Three weeks ago I wrote a personal story about my older sister titled “The Butter Knife Story” (that’s her next to me in the photo). It was for paid subscribers. At the top of all such posts I put in bold: This post is for paid subscribers so the paid folks know oh yeah this is the shit I give James money for. If you’re a free subscriber, please keep reading. I promise to make it worth your while.
Every time I publish a post and select it only for the paid folks, Substack prompts me with “Hey you wanna tease the free folks with a preview?” Paraphrased. Like, yeah. Give them only part of the story and then hey motherfucker guess what it’s a cliffhanger and if you wanna read the rest you gotta pay.
I subscribe to several Substacks, and many of them do that with ALL their paid posts. You start reading and get into a story and then with no previous warning Nelson from The Simpsons says Ha-HA! pay me for the rest of it. I only do it on rare occasions, and the last time was a few weeks ago with that butter knife thing. I mean, it kinda feels like a dick move, but Substack says hey it really works for increasing paid subscribers and they’re goddamn right it does. I got one angry "That was a dick move!” email, and a whole lot of new paid subs.
Because money, I’ll do it again, sometimes. But you’ll at least know I’m doing it. If you see a post that begins with This post is for paid subscribers and you’re not yet one, then yeah ima leave you hanging. Except not this time. I want to write a bit more here first, but the entire Butter Knife Story that I hosed you free folks on three weeks ago is now included below. Still friends?
The bit more that I want to write is an endeavour in convincing you to please pay me. Not because I need the money, but because I think you’ll like it. I have a lot of paid subscribers, and the drop off rate is really low. When people sign up, they stay signed up. The reason is that they get stuff that I don’t share anywhere else. It’s the more personal stories like this one. Some are fun, some are serious, some are updates about my writing career. It’s the behind the curtain type of stories from long ago, and also things that just happened. Since posting the butter knife piece a few weeks ago several more paid subscriber posts have been published. There was a new one just an hour ago titled “A Dog Named Rice.” The one on January 8 titled “Permission to be a Tough Guy” about the night I met my wife was very popular. If you do go paid, you get access to that, and over three years of older ones.
Did I convince you to upgrade to paid? Here is the thing:
You want to read that butter knife story first? Here you go:
The Butter Knife Story
I spent a lot of time with my sister over the holidays, and it had me wishing we lived on the same block. Like, if I only had to walk a hundred yards to see her, I’d visit all the time, because I love her dearly and we always have a wonderful time just hanging out together. But I work from home and have a home gym and 99% of leaving the house is to exercise outdoors or buy groceries. The groceries part I hate, but I have trust issues with grocery delivery. I need to pick that stuff out myself.
Speaking of groceries, let’s talk butter.
Our father ingrained in us “real” food. So, it’s butter not margarine, mayo not Miracle Whip, and maple syrup not whatever that other shit is. I suppose that sounds elitist, but we grew up pretty poor, and yet it was a priority for him. I just like the taste of all three better, and Lipitor exists.
I love my sister, but holy shit did we fight. One day, we fought over a butter knife.
I remember being about five, living in the “row houses,” which was the poor section of a poor northern town called Burns Lake in British Columbia. Moving there from the beautiful oceanside Victoria on Vancouver Island was what spelled doom for my parents’ marriage. It was 1973, and The Father decided where we would live and after a couple of years The Mother said fuck this place. It’s not the nicest locale and I can’t say I blame her. I would have loved to have gone back to Victoria, but Calgary is all right, I guess.
Anyfuckingway, my sister and I fought. She is two-and-a-half years older and was an early bloomer. I remember in elementary school, which went to sixth grade, she was the tallest kid in the entire school, boys included, when she was only in fifth grade. She was bigger and stronger than I, and our dad continuously warned her that one day I was going to be bigger than her so she should be nice. But she was all that is not this day motherfucker, and tortured me mercilessly.
I would do something that pissed her off, and she would grab my forearms and dig her nails in. I always had these half-moon scabs on my arms from her having done so. While I was writhing in pain from the cat claw treatment, I’d reach a breaking point and she’d realize oh hell he’s gone berserker it’s fuckity bye time and nope out to our parent’s bedroom.
I’d chase her in a fury, wanting blood. She’d jump on the bed, on her back, and present her feet to me so that if I tried to get to her, she would kick me.
And yet, in my fury, I still had a functioning brain. I was cogent enough to not risk a kick to the face. Instead, I’d use a fake. I would go in to punch her, and she’d kick out with one leg, and then Wham! I’d use my other hand to punch her hard in the calf of the leg that kicked at me. And so, my forearms were frequently covered in crescent scabs, and her lower legs often had large purple bruises.
Ah, childhood. That was the regular form of combat, but one time, a knife was involved.
I don’t even know how it began. I had a knife and was using it butter … something. Probably toast or some shit. For some reason, she wanted the knife. Was I taking too long? Were all the other knives dirty? I don’t remember because it was literally half a fucking century ago. But I do remember that I got in major shit for something that wasn’t my fault.
She was pissed at me, and wanted the knife. She came from behind and grabbed my left wrist—my knife was in my left hand, my dominant one—and said, “Gimme that knife,” pulling my arm toward her.
My instinctive reaction was to resist, so she pulled harder, and I guess I decided why the fuck am I resisting you want the fucking butter knife fine you can have it. And so, I let my arm relax, and she quickly pulled my knife-wielding hand toward her face!
I swear to you, your honor, that even though the knife was in my hand, she is the one who stabbed herself with it. I will not waver in this proclamation until the day I die.
It almost got her in the eye. It grazed the skin next to her eye, producing a small scrape and a tiny trickle of blood. And she screamed murder most knifey.
“Jamie stabbed me in the eye with a knife!”
And my parents rushed in and there I am standing in the kitchen holding the attempted murder weapon as she pointed an accusing finger, and I knew I was ever so fucked.
She never apologized for that.
I’ll pitch you going paid again once more:
And don’t forget that I also wrote a book.
In our family it is called letting go of the truck. My brother and a neighbor kid were both pulling on a big, heavy metal toy tow truck. Think 50’s toy truck. My dad had enough and told my brother to let go of the truck which he promptly did. The other kid was pulling on the truck when he let go, if doofed him right in the nose. A trip to the emergency room ensued. My brother only did what my dad asked so no repercussions. It came to be an analogy for situations later in life. If someone wants something so badly, let go of the truck, even when you know the outcome won’t be what they expected.
I think you have a typo? The dog’s name was Rico. I remember because I got teary at work and had to grab a tissue and fake that I had something in my eye.
Justice for Rico! 😂