I named it after a villain in several Disney cartoons because it looked somewhat villainous.
Black Pete was the "pocket knife" that most other boys my age carried. As you can see, it's not a pocket knife by any stretch of the imagination. Yes, it will fit in your pocket, but it's a classic fighting knife. It went with me most places, except school. The one time it did go to school with me, I almost got in a whole heap of trouble.
The rivet that held the blade onto the handle had come loose. This made the blade wobbly and unstable. One of the guys in my science class, Terry,(whom you will hear a little more about next week) said he could fix it. He had a relative that was a gunsmith and had learned a lot from him. I bought Pete to school and slipped him to Terry. A few days later, Terry said he had fixed the rivet and slipped