Pocket Knife

11 min readAug 7, 2026

From pinterest.com:

Headline from nypost.com: “July layoffs hit lowest level in two years despite AI fears: report.” Yay!

Surprisingly good result for the Anti-Inflation Book Shop, given the heat. My thanks to local porter Ray, who donated two handbags, which a woman pounced on; and to Romania-born artist Andu, who bought The Ultimate Reggae CD box set and Print Casebooks 4: 1980/81 Edition: The Best in Covers & Posters by Carol Stevens Kner and Martin Fox; and to the woman who purchased Connecting Flights: In Conversation With Remy Charest by Robert Lepage; and to the gentleman who came late and took home a DVD and seven books in Russky.

Here’s my latest short story, approximately a ten-minute read:

Pocket Knife

Fresh from his morning walk, Tom Traina opened a window and turned on the box fan positioned on the sill. He stripped down to his undies, pulled a bottle of ice water from the freezer, and sat at his laptop. He was always eager to see what fascinating items were reported at news sites, and what friends and acquaintances were up to on social media.

By the time he had perused three news and sports sites, more than an hour had passed. He logged onto Facebook and scrolled through his feed, ignoring political posts with which he disagreed, giving likes to those with which he did, commenting on a few. He then checked his personal page, where yesterday he had posted a picture of the pocket knife his father, a Sicilian immigrant, had used while fishing and shaping and cutting his nets. Tom suspected it was older than his 76 years. The post had received likes from an old flame and players he’d coached decades ago. Some still called him “Coach” which, to his embarrassment, sent a positive charge through him. He did not consider himself a good coach, his record almost exactly even. 20 years removed from his final game, the many glaring errors he’d made nagged him occasionally.

654, he said to himself, the pass play he should have signaled to his All-City quarterback as his assistants bickered over what to call. He shouted “Run the dump,” which a wily Canarsie linebacker no doubt had heard, intercepting and returning it for a touchdown. The game ended in a tie. “Stupid,” he muttered aloud. It was his most disappointing season, his best team ever missing out on the playoffs despite only one loss. Four of those players were named All-City, two Honorable Mention, which seemed to verify his inadequacy as a coach.

He posted an amusing photograph he’d downloaded the night before, then headed to X, where all his followers were strangers he’d never met in the flesh. The picture of the knife had attracted a slew of responses. He was thrilled.

“My father had one just like it,” a woman wrote. “It brings back so many fond memories. Thanks, T-Train.”

He wondered if it were a mistake to use that moniker, which had been bestowed upon him as a decent high school running back by teammates. He’d quickly learned of his mediocrity in college, where other players left him in the dust.

“How much do you want for it?” another female asked.

He typed. “It’s not for sale, too much sentimental value.”

He planned to be buried with it, along with his varsity football jacket.

He was stunned as he went through the replies, as others offered to buy it. He looked at it closely for the first time in ages. Three inches long, its casing was a fading sea-shell-like brown. There was a one-inch metal label affixed horizontally on one side, shaped something like a boat. He noticed a brand inscribed on it. He reached for his magnifying glass. The label read “Fabre” or “Labre.” He was unable to recall if he’d ever noticed that before. He jotted a note to himself.

The device had two blades, the longer two-and-a-half inches, the shorter one-and-a-half. They were dull. His eyes glazed as he recalled his father sharpening them by hand against a small whetstone.

As he stepped out of his building that afternoon, he was approached by a frumpy middle aged woman who had him imagining cats and an apartment filled with hoarded items.

“Are you the guy who posted the pocket knife on X–T-Train?”

He froze, defenses up, although she seemed to be alone.

“I wanna buy it. I’ll give you a hundred dollars for it.”

Was she nuts or was the knife worth a surprising amount? He thought of the Antiques Roadshow, where stuff occasionally seemed grossly overpriced.

“It’s not for sale. It’s the only token I

have left of my father.” This was not true, he realized. He had a roll of the super strong string used to bind the fishing nets.

“One-twenty-five.”

Tongue-tied, his eyes spread.

“Can I see it at least?”

“Why is so important to you?”

“That’s classified.”

He tittered, at first thinking it was a joke. “Sorry.” He walked away.

Returning from his errand, he noticed scratches around the locks of his door. Had the woman tried to pick them? What the…?

As he opened the door to the modernized three-room flat, he noticed a man on the fire escape outside his windows. Fortunately he had closed and locked them despite the heat. The guy scrambled down the ladder. Tom wondered if the thief had spotted the knife, which was in plain sight on his desk.

What is this? he thought, baffled.

He sat at his PC and ran a search. The brand was actually “Sabre” and was manufactured in Japan, the country’s name inscribed at the bottom of the longer blade. Its value, depending on condition, was listed at eight to thirty dollars. Yet the woman had offered $125. Was she expecting the value to skyrocket in the future? Was her research faulty?

The post had attracted more traffic, more offers, the bidding up to $250.

You gotta be kiddin’ me, said Tom to himself.

The next afternoon there was a small crowd outside the entrance to the building. People began bidding. He broke into a run, which was not easy for a man his age, especially in this blasted heat, although he was fit. There was an unopened package of chewing gum in the right pocket of his cutoffs. He tossed it over his shoulder and people dove after it. The ruse allowed him to put distance between himself and the crazies. He hustled to the corner, where the bus to Coney Island happened to be rolling up. Huffing, he boarded, resisting the urge to tell the driver to step on it. As the bus pulled away, he spotted several of his pursuers. He refrained from giving them the finger, wary of meeting them again. He was breathing fast and sweating profusely. Passengers eyed him as if he were a madman. He found an isolated empty seat and gathered himself.

He let a few stops pass, then got off quickly and ducked into a convenience store in case anyone was following by car. He stood behind a shelf and looked out the window. Apparently safe, he purchased gum and left, walking fast, wondering if there were jewels within the knife’s casing. Perhaps the lunatics had fallen for an urban myth. He was reminded of The Maltese Falcon, one of his favorite films. He went into a library to cool off.

Hours later he entered the three-building complex through the back way. He found his apartment ransacked, a window neatly cut out. Were there pros among the rabble? Although nothing seemed missing except petty cash, he called the police for the first time in his life. Anticipating a break-in, he had taken the knife with him, its shape easily discernible in the pocket of his tight shorts.

He rang the Super, whom he considered a friend. Luis promised to have new glass installed by dinner time.

The cops, one male, one female, filled out a report. Tom told them about the knife and showed it to them. They were clueless.

He debated whether to take it apart. He didn’t have the heart, certain he would never get it back together. A lifelong bachelor, childless, he considered sending it to the youngest of his four nieces, who lived in Jersey, with the instructions to include it in his coffin when he passed. He feared she would be tracked as easily as he had, ditto the woman he had just started seeing. Was there a way of x-raying objects to determine if anything were inside? Hadn’t he seen that on TV? Who would know? He asked Google.

The next morning he snuck out the back way and walked several blocks to the next nearest train station, Neck Road. He got off in Manhattan, hit an ATM, then followed directions on his phone to a three-story building in dire need of renovation. The GG Detective Agency was on the top floor, accessible only by stairs. His golf shirt was soaked by the time he arrived at the door.

He entered the office and approached the middle aged receptionist who, unlike her movie counterparts, was far from beautiful and seemingly hardened by life. If there was AC, it was turned off. A large fan, pivoting from side to side, circulated stale air throughout the room.

“Hi,” said Tom nervously. “I made an appointment yesterday by phone.”

“Traina, right?”

He nodded. Was the fact that he seemed to be the only client a bad omen?

“Go in.” She nodded in the direction of the door.

He entered the smoke-filled room. The paunchy, balding man at the cluttered desk seemed just days from retirement age. He flashed a nicotine-stained smile and, without standing, extended a hand.

“Guido Guaneri,” he said, grip firm. “What can I do for you, Mister Traina?”

GG–a goombah, Tom thought, cautioning himself not to be too trusting. He’d been screwed over plenty of times by fellow Italian-Americans, including his younger brother, whom he hadn’t heard from in years..

Guaneri listened closely. “I know a place nearby,” he said, then mentioned his fee.

“Reasonable,” said Tom. “Let’s do it.”

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He did not have any money concerns, as his teachers’ pension was ridiculously generous and he’d had good luck investing, trading stocks, getting in on the ground floor of crypto and selling at a huge profit.

Guaneri stood and pulled on the suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. Tom, to his relief, did not spot a gun.

“I should be back soon, Hel’. Don’t call me unless it’s a must.”

She smirked.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

A block later they were pulled into an alley at gunpoint by bearded men wearing sunglasses and caps.

“Hand it over,” said the gunman to Tom.

Guaneri made a move and was bashed over the head by the butt of the Glock. He collapsed in a heap. Tom feared he would piss himself.

“Don’t move,” shouted a voice from the entrance of the alley. “NYPD. Hands in the air.”

The creeps complied.

“Lay the gun on the ground and kick it away.”

One of the plainclothesmen cuffed the suspects while the other stood guard. Both were white, as were the perps.

Tom bent to help Guaneri, who was unconscious. “Better call an ambulance,” he said, lump in his throat, laden with guilt.

He noticed a cell phone sticking out of the breast pocket of the suit jacket.

“Can I call his receptionist?”

“Wait ’til we know which hospital.”

Tom was questioned at the precinct by Detective Ryan, who seemed younger than 40 and ex-military. The men had been tailing Guaneri about a different matter. If Ryan was pissed that his surveillance might have been blown, he didn’t show it.

“Were those beards fake?” said Tom.

“As a politician’s promises.”

Tom chuckled. He recounted the story, showing the detective the knife.

“It’s crazy,” said Tom, eyes contracting in pain, tears welling in his eyes. “The world’s gone nuts like never before.”

“Maybe, but think back to the Nazis and Japs during World War Two, and the millions murdered by Mao and Stalin, and the terrorists of today.”

Tom nodded defeatedly. He suspected Ryan dealt with violent offenders every day. It had to taint his view of humanity.

“I know where you were headed,” said Ryan. “I’ll have a squad car run you over. Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Traina.”

Tom squelched the temptation to ask why Guaneri had been watched. He doubted Ryan would tell him.

The x-rays revealed nothing. Tom was incensed–all his grief, Guaneri unconscious–for zilch.

Having no idea where the hospital was, he flagged down a cab. It was a short ride, 1st Avenue.

Guaneri’s receptionist was seated in a waiting area, leaning forward, hand to her brow, eyes closed.

“Helen?” said Tom softly.

She raised her head. “Helga,” she said, eying him with contempt.

He didn’t blame her. He choked back a sob. “I’m so sorry.”

She shrugged. “Don’t beat yourself up. He was mixed up in some heavy stuff trying to meet two alimonies and child support. It was bound to catch up with him.”

“Still…”

She smirked.

He decided not to tell her the thieves had been targeting him, not her boss. “How is he?”

“In a coma, brain bleeding.”

“Geez!”

If Guaneri died his assailant would be charged with murder. Moron, said Tom to himself, shaking his head. The guy faced a long prison sentence for nothing.

As penance, Tom gave Helga all the cash he had, a few hundred. She stuffed it in her bag without a word.

Dazed, drained, he took the train home. He grabbed a bottle of seltzer from the fridge and took a picture of the statement he’d requested from the secretary, typed on the company’s stationery. He snapped another of the receipt. He’d taken one of the office entrance.

He logged onto his laptop, immediately went to X and typed a scathing note that ended with: “You stupid mother…” He included the pictures he’d taken.

The next morning as he stepped outside for his walk, someone who had the look of a criminal was waiting. Tom was beside himself. It was still dark, for God’s sake. Was he going to wait all morning? The guy pulled a knife. Tom’s gut contracted.

“Hand it over, old man, or I start slicin’.”

There was no one in sight, no detectives to come to his rescue. “Didn’t you see my latest post? There’s nothing valuable about the knife.”

“You may fool other people with that bull but not me.” He slapped Tom, who reeled, rubbing his cheek. “You want more, T-Train?”

Tom dug into the left-hand pocket of his shorts. He regretted having brought the knife, having thought the madness was done. Tears in his eyes, he held it in the palm of his outstretched right hand. The creep snatched it deftly, as if avoiding the seizure of his wrist. For some reason, he broke into a sprint. Moments later Tom came upon him sprawled on the ground, moaning. Apparently he’d tripped over the rise in the sidewalk caused by a growing tree, which had caused Tom to stumble many times. It seemed the dirtbag had gone headfirst into the barrier built around the tree for its protection and cracked his forehead open on one of the two-by-fours. His side was pierced by the knife, onto which he’d fallen. Blood was pouring from the idiot.

“Karma,” said Tom softly, walking past the fallen figure. He kicked the pocket knife inadvertently and saw its glint in the light from the streetlamp. He smiled.

As he walked away he was seized by conscience. He dialed 911, gave the operator the location and said he had to get to work. He stood in a dark doorway at the corner, waiting. Soon a police car came barreling along Avenue Z and turned onto the block.

Tom went on his way, hoping the incident was the last regarding the knife.

Later that morning he went to his bank and put the knife in a newly-acquired safe-deposit box. He was miffed he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Guaneri wouldn’t be in the hospital. How would he ever live that down, especially if…?

He took a picture, posted it on X and left this message: “Want the knife? Rob the bank, you…”