mid morning sunday, there was the clang of a bell outside our building, like an old schoolhouse call, or maybe a dinner bell on the ranch, something that sounded like the 1941's best ice cream truck in the world. i ran to the window. NO WAY, i breathed, as a black and white beauty rolled by, emblazoned with words in cursive: Mike's Sharpening.
this sent me into a mini frenzy, bouncing between desk and sofa and cat like a pinball. ruggy! i yelled. should i go get my scissors sharpened? ruggy raised his eyebrows. if you put some pants on.
a second glance out the window confirmed that mike and his truck were moving on down the road. SCREW IT, i said, grabbed my shears and threw on my floor length down coat.
mike had paused halfway down the block, allowing new yorkers to let their curiousity get the best of them. normally rageful traffic paused, and let me dart out into the street with delight. the back of mike's truck was open: well hello, how are you today. HI I'M FINE THIS IS THE COOLEST THING EVER. mike, to his credit, did not turn the lunatic lady in tony the tiger pajama pants and pink puffy moon boots away. are these worth sharpening? i cut through two metal pins with them... mike eyed them. i eyed his left thumb, which was heavily bandaged to roughly the size of a snowball. i counted this as a good sign. yes dear, these are good scissors. i handed over my bit up ginghers, and, sparks flying, mike restored them to their original brilliance in five minutes. this beauty entertained me as mike and apprentice did their work...
is she the sweetest or WHAT. now be careful with these, the handle will be hot, mike instructed. i gleefully handed over a fiver, skipped back up the block, and cackled as my ginghers sliced like butter through a leather remnant. the transformation was so good, i ran right back out with my replacement ginghers and an eight inch chef's knife. by this time mike had attracted a little crowd. a doorman from down the block held a pair of orange handled fiskars with great tenderness. neighbors scurried out of buildings with entire butcher's blocks. a jogger struck up a conversation with me. does he come here all the time? she queried hopefully. nope! only like every three months he said! and there's no number on his truck or anything, he doesn't even tweet! i got so excited when i saw him, i ran out here in my PAJAMAS!
two minutes into ranting at her i realized i hadn't brushed my teeth yet.
the fact that anyone would strike up a conversation with a woman wearing frosted flakes, HOLDING AN EIGHT INCH KNIFE, only speaks to the wonderment that mike's truck caused. suddenly hyper aware of my coffee breath, i held in my sigh of relief as mike handed me my wares. now be careful when you're doing dishes, this'll cut ya!
is that what happened to his thumb?
i've heard of this sort of thing, but never in manhattan. at least not present day manhattan. and i missed out on sharpening my mundial thread clippers! mike, you beautiful man, i'll be waiting for you. and this time my teeth will be brushed.