In the fall of 2020 took my sword to get it sharpened at a knife sharpening shop on Pelandale. The sword was a katana, modeled after Japanese samurai swords. It was a gift from my daughter, a cheap souvenir sword she found on a popular online auction website. I only got it sharpened so I could use it to trim the rosemary bushes alongside our backyard fence. When I picked up the sword, the shopkeepers had it wrapped up with shipping tape and brown kraft paper.
Strangely, the charge for sharpening the sword was only five dollars, even though a sign behind the counter at the shop said it cost at least $25.00 to sharpen one. Then the shopkeeper jokingly said, “Hey man, after you unwrap it don’t let anyone else touch it!” We both laughed. I paid the five dollars, said thank you and goodbye to the shopkeepers, and put the sword in the trunk of my car, which meant the compartment behind the rear seat, since I drove around in a 16-year-old station wagon.
I drove too fast on Pelandale on the way to eastern Modesto where I lived and a California Highway patrolman stopped me. When he walked around so he could talk to me through the passenger side window, the first thing he said was, “Sir, what’s that brown thing in the back?”
Damn. I forgot to pull the retractable cover over the back.
“It’s my sword. I just got it from the sharpening guy.”
“Really? Can I take a look at it? I collect swords. I’ve got a couple of medieval broadswords and a scimitar.”
I thought if I let him have a look at the sword, he might be distracted enough to not give me a speeding ticket.
I got out and opened the back. I told him to go ahead and take his time examining the sword. When he unwrapped the sword, he gasped.
“How much do you want for this? Is $1200.00 enough? Wait. I’ll give you $2000.00 right now if you follow me to the bank.
This was an astonishing turn of events. First of all, it wasn’t the sword I took to get sharpened. My sword had a red hilt (handle) and scabbard; the one in my trunk had a golden hilt and scabbard.
I explained to the officer that there must have been a mistake, so we drove back to the knife sharpening shop. Strangely, the store was closed and a sign taped to the door said, “Dear customers, thank you for your support and patronage over the years. We retired and are moving to Crescent City.”
We peeked through the shop window and saw several large shipping crates sitting on the floor, and nothing hung on the bare walls.
“Didn’t you tell me you left this place a few minutes before I pulled you over? How do you explain this?”
“Look, I’m as confused about this as you are. This is weird. I mean, I don’t see how they could’ve packed up this fast. No way. Look at my receipt. See? I was here just 45 minutes ago.”
We both banged on the door for a few moments, but no one answered. The phone number was disconnected as well.
“Do you still want to buy the sword?”
“Hell yes, I do! My bank is across the street.”
Ten minutes later, I had $2,000 in my pocket and the highway patrolman was headed back to the CHP station on Kiernan. He finished his shift and raced home so he could mount the sword on the wall with the rest of his collection. Unfortunately, he cut himself with the sword a couple of months later. It was a very small cut and he put some antibiotic cream and an adhesive bandage on it but he died from blood poisoning three days later.
The patrolman and his wife didn’t have children. She decided to move back to Wyoming to live with her parents. The only things she wanted to keep were her computer, phone, the photo album from her wedding, and a few other small items from her home. She hired a company to sell everything in her house in an estate sale.
The company announced the sale on several websites focused on the Modesto area. I didn’t know about the fate of the friendly patrolman until I arrived at the warehouse where the sale took place, but the $2000.00 sword sat in a barrel with some garden tools, and I bought it again for $15.00. Considering what happened, I wonder if I should have it melted down. I wonder if it’s cursed.