I’ve always been one to live light. Not that I’m some kind of enlightened Buddhist, transcending the desire for material pleasures, but I don’t tend to carry things with me for long. As a teenager, when I first got into computers, I would always be buying new parts and selling the old ones. “I can’t wait to buy this from you for half price.” My friend would tell me after hearing about my latest purchase. I think this only further justified my spending habits as they were also reinforcing my friendships. A win win. During the pandemic I also discovered minimalism, a sickening ideology that teaches you to fill your home with as little as possible. I was tossing clothes, replacing all my lightbulbs with 5000 kelvin ones, and hanging blank canvases on the wall. My apartment was white, sterile, and empty, a palatial estate to the most boring people on Earth. The problems with living like this are too numerous to get into right now but one advantage was that by having relatively few possessions, I was able to move house with ease. And with the price of rent skyrocketing after the pandemic downsizing into a shoebox was fairly painless. I had a nice shoebox, the space was well optimized and it was in a nice neighbourhood but once my student loan payments started I needed to find somewhere else. I tried to hold out for as long as I could but eventually got fed up with having to choose between buying cheese or buying toilet paper. So I chose to leave Halifax and move in with my father in St-Constant, a city just outside of Montreal. Maybe then, in the company of the French, I could have all the cheese I wanted. At this point in my life I had moved so many times and had so few possessions that I was able to pack everything I needed into the back of my bicycle. I had two panniers, one on each side of the bike, filled only with my clothes and a set of really expensive pots and pans. I really love those pots and pans, they were the first major purchase I made after moving out on my own and hope to have them with me until I die. I want to be cooking for friends and family when I’m 89 years old and tell people how I moved to Montreal with only these pots and pans and a bunch of clothes. They would think I was so austere because I lived through a mass casualty event or economic catastrophe but it was really just because I watched too many videos on YouTube about minimalism.
I spent the next few years living at my fathers, buying only the essentials. This included things like a standing desk, a hot yoga subscription, and a series of three wall ornaments each of containing the words live, laugh, and love. Just the necessities of life as a member of the work-from-home class. After several years of isolating suburban life, I was ready to live in the city proper. “I want you to know, you can stay as long as you want.” My dad told me. “But it’s also good that you’re spreading your wings because gas isn’t getting any cheaper.” And he was right. In fact, everything is getting more expensive. Living in the suburbs with my father meant I saved money not eating out (there was nowhere to go) but I was spending so much money on gas. And anytime I did go into the city, I was in such a state of withdrawal from city life that I spent a small fortune on coffee, treats, and fried duck. I did this so much that I seriously considered getting a second job to support my fried duck intake. This is something my father also encouraged as he works three jobs, not for any financial reasons however. “At least I don’t drink.” He says. Many people in my age cohort don’t drink either but this is for financial reasons.
July 1st, Quebec’s national moving day, comes around and instead of celebrating confederation, millions of Quebecois(es) are starting the summer in a new home with new people and a new lease on life. This is not exactly a pun because the way things are now, a housing crisis and so on, life really does feel on lease. My father graciously agreed to help me move what few things I had: A suitcase filled with my pots and pans kept protected by clothing, a plastic tub of more clothes, and my yoga mat. I thought this would be sufficient given my previous move but I was seriously mistaken. During the first few weeks in my new place my credit card could have won first place in a body building competition by how much I was working it out. I was eating out every meal because while I had my wonderful pots and pans with me, I didn’t have a knife to cut with. “Another 45$ on Bahn Mi sandwiches this week, Devon? The authoritative voice in my head tells me as I read my bank statements. This is the voice of my mother, the voice of reason and delivers her words with a hint of disappointment. Another voice chimes in: “The less you eat, drink, buy books, go to the theatre or to balls, or to the pub, and the less you think, love, theorize, sing, paint, fence, etc., the more you will be able to save and the greater will become your treasure which neither moth nor rust will corrupt—your capital. The less you are, the less you express your life, the more you have, the greater is your alienated life and the greater is the saving of your alienated being.” Here is the voice of Marx, always trying to get me into trouble. Unfortunately, telling the bank that “Marx told me to spend all my money on sandwiches” is not going to help my credit score. So I decided to take control of my life and buy a knife.
