Ten Inch Buck Knife

I don’t remember where I got it. It might have just been an artifact floating around the house. I know why I carried it, but looking back it seems ill-conceived and dangerous, ’cause it was.

A ten inch Buck knife.

I was seventeen years old and exploring boundaries. Personal, familial, behavioral, relational, social and civic. The usual adolescent mishegoss. I was not enrolled in high school and I just did whatever struck me during the days (and nights). However, I had a limited income and resources. I was flying blind, so to speak, figuring it out (or not) on a moment to moment basis. Part of my adventure was nightclubbing. I would go out with people if they were available (mostly Frank and Angel from Wakefield), but I would just as soon venture out on my own if no one was around.

i started going to bars, concert venues and nightclubs when I was thirteen, thanks to older relatives. I started at Max’s Kansas City on Halloween 1977, but that’s a sweaty palmed story for another time. You could get into places under the right circumstances. I grew comfortable in nocturnal environments.

My favorite place was Danceteria. It was somehow easy, quickly grew familiar and offered a host of possibilities. Haoui Montag, the club performer, was the primary doorman and he took a shine to me (and many young men of the portal). He was always very cordial and would let me in for free. The problem with this seemingly perfect set up is that I lived in the northeast Bronx, and getting to Danceteria meant riding the 2 train from 238th St. and White Plains Road in the Bronx to 14th St. or switching for the 1 at 42nd street in the late evening. Point is, it’s a long train ride, loaded with random chance.

1972 Vignelli Subway Map

In my estimation, to make this trip by myself, I needed some form of physical protection. At least, that must have been my thinking because I started carrying this large folding knife with me. It was about ten inches long when open, had a wooden handle, and a significant blade.

I’m not, nor ever have been, the street-fighting type. As an adolescent, I was skinny, somewhat androgynous, and certainly fit no one’s description of a tough guy. The decision to carry the knife was made, I’m sure, based on a combination of fear and folklore surrounding the subway. All that being said, on my solo excursions to Chelsea I carried the large knife. It was cumbersome and inconvenient and difficult on the dance floor. I regretted its’ presence frequently as I sought to keep it concealed at all times.

I never pulled the knife in the dozens of trips I made to 21st Street.

Danceteria, Opening night at 21st Street.

I never had occasion to, with the exception of one occurrence.

It was an early spring evening that found me at Danceteria on this particular. I can’t recall if there was a band that night or it was exclusively DJ’s. Regardless, events proceeded at their pace and I found myself at the relatively deserted first floor bar as the evening drew to a close, approximately 3:30 am. I remember the sparsely populated space, with the dance music blaring. The bar at the back of the large room with the DJ booth above it. The room was on the dark side and the color of available light had a blue hue to it.

In walked John Lydon. By himself.

I was a seventeen year old kid and suddenly found myself in close proximity to one of the most prominent faces in the world as far as I was concerned. At that particular stage of my life I recognized everyone and would, without hesitation, greet them as if I had been formally introduced, which sometimes didn’t turn out so well.

I went right up and introduced myself and offered him a drink. (With money I had procured from my sleeping grandmother’s purse. I know I have plummeted reputation-wise in your eyes, but this is journalism goddammit! It actually isn’t, and I’m mortified.) As I remember, he accepted and we chatted for a few, me shaking in my shoes, astonished at my situation. He chose a gin and orange and I joined him. Somewhat surprisingly, he danced at the bar and smiled. We talked about politics briefly, because that was all I talked about at the time as Reagan was President.

Then, because I was intimidated and wanted to seem cool, I finished my drink and wandered off and out to the subway as my night now seemed complete and the club was shutting down. I walked down to 14th Street and caught the 2 up to the Bronx. By the time I reached 238th Street the sun was coming up.

As I walked home from the train I reflected on the events of the evening and was particularly focused on my brush with Lydon. I thought about him and his vaguely political stance and the fact that he agreed with my criticism of Reagan. As I turned the corner of Nereid (238th Street) and Edson Avenue I came upon a house with a small American flag on display over the front walk.

The flag really caught my eye. It was one of those flags they give out at parades and patriotic celebrations, nylon, made in China with a little dowel for a pole. The scale of the flag was too small for the setting and so, seemed somehow pathetic and cheap. Which annoyed me.

The thought of destroying the flag occurred to me and I stopped to stare at it. I considered burning it but that seemed equally cheap and futile so I kept on walking down the block. Thinking of the evening, thinking of nothing, I approached the corner of Edson and Pittman Avenues. There was a schoolyard on the southwest corner. Standing in front of the schoolyard was a young man I knew from the neighborhood. Let’s call him “C”. Average height and build, blonde center-parted hair and bomber jacket. He seemed to be glaring at me and his body language was very confrontational. As I crossed the street he spoke to me, “What were you doing back there?” “Where?” “You know, up the street from the way you just came.” “I wasn’t doing anything” I replied as the flag flashed in my mind. “What were you doing?!” he insisted.

“I was burning a flag, what’s it to you?!” “Oh yeah?! Well, that’s my fuckin’ house you’re talking about.” he replied as he stepped to me. “The problem with this neighborhood is people like you! Goddamn n….. lovers.”

He was talking about the fact that I wore various plastic and enamel badges on the lapel of my coat and among these were a Lion of Judah, and African and Jamaican colors. I was at this point of my life living in the Wakefield section of the Bronx. The specific neighborhood I was living in was experiencing “white flight” which was not well accepted by those left behind. I, being a contrarian at least, embraced the change and enjoyed my interactions with my new neighbors, which led to some ongoing acquaintances.

It was then that he proceeded to punch me in the head. As his hand withdrew from the vicinity of my head I glimpsed the brass knuckles on his right hand. I pushed him, but he came back at me. I wandered into the street trying to escape. Dazed and surprised, I covered my head as he pummeled me with the brass knuckles, making contact with my skull several times. I pushed him away again and turned to get away. As I turned I noticed people watching from the sidewalk. I remember yelling at them for their acceptance of my brutalization. I ran down Edson Avenue and straight to my house. He chased me briefly but apparently lost interest.

The knife. Frankly, it’s probably for the best that I never even thought of it. Because just as much as I was not a street fighting man, my assailant was. Introducing the knife into the situation created the potential for all kinds of outcomes, none of them good. More than likely I would have had to fight to prevent getting stabbed myself.

In the house I tried to gather myself. I returned the knife to its resting place and went into the downstairs bathroom to look at my face. I was pretty beat up, having sustained many metal fortified blows in a short period of time. It was early enough that my grandmother was awake and inquired about my well-being. When I revealed my self she gasped, which did not comfort me. I picked up the phone and called the police, describing what had occurred to me. In the interim my Uncle Steve was awakened to bear witness.

Two Black police officers appeared at my Grandmother’s door about thirty minutes later. They asked where the victim was, because somehow they had the impression that I was black. I explained that it was me and described the epithets that had been hurled at me before and during my assault.

We got into their squad car, Uncle Steve accompanying me for moral support I suppose. On the way to the Precinct we drove past the corner schoolyard where I was assaulted, and there he was. Just hanging out. There was another squad car on hand and they took him into custody. He went quietly, without any real objection.

We proceeded to the Precinct. As we walked in one of the cops said “What? Are we arresting a rock band or something?!” in observation of our appearances. They now had him in custody and all they needed was my statement. I gave my statement and went home and collapsed, leaving the icing of my wounds for when I woke up.

The case went into the courts and I had no support or interest really. I showed up for the first couple of hearings but eventually was suffocated by the New York City judicial system and couldn’t keep pursuing it.

In the interim two interesting things happened regarding the event.

One Saturday afternoon my aggressor’s mother appeared at my grandmother’s house, pleading his case and asserting the fact that he was really a “good boy”. I wasn’t there but my grandmother listened. She reported the event in a sarcastic tone.

Then, one afternoon, while Uncle Steve and I were driving up Edson Avenue, some friends of the kid, from the neighborhood, boxed us in near the corner where I was assaulted and started getting out of their cars to approach us, but out of nowhere my Uncle Jerry appeared and they got frightened and split. My Uncle Jerry was famous for his fighting in the very schoolyard adjacent to where I was attacked and his reputation proceeded him.

Finally, after the case had died and had almost been forgotten, I heard through the grapevine that “C” got arrested for selling cocaine to an undercover FBI agent. Which was somewhat satisfying, I guess. My perception of the event is blunted by time and space, yet the whole thing resonates with a conflict born of dread and ignorance. Although I found some gratification in “C”.’s subsequent arrest, I am now not the kind of person that wants to see anyone make mistakes which entangle them in the legal system. I wonder what the environment was in that house behind the souvenir flag. What produced someone like that? Like what, you ask? Someone standing angrily on the corner of Edson and Pitman Avenues at 6 am, armed with brass knuckles and the inclination to use them. That kind of someone.

Conversely, what kind of someone carries a ten inch buck knife with him every night on the town? I’m just another imbecile grinding my way through this existence. I have my own baggage, which conditions me to understand that we all have something to contend with.

I have no idea how things turned out for “C” but I hope he found happiness. I’m aware of how corny that sounds, but I really do. I have learned some form of the concepts of love and forgiveness over the years and my slogan is “I’m rooting for everybody!” Which isn’t always easy, but is ultimately more fruitful. Imagining people as people, with lives and obstacles and aspirations, makes my interactions more balanced and meaningful. Which is good, right? I mean, make fuckin’ lemonade.