and head back inside to start to clean up, and out comes our piece de la resistance, our waitress, the one who gave us the terrible service, then proceeded to publically demean us by stating so matter-of-factly that Bill was a “cheap bastard” when we gave her a more than generous fifteen percent tip.

She lights up a cigarette and stares into the dark alley, right into us, through us, as if looking at the darkness without trying to figure out what is there, but just to stare blankly. Bill is crouched and I’m sitting idle next to him within his grasp, just waiting for our opportunity to strike. The waitress turns to the sudden clash of plates being dropped into the sink, as if startled from whatever far off place she dazed into. We move in closer, faster, silently, without breathing, closer to the prize. I emerge from Bill’s jacket sleeve in one quick hidden motion with a flick of the wrist as the waitress is slowly turning around to gaze back into the darkness with those big doe eyes. The look on her face tells me she did not hear anything or catch a glimpse of us as we crept up. She is pleasantly surprised to see her face reflected in my cold silver metal face. A quick splurt! is the only sound she makes as we meet for the second time. Her jugular gurgles and the dark liquid comes pouring out so fast as if glad to finally be free. She falls to the ground clenching her throat, trying to keep it together; she can’t. My artistry can be seen for a short while against the red brick if you look hard enough amongst the old rotten meat and garbage bags, but in the morning won’t exist after they hose the dumping ground down. Bill carries her body with him after he rolls it in the visquine tarp and drops her in his trunk. “Lucky number 34,” he calls her, then closes the trunk and seals her fate as her eyes twitch for the last time. Bill’s smile becomes contagious as this, like our many other dates, has been successful. He tenderly wipes me off before he returns me to my sheath within his jacket.

Bill hasn’t always been this collected, or this good at what he does; there was once a time when his hands, like his confidence, shook with nervousness over anything. When I first saw him, he was at the market of Cape Town, in Kaapstad, Africa where he was on vacation. I overheard his wife berating him over the fact that despite having just lost his job, they were off gallivanting on an exotic adventure. “We should be saving our money like your mother insisted, not blowing it on our childhood fantasies coming to shit holes like this, so we could what? Walk around all day?” she demanded as he clenched his fists but stared at the ground cowering and evidentially not going to retort.

I didn’t even want him to see me. He was whipped, spineless, and an unemployed bum who couldn’t afford me, much less use me for a purpose worthy to my standards. I was diamond cut after all. A blade that could cut through stone if tested, with a bone saw on the backhand side. Forget about cutting through cans and tires, I was the real deal, not part of some late night infomercial. And if that wasn’t enough for anyone to marvel at, my hilt was made of ivory with grooves that fit the hands I was destined for. I was made from elephants to kill elephants. I was a big game hunter. I was made from one tusk with the other tusk providing the second and final piece of the collection, my brother blade, William. I was never part of the whole since a raiding party separated us from out caravan. I’m sure our creators must hate themselves for losing such beauties like us.

It didn’t matter how much out of his league I was, I still caught his eye and he never took it off of me. He looked at me with longing, passion, and desire. It wasn’t the first time some creep was ogling me. He knew he couldn’t afford the asking price of eleven thousand Rands, but still curiously asked my seller all about me. It was only until his wife nagged him enough that he admitted defeat and proceeded to leave.

The next day, and days after, he returned alone, admiring me up close and from afar, plotting some way of buying me. Perhaps he planned of pawning his shrill wife or her belongings, emptying savings accounts, and selling stocks, or even stealing me away if it came down to that. I knew not what he had planned for me.

It was the fifth day of his courting, when the ground shook suddenly and smoke entered the air along with loud ringing. Panic and shrapnel clogged the market from the exploding truck. Before I knew what was going on, I was moving fast, snuggled deep inside the front of a dark jacket against warm flesh. I never thought that chump would have the spine to pull such a daring snatch, but there we were, moving fast toward the future with excitement of what other exhilarating experiences we would share, only to have my hopes squelched by the reality of cutting vegetables and pre-tenderized meat. I should not have let my naivety cloud my head with such expectations. I mean, an unemployed middle-aged man and his wife are going to whisk me away to their life of adventure in the big city where we are going to hunt, what, large rats and rabid domesticated dogs?

This sort of bland routine went on for weeks. In such monotony does the amount of boredom even matter? The only thing I looked forward to was the way he cleaned my blade with warm gentle water, washing me alone, and quite meticulously, making sure I was thoroughly taken care of. Sometimes I was even sharpened, for what purpose I’m not sure, but the possibility of something worthwhile to do made my mind wander. I was never left to soak overnight or doused with cleansing chemicals, and I even had my unique place along the magnetic knife holder that lines a part of the kitchen wall.

