the "pakistani"

we called it the "pakistani."

a curved dagger-type knife, purchased in Tijuana.

my Dad bought it, i think.

my mom protested, of course.

a very early memory -- clouded, disjointed.

selective...

kids.

thirteen going on 30. peddling chiclets -- cellophane wrapped white gum.

and the Indians -- sitting crossed-legged on the concrete, hawking beads and thatched baskets.

cheap shit, something undoubtedly found in a dumpster, reclaimed for the gringos' and their rumpus rooms.

tossed a few pennies their way, but they didn't look up -- just kept stringing beads.

big broad brown faces.

high-cheeked, deadpan.

wondered where they slept.

saw a small shanty town near an open sewer -- their only safe haven.

and it stunk to high hell, probably keeping the Federali's @ bay.

random debris floating by, coalescing around an abandoned VW Bug.

ceramic mickey mice baking in the sun high above on the bridge, overseeing the squalor.

but this was about my "pakistani" knife.

i lost it years ago.

shame, it was a good knife.

nearly got a wild hair up my ass and bought this thing...nearly.