fiction by Bryan Adrian
Down and Out in Northeast Washington DC & Philadelphia as the Dollar is Crashing Left and Right
Emphatically, I'd like to thank all of you in the Spyderco manufacturerís home
office for your Spyderco metallic credit-card-encased kommando knife. It is ideal for
concealment within a side pants pocket, and it is exactly the size and nearly
the thickness of a normal credit card or ATM card, as you state in your
catalogues. The attractive silvery stainless steel frame is elegant and does
not attract attention from security guards, pedestrians, nor tourists, when by
accident one pulls it out of their pocket, rather than just their usual keys or
coins, as they intended. Any unexpected witnesses to what you are holding in your
hand, think simply that you are merely the lucky possessor of a thin and
becoming high quality silvery credit card case, to protect your coveted bank cards, and
But to the assailant or perpetrator who crosses your path with ill intent, it
is another matter. I had to sleep overnight in parks on a few occasions lately,
travelling on a shoestring budget between Washington
DC and Philadelphia,
seeking stringer reporter or even temp editing assignments as an out-of-luck
progressive muckraking writer. Many times a job interview for a new-in-town
jobseeker, such as myself, of all times gets offered only on the very last paid day of my paid-in-advance week long SRO hotel residence I had arranged for job hunting in a new town. I often could not afford to pay the daily hotel rate for this last day of
my stay, which of course would be the day the interview had finally been set up
for me by the customary drone-like young lady human resources
manager, a character type that has become a commonplace affair in our newly globalized
corporate reality. Thus, once again, the parks called out my name as a familiar bedmate
friend, including not only the embraces of dewy green grass, but also the lavish kiss
of plenty of dog shit hidden under those leaves of grass.< br>
As a result, I found myself one sultry, hot, steamy summer night in the crime
ridden Northeast sector of Washington DC, far away from Union Station and near
the notorious Northeast sector dubbed 'Chocolate
City' by some people, and nowhere close to the many ritzy Capitol Hill townhouses
close to Congress.
My morning train would not leave from Union Station till 8am the next morning, so I had
lots of time to kill before heading up to Philly. I found a small park place to hide and sleep under a children's
slide of a fairly nice mini-park adjacent to an African-American ghetto-looking area. This
would have to be my sweet slumber spot the night
before my distant Philadelphia
job interview the next day.
The mosquitoes were biting the way I had dreamed of prospective employers seeking
me out. These skeeters did not need to see my resume in order to exploit my
assets. They made their quick appointments without asking me in any formal
Around 3:30 in the morning, three rust-ebony skinned men meandered towards my toddler
playground hiding space to smoke a joint and gossip with each other about women
being bitches and hos, and for some reason they did not see me for quite some
time, lying there on my back as quietly and motionlessly as I could, under the
slide. I had, however, very slowly positioned my right hand to firmly grip
around my Spyderco knife, ready for action in case it was needed. Otherwise, I was playing possum and
assuming a dead man's posture flat on my back like a fatally stricken soldier
after a fierce battle, legs sprawled.
Suddenly, one of the lads shouted out to his mates, "For Christ's sake
man, look at that --- that ---- right over there, a dead white dude, don't you
They all made short snortles and exclamations of dread at seeing a dead white
man in an all black neighborhood.
Then one of them said, "hey look man, he's barely
breathing, he must be dead drunk!"
I remained motionless and reduced my breathing to a few milliliters of air per
I was overwhelmed with fear, but replayed in my mind all the many hours of
training videos I had studied on the art of using a Spyderco knife in tight and
deadly situations and when outnumbered by adversaries.
My three months of daily training sessions, sparring with a retired government
NSA contractor of the U.S. Federal government, came back to me in a flash, and
I was grateful for my older trainer friend's patience in showing me defensive and
slashing moves, over and over and over again until I got them right. He not only trained me, but he had
given me my first honorary Spyderco knife ever in my possession, the one tightly held in my pocket at the moment.
