Recent bloodshed

The other day I bought a bookshelf for my room in an attempt to put some order to the piles of books currently occupying the floor space between my fridge and my bed. The shelf was a bargain, $39 and flat packed for my convenience, so I snapped it up at the local Officeworks and lugged it home: “Nooo, I don’t need any assistance, thanks,” I told the boy serving me, “I live just down the road.” But after carrying it for a mere twenty metres I felt every gram of its 8.2kg. Pretty pathetic right?

I opened the cardboard box with a key and removed all its many pieces, sorting the A pieces into one pile, the B pieces into another, and so on. I noticed the little screws were Philips head as I noted that I do not have a Philips head screwdriver, or any screwdriver for that matter, except for the small ones on two pocket knives (one of which is buggered). I searched my room for the pocket knife with the working screwdriver to no avail, adopting the frenzied practice of searching the same cupboards and drawers several times in a vain hope that the knife I was after would materialise solely by my will. Predictably, such a practice failed to turn up the knife.

I inspected the screws once more, considering the best path of action. I reasoned I had several options that I could explore, each with their own unique downside: I could a) walk to Officeworks to buy a screwdriver, however this would probably be very expensive considering I am only using it to put together one shelf; b) walk to Glebe to buy a new screwdriver from the discount store, which would be much cheaper, probably only a couple of dollars, however I was totally stuffed so the walk there and back would not do me any good; c) ask a housemate for a screwdriver, but everyone was out at the time and I am not very patient; or d) use the actual knife in the pocket knife to screw in the screws, which, while somewhat dangerous, was going to get the job done now. I chose to take path D.

I slowly assembled the shelf, using the knife to screw the screws into position slowly and carefully. I soon found that while turning the screws was an easy task with the knife, tightening them was considerably harder—as soon as the screws met any kind of resistance it became very difficult to turn and I was worried of twisting the knife—yet still I persisted.

As I was tightening one fateful screw with the knife, the screw met resistance fairly quickly, far too quick for me to stop the turning action of my hand. As my hand continued turning—the knife not turning anymore due to its newfound obstruction—the blade started to fold itself towards the knife casing, coming crashing down on the second finger of my right hand and gouging a deep gash into its flesh. The deep gash promptly bled like a fountain, dripping on the shelf and the floor.

After instinctively sticking my finger into my mouth, an action whose effectiveness baffles the logical mind, I wrapped it up in a bandaid and looked at my bed for guidance as my finger throbbed. “What now?” I asked my mute bed. “How the hell am I supposed to screw in the screws to make the shelf sturdy, and how, furthermore, am I to use the shelf when the screws are not tightened, making for a very rickety shelf indeed.” My bed, being inanimate, offered no advice. It did its best to entice me to lie down, however, and rest for a bit before worrying about the shelf and/or losing any digits.

I lay down and exhaled at length. Glancing over at my bedside table I saw the pocket knife hiding under a novel, silently mocking me with its proximity to the recent bloodshed. I opened the small screw driver, creating an awkwardly corkscrew shaped tool, and used this to tighten the screws. Bookshelf now set up, I loaded it with my books and DVDs, only to realise I would have to move it once the carpet is steam cleaned. Talk about suffering for small luxuries.