Knives

We're in the kitchen eating breakfast when my wife tells me she invited the Cripe kid over to show us knives this evening.

   "Knives," I say.

   "Kitchen knives," says my wife.

   "Do we need more of those?"

   "Mrs. Cripe asked me in church if we'd see her son's presentation. How could I say no?"

   "Easy," I say.

   "Come on," says my wife. "The kid's trying to make money for college."

   "Selling knives?"

   "They're supposed to be amazing. There's one that cuts through a penny."

   "Why would anyone need a knife to cut through a penny?"

   "Mrs. Cripe said he goes through this whole demonstration. It could be funny."

   "Sounds expensive," I say.

   "We don't have to buy any."

   "But we will," I say.

   My wife smiles and touches my hand. The corners of her mouth glisten with butter.

   "I guess that depends on how good a salesman he is," she says.

   I don't know the Cripe kid personally. I wouldn't even recognize him if he came into my office and sold me a sandwich. I try to steer clear of my wife's church community. I don't like being around a bunch people who all believe the same thing. I think it's creepy.

   The idea of openly admitting this kid with a suitcase full of sharp, penny-splitting weapons into my home seems reasonably preposterous the more I think about it. I mean, he is a stranger to me. And they are knives.

   Still, I smile back at my wife and we finish breakfast like that, with smiles on our faces.

   Then I go to work.

   First thing at work, I get an angry call from a showroom in Wisconsin about the Magellan. The Magellan is the company's signature RV. It's bigger than the house I grew up in and faster than the car I drive now. Unfortunately, its toilets are exploding after a couple flushes and the buyers are pissed beyond belief. You don't purchase one of the company's recreational vehicles to get sprayed in the face with your own shit. I pray it's just a Wisconsin thing, but by lunchtime I got calls coming in from every showroom in the Midwest. And they're not just about the Magellans, either. Seems we got toilet malfunctions in the Hurricanes, the Chateaus and the Fun Movers.

   This is bad for me. I brokered the deal with the company's new toilet manufacturer. Some argued it was better business to stick with the old supplier at their higher costs. But I didn't agree.

   Once the higher-ups get wind of this there's a good chance I'll lose my job.

   I try to put this fear out of my mind and just focus on damage control. But when Roger Miller stops in front of my desk I figure my time is up.

   I look up at Roger. He's got a false, toothy smile and I'm positive it's to prepare me for the big kiss-off.

   I decide to beat him to the punch.

   "Look, Roger," I say. But I don't know what to say after this, so I just stare at him dumbly.

   Then Roger says, "I hear the Cripe boy is coming over to show you the knives tonight."

    "Where'd you hear that?" I say, kind of taken off guard.

   "He was at our house last night," says Roger.

   "Oh," I say.

   "You should get some," says Roger. "The boy's saving for college."

   "I know," I say. "I mean, I heard."

   "They're good knives," he says. "Quality."

   "Yeah," I say.

   Roger walks back to his office.

   I call my wife but she's not there.

   A couple minutes later Stan from accounting comes over to my desk. He tells me to ask the Cripe kid about the Ultimate Entertainer set.

   "It's the ultimate," he says.

   Later while I'm getting a coffee in the office kitchen Roger's secretary comes up to me and tells me it's okay to haggle with the Cripe kid.

   "None of those prices are fixed," she says.

   Before I leave work, half the office has encouraged me to buy something from the boy. And no one's mentioned the toilets.

   By the time I get home my nerves are kind of blown but I'm not sure if it's because of the job or all the people who know the Cripe kid is coming to my house.

    My wife is in the kitchen dicing tomatoes for a salad with our perfectly good knife from a nearly new set. The kind with the naked oak holder with all the slits for each blade.

    "When does this kid get here?" I ask.

    "What kid?" says my wife.

    I startled her.

    "The kid with the knives?" I say.

    "I don't know," says my wife. "I said he could come after supper."

    "What time?" I say.

    My wife looks concerned. She holds our knife and faces me.

    "Is something wrong?" she asks.

    "Yes," I say. But I don't know what. All I know is that I'm nervous. The day is over. People all across the Midwest are getting showered with their own shit and sometime after supper when my wife and I are in the living room watching television there is going to be a knock on our door.