Bill’s wife never used me, just criticized me for existing in their home and Bill for treating me with care. “Why did you get that thing anyway?” she would question with attitude. “You should just sell it so we can pay the bills and maybe not live off my salary for once. If you don’t get off your ass soon, it’ll be the first thing to go!” Bill’s hand would lose it’s firm grip; he would look at the ground and reply timidly with an “I’ll do something about it soon.” She kept pestering Bill about the fact that he couldn’t find a solid job and I was still there taking up space. I sensed jealousy, but I didn’t care since it meant the possibility of doing something other than cutting food any ordinary plastic knife could.

One Tuesday, after having a typical chat with his mother where the repeated phrase, “You need to get over our past and do something with your life...” found it’s usual place in their conversation, Bill was noticeably angry. I could feel his hand make mistakes by the way he shifted weight when he cut tomatoes, or the way he pressed the blade to cut rather than making a complete slice. Shortly after, Bill’s wife appeared in the kitchen and proceeded in her normal fashion to provoke him. I had come to know what to expect from this by now; this pitiful man was going to take her insults once more and nothing was going to change. Only this time some detail was different. He was looking her in the eye, and before I had time to process the words his wife said: “Your mother was righ-“ I was sailing through the air in a perfect slice toward her making her, choke on her words.

Her blood had shot from the tip of my blade to the refrigerator, the cabinets, and eventually the floor, where she was beginning to pool. “FUCK! FUCK!! FUCK!!!” Bill screamed, searching for other tools to clean up the apparent mess he had unintentionally made. I caught myself in the utter surprise of the event and had forgotten that I possessed all he needed. I quickly reflected off of the glowing 100-watt bulbs to reveal my serrated bone saw backend toward Bill’s eyes so he could catch a glimpse. He did, and readily took my advice, dragged her to the tub, dumped the body in, and we went to work chopping all the incriminating evidence into small unrecognizable bits.

Bill got better as time went on and he learned how I liked to be treated and handled in these engagements. The first five girls were rough. Shaky hands, messy cuts, and general sloppiness were expected when approaching a target. It was forgivable though because he treated me with the utmost care after we finished, always calling me his “darling,” and gently caressing my curved hilt to show his appreciation. After his nervousness had subsided, we began learning from each other how to be more well organized. Because of this, numbers six through twenty became enjoyable, which transpired to pure pleasure for twenty and beyond. Sometimes I wonder through if it’s Bill’s professionalism and his lust for our dates that animates the excitement within myself, or if it’s the fact that I’m so efficient at what I do that makes him desire it all the more.

Number thirty-five however, is just the typical girl who cut Bill off amidst heavy traffic with no wave of appreciation, but instead raised her middle finger in response to Bill blowing his horn. Naturally we stalk her outside of her apartment, picking up her routines, and trying to catch any flaws in security. The only one seems to be the alley from which she enters to gain access to the backdoor of her apartment when someone is at the front door. So, Bill and I wait in front of her door at 7 pm, awaiting her return from work. She walks on by and proceeds down the alley to the backdoor when I greet her from behind making a small but growing incision from the left to the right side of her neck. She gasps, but to no avail. We watch her flounder on the concrete. “Let’s get to work,” Bill says eagerly.

Just then a light pierces through the dark alley behind us. Blue light flickers and illuminates the darkest depths of the ally as we are crouched over a motionless corpse. I try to warn Bill by bathing myself in the shimmering lights, but he doesn’t notice immediately until he puts me down and sees his reflection. I feel that familiar feeling that I thought had been long since forgotten. Bill’s hands began to tremble.

A voice called out to us from car radio that was muffled and sounded more like one of Charlie Brown’s teachers than a cop. Bill’s body jumped at the booming voice. As I lie on the cold pavement, I can see in Bill’s eyes and his body language that he going to do what comes naturally to him when he is faced with this situation; he is going to disappear. In one fluid motion he rises and sprints away down the dark alley path blending into the dark, away from the scatter of bullets ricocheting against the brick, forgetting about me entirely and leaving me at the mercy of my new captors.

They pass me around at the station making snide remarks about my elegant body, touching me with their jelly stained and sweating hands. They put me in an evidence bag to suffocate out my existence on a shelf in the evidence room. Who knows how long some of the other victims have resided here, but I know one day I’ll be free again, and I’ll be doing what I was made for, maybe even with my love again.