On my keychain I carry a very small knife. The blade may be an inch long. I use it to open the many packaged items we provide clients. These items are sealed in a tough plastic, preventing anyone from tampering with them. The thinking must be that things like talking watches could be turned into bombs. But I find it handy to have this small knife to coax the items from within their plastic cocoon. So there we are at SeaTac airport about to enter the beeper box, which my hip replacement always sets off. "Put everything from your pockets into the basket", the young woman requested.
I did. "Oh!" she cried, "A knife!" I almost jumped out of my skin. "A knife?" I stammered. "I don't have a knife". But there it was, dangling from my keychain, almost hidden by the much larger keys. "It's not a knife," I said, "It's a rehabilitation tool developed for opening tough plastic containers."
"It's a knife!" she declared. "If you want to mail it home you may step out of line and..."
"Please," I begged, "keep it." But I gnarled over that little knife for the entire flight to San Diego. Especially when the woman across the aisle pulled out her knitting needles and began "threatening" a helpless wad of yarn.
Curious Carl
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