During the pandemic I would watch these videos of Japanese street vendors cooking food. The videos had no commentary, just a delicate performance between the diced vegetables and seafood as they danced on a hot oily grill. The chefs in these videos always had giant square knives and could cut large vegetables with ease. “If I buy a knife like this, maybe I’ll eat more vegetables” I thought to myself. This of course is bullshit but back then I felt the need to justify my desires beyond wanting something because it looked cool as hell. So ever since then, I’ve dreamt of owning one of those knives. And because I had already spent the GDP of a small nation on Vietnamese food, I decided to look for a used knife instead of a new one. After a few minutes of searching on Kijiji, I found exactly what I was looking for. The posting had a single photo of a large square knife still in the plastic packaging. Even though it was just a picture, I could see myself in the shiny mirror finish, a vision of culinary excellence reflected back at me. As badly as I wanted it, I had to respect my #1 rule of Kijiji negotiations which is act like you’re not interested. To keep my desire close to the chest I send the default “Is this available?” message. A few hours later I hear back from the seller and offer $40, $10 less than the asking price. This is where I would make a joke about “The Art of the Deal” but those kinds of jokes get you in serious trouble now. The seller accepts my offer we make arrangements to meet at their home the next day.
Walking towards the sellers house it settles into my mind that I am buying a knife from a complete and total stranger. “Please be safe, Devon.” I hear the voice of my mother again. Never in all my life have I felt threatened by a Kijiji purchase but the thought of being stabbed to death is now inescapable. The front page of The Montreal Gazette flashes in my head, the title reading: “Montreal man stabbed to death with a knife that looks cool as hell.” While I recognize that my fears are wholly imagined, it doesn’t stop them from feeling real. As I approach the house I feel my senses heighten. The arboreal residential road I’m walking down feels active. Like a magnet, my eyes lock onto every bird, squirrel or leaf that moves by me. The sound of people coming in and out of their homes dances on my ear drums like a violent ballet. For all I know, the sound of the jet passing over head could actually be a predator drone waiting to make its move. I pick up my pace. Checking the map on my phone, I see that the house is just ahead. A few minutes later I arrive at the apartment building’s front door and take a moment to calm myself. “In through the nose…” A take a deep inhale. “And out through the mouth…” This helps quite a bit. I message the seller to let them know I’ve arrive. “Je suis en bas.” I say. They buzz me into their building and I enter the dark, stone and ceramic hallway. The late evening sun trickles in through central window providing just enough light for me to see my feet. I ascend the stairwell and with each passing step a fantasy develops in my mind. I try to imagine how I could use my athletic abilities to out maneuver a potential knife-equipped assailant. I’m halfway through the screenplay for the next Guy Ritchie movie when I arrive at the door. “I’ve done this a million times, I know I’m safe” I reassure myself. I have a better chance of winning the lottery or dying in a plane crash (although this becoming all too common) than chopped to bits. I unclench my jaw and knock on the door.
Never in a million years could I have imagined what would be before me. The door swings open and I almost shit my pants. A man no taller than me but with a gut the size of a car tire presents himself, filling out the door frame. He’s completely shirtless but hairy enough that I doubt he feels like anything’s missing. He materializes the knife from behind his back the way a cartoon character would and shows it to me. My toes are vibrating like 10 little radioactive isotopes, ready to run me into the next dimension but my mind is holding me still. “Vous êtes un chef ?” He asks. I’m surprised by how gentle he sounds, like if Goliath had a younger brother who went to therapy. I’m also confused by the question. I’m wearing a white shirt and tie, so maybe I look like a front of house staff but they don’t do the cooking. Maybe he’s trying to use confusion to disarm me, just enough so that he can land his first blow with the knife. I reply with a simple “non” and hand him his money. Normally I’m a wellspring of idle chit-chat, but right now the well is dry. I take the knife, we exchange goodbyes, and as soon as he closes the door I take off down the stairs. Like an overflowing bathtub, I can feel my emotions pouring out of me. Whatever strength I was drawing on to steady myself during that interaction is now completely gone. My hands are shaking as I try and operated the auto locking building door. The handle falls shut on each failed attempt as if to mock me for being so afraid. What was there left to fear? I’m the one with the knife now. I hold all the power. And yet, I’m still shaking as I try to turn this deadbolt. Finally I hear a click and I blow the door wide open. I step out of the building and start putting considerable distance between the apartment and myself. I’m halfway home when I decide to take the knife out of my bag and look at it properly. I take it out of its plastic wrapping and see the face of a man who’s been shaken, the colour drained from his face. “You look pale, Devon, you should eat something.” My mother is right, I’m clearly in no shape to be doing anything other than eating. I also notice in my reflection, just behind my head, is a cute little Afghani restaurant. I walk over to the restaurant and peer into the window. I see woman with her hair slick back, wearing cute little hat, chopping cucumbers. “I guess it wasn’t bullshit.” I think to myself, this knife really is getting me to eat more vegetables.