The Task of the Blade

The apron holds all the tools of her trade: permanent marker, thermometer, quenelle spoon, and blade. Of all, she needs the blade the most. Wusthof steel, the length of her hand. She keeps the edge honed, sharp, ready for every task Chef hands her. All day long, she peels apples, supremes oranges, makes even cubes of soft pear flesh, and carves long, curled rosettes of butter. Her hands, fast and sure, never tremble, rarely err.

When darkness falls and all Chef's tasks are complete, she dampens her whetstone and rasps the metal slowly, just so: seven scrapes one way, seven scrapes back. Repeat.

"Want me to walk you to the subway?" Chef asks as he pulls on a heavy coat. "Seems rough out there."

She shakes her head. Repeats.

"You do that too much," Chef says. "You've already lost some length."

She shrugs. Keeps her count. Repeats.

"Ok, then," he says to her back. He shrugs, too. "Lock up for me, yeah?"

She nods. Repeats.

He leaves her to her last, self-allocated task, the restaurant shuttered around her. The sole bulb left on hangs above her, flashes off the tool's face as she completes her work. She holds the Wusthof up, surveys the edge, nods once more for no one but herself. She's done.

But when she folds her apron up and bundles away her other accouterments, she keeps the blade out on the table. Only after she's pulled on her well-padded coat does she palm the handle, tuck the length under her sleeve.

New York Marches are rarely pleasant. The one she suffers now feels boundless, no more than a brutal prolongment of February, no hope left for a verdant end. Great southerly gusts rush between tall skyscrapers. The cold needles through her buttonholes and snowflakes sneak under her collar, but she does not hurry. She walks slowly, keeps her eyes open for easy targets. The blade, pressed to her arm, grows an uncomfortable sheath of frost.

She rues the weather, a problem for many reasons. Mostly because every creature seems to have sought shelter and retreated from her reach. She can't even hear The Man over the snowstorm's howl, but that doesn't mean he's not there. He's never not there, afloat somewhere between her skull and her soul, ready to hand her an order. Tell her what she needs to do.

She sweet-talks The Man all day at work. Not now, she hums as she chops and cleans. Soon. On the walk home. And he grumbles, seethes, but heeds her. As long as she holds the blade, he'll settle. Only when the blade rests does he rear up. Demand the debt he's owed. Usually, that's the second she leaves the restaurant. But somehow she's gone twelve blocks and not heard a syllable. Perhaps she won't. Perhaps, at last, she's done enough.

A dumb hope, untrustworthy as a warm January day. He'll be back just as soon as he sees what he wants.

She has the brutal method of her art down pat. She puts herself by places away from cameras -- alleys, dumpsters, lonely streets -- and keeps herself unseen by passersby. Here on the streets, as at the restaurant, she puts the blade to work. She does the day's deed, placates The Man, and returns home at last to sleep.

But she's been by all her usual spots and hasn't seen a rat yet. She pauses at the mouth of the subway stop, a cement yawn from below. Have they bunked down on the tracks? Could she get lucky there? Underneath, she'd be warmer, and wouldn't that be better?

She hates to open the door, but must ask The Man what to do.

Yesssss, comes the reply. Below, below, take us below.

And then what? she asks, but he recedes.

She almost doesn't go. She has a backup plan at home, after all, the hamsters she keeps caged on her desk for unsuccessful ventures. But she's grown fond of them, as much as she attempted not to. They've become real to her. Almost human. No, she couldn't bear to do that. Not today. So she pulls her hood further over her face, descends, keeps her ear peeled for a scrabble of claws.

One, two, or three? he chants. He keeps the rhythm of her steps. One, two, or three?

One, she prays. Please, just one.

Her heart thunders as she reaches the platform, but thankfully, the long stretch seems empty. Save what appears to be a bundle of blankets huddled at the far end. The blankets morph and tumble, reveal the sleep-stalled face of a grubby man.

Oh, yes, one, The Man cackles.

Her stomach curdles. She's never been forced to such an extreme as a man. But once she's told, she must do as she's told, and a glance at the LED screen overhead tells her she has not long before the next car appears on the tracks. She drops the blade from her sleeve, lets the length taste the stale subway drafts. She stalks nearer. She pretends he's a bad man; concocts a backstory full of blood and anger. He stole and raped and strangled, she tells herself. He beat the only woman he ever loved. How else could a man end up here?

Closer, The Man urges. Get us there. Do your work, make the cut, take the soul.

But as she grows nearer, she spots a stack of books and newspapers, a sack of food. A cardboard placard, a scrawled, clumsy message: Cold + Hungry. Please help me, as you would help yourself. Her resolve collapses. She casts a cold hand over her mouth, holds back a cry of sorrow and fury. How could she have become such a monster? How could she behold a desperate person and see only prey?

One, one, one! The Man chants. As you've done before, you'll do once more!

But at long last, she hears the sound she's hoped for: the busy chatter of rats, at play below on the metal rungs of the subway tracks. Fast as a fox, she throws herself off the platform. She crouches, creeps as slowly as she dares, spots one close enough to slash at. The world trembles around her. Always does, when she's so close to success. She slashes the blade out once more, but all of a sudden, tumbles to the ground. No, the world actually trembles around her. She buzzes as a fly caught by glass. Too late, she looks up, sees the tra-

The homeless man on the platform has endured many cold hours. Should God see to make so, he'll get many more. The hour he suffers now seems oddest.

A lady had stood just two feet away, crazy-eyed. He knew what those eyes meant. He'd pretended to sleep. Had learned, long and hard, that way was best to prevent the worst. Just as he prepared to meet the God he prayed to, she turned and hopped down onto the tracks.

But she stayed too long. A screamer of a subway car came through. He'd watched. Too fast to even warn her, the poor mad wretch. Oh, he'd pray to God for her, he would. And when she pancaked, an object flew from her and skated the cement. Looked metal. Sharp.

Now, all around, doors open. People shout. He plucks the object from the ground. A dagger, oh, yes, that's clear. Feels good to hold. Strong. Angry? Blue men swarm the platform, hunt for the lady. He doesn't trust them -- has seen them crazy-eyed, too. He wants to get scarce.

One, says God, for who else could that be? A hum from the bone marrow, a command from the very soul. One!

The man abandons the books and blankets. Dagger at hand, God at the helm, he runs above to the cold world and does what he's told.