Summer Of The Knife

Sixty-five years on Earth, and I’d never had reason to look with concern at the sharp end of a knife. A revolver was pulled on me once, and pointed straight at my chest at point-blank range. That was a long, long time ago. But never a knife. Not until last week.

It was a Sunday evening at the beach motel. I approached a large group of loud twenty-somethings. My intent was to politely suggest that they turn down the noise. It took maybe two minutes to climb one flight of steps and walk down one wing of the motel. In that time, the group dispersed. Three young, white males remained to confront me.     Continue reading