88 JULY/AUGUST _ 201 POPULARMECHANICS.COM
Given a choice between carrying only my cellphone or my pocketknife, I’ll take my knife every
time. No joke. It has two simple blades. I keep the large one sharp, and long ago let the small
one go dull. Big and small, sharp and dull. One blade cuts twine, opens over-packaged products
from CVS, cuts into the seams of troublesome mail. It is often sharper than any kitchen knife, and so I illet with it at the grill, trim chicken
skin on the coals, peel apples while watching television. The other has a squared-of point, so it can double as a screwdriver in a pinch. I use
it for nudging, scraping, prodding, freeing up, prying, and notching. I clean my ingernails with it. Twenty-six years ago, my dad slid that
pocketknife to me across his desktop. No special occasion, no engraved initials. At irst I held on to it mostly by accident, and eventually I
got stubborn with the sentiment of possession. It leaves me feeling capable, useful—a little more clever than I am normally.
Yes, my phone allows me to keep my world in order, but it’s jammed with obligation, like a bulky oice desk I tote around on one thigh. But
my pocketknife is what I carry to survive, to get me to the next place I’m going. I always know I’ll need it when I get there. —To m C h i a r e l l a
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MY POCKETKNIFE
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