This same knife in my hand had kept burglars and drug addicts away from my
harm in dirtbag cheap hotel rooms in New
York City also, during several other efforts to find
work in that big daddy of a town, too. When a thief enters your roach hotel room and
thinks nobody is at home, and you are lying in bed naked and hungry, yet very
ready to flash such a weapon in their face, or near their crotch. Usually after seeing my Lady Spyderco the intruder inevitably makes some lame excuse and makes a very speedy disappearance.
If only I had such a hand-held effective other useful tools to help my poor mother, who lost
her house and garden and all assets recently to a nursing home conglomerate working hand in hand with State Elderly Care operators, all of them raking in
billions in tax monies state by state, quicker than FEMA in New Orleans, confiscating homes after forcibly committing old folks to first a primary police prison hospital wing, as they arrest and then arrange legally power of attorney to take away all the old personís possessions before their lifetime incarceration in an old folks nursing or rest home.More on that later. In some tight spots,
especially against shifty lawyers and legislators, your splendid Spyderco
knives can be of little help, I am sorry to confess.
After hearing jibes against my race for a quarter of an hour from my place of hiding under the kidís slide, these three
bloods with all their insulting anti-homeless-persons jokes, had never made any
movements closer to me nor any kind of physical threats had been made towards me whatsoever.
The playful young men finally moved on and I took a deep breath afterwards, and
went back to sleep.
About an hour later, for no known reason I have yet entertained to account for
it, my inner and ancient reptilian brain stem became aroused into a state of
red alert! I opened my eyes just in time to see the same two Guyanese illegals
-- who other times before while in DC -- I had seen stealing people's unattended
bags near Union Station. Now in the pitch black darkness they were like jackals
on the prowl, with the morals of a starving leech.
The earlier incident with the harmless three black lads who had parked themselves
quite nearby me to smoke a joint earlier, and who had been debating among themselves which
of them had made off with the most sexual conquests during the preceding week,
they had left me feeling somewhat defensive, and for that reason I had fallen asleep
with my Spyderco knife, my Lady Knife, loosely held in my right hand while
sleeping flat on my back.
My eyes did not focus on the approaching forms in the darkness nearly as
quickly as my fears demanded, and when my pupils did adjust somewhat, I could
only see vague shapes in the blackness, and to my discomfort, I suddenly saw
the whites of four eyes, and then made out the scruffy mustaches and
rodent-like movements of the two attackers crawling commando style towards me
in the uncut and weedy grass of the children's park.
The two attackers were only about 12 feet from me and seemed very confident of
their surprise element in a forthcoming assault on me, and they were hungry
indeed for my travel bag, which i was using as an oversized but hard pillow.
I gripped my knife with intent to kill, sprang like an army recruit doing a
military sit-up going fast-forward, and sprang into an upright sitting attack ready
position. I opened the knife with a swift and final sidewise slicing motion,
swinging my right arm to lock in place the razor sharp jagged-edged knife
blade, ready for immediate action. I was suddenly aware of any and all deadly
blows that would be necessary to be delivered by me, without hesitation, should
the need arise.
This model of your Spyderco knives collection makes a lovely loud snapping
CLICK noise, when it springs all the way forward into lock-and-battle mode,
especially after having been sidewise whipped properly, as taught in training.
The snap-and-click 'KLACK' of my Spyderco boomed like a sonic blast in the
quiet of the night, and directly into the ears of my would
be killers. When they saw the rage in my face and the glint of the open blade
in the dim moonlight, their eyes bugged out of their heads like large golf
balls. They showed me a kind of epileptic seizure condition resulting from
their sudden shock, and then they fled in haste. My travel bag was still at
my side, completely undisturbed.
This allowed me to lay down my sleepy bedeviled head back onto my gear and to
catch a little more shut eye before taking the train to Philly in a few hours
to catch my cheap flight to Trabzon, Turkey, paid for by my old high school friend, now an airline pilot with employee's discounts.
I was not going to try any longer the job market in USA and was bound for Turkey and its neighbor Georgia, to seek teaching and writing or editing work there instead.
But this was not the highest moment of my Spyderco's faithfulness to me in moments of crisis! About that, I will try to tell you properly in my next tale.
click here for JUMPING SHIP IN BATUMI