It seemed like a coincidence at first. I’d just finished cleaning my favorite carbon steel trench knife on the walk home from work. The job’s stressful, and cleaning my knives gives me some time to think. Usually. That afternoon, an investigative journalist threw himself out his window and landed on my knife thirteen times.
Quite a sight.
Normally I’d get mad, since I’d just gotten the blade clean enough to see my reflection. But the novelty made me smile. Bad luck makes for great water cooler stories, and I try to be a good sport. Besides, one clumsy lightweight was no reason to resent everyone reporting on police corruption.
Two weeks later, the author of a Panama Papers sequel made a running, neck-first leap at my knife. I was cutting into a western omelet, as one does, and found both my food and best black balaclava covered in blood. Needless to say, I felt a little violated. One evening of trying to get blood out of wool should tell you why.
By the time a Burmese photojournalist thrusted my knife into both his lungs, I was used to the pattern. I started wiping down my knife before he’d even finished choking on blood. There are some stains that can’t wait. If you dawdle, your best knife smells like fourth estate small intestine for the next year.
The incidents have slowed down this week. Only two war correspondents side-flipped onto my knife, sticking the landing with their eye sockets. I barely noticed. I was too caught up trying to imagine why. What motivated reporters to ruin my weekends by dismembering themselves?
Maybe it’s about attention. A journalist might imagine himself as a modern Hunter S. Thompson, and wonder why they’re never part of the story itself. Slitting their own throat three times in international waters might be their way of seizing the spotlight. While I respect professional ambition, I expect respect in turn. The relationship between a man and his trench knife is private. There isn’t room for a Columbia School of Journalism class reunion.
My point is that it pays to give people privacy. Sometimes that means letting me finish my breakfast in peace. Sometimes that means leaving photos of Middle Eastern monarchs alone. In both situations apply a little human decency. The life you save might be your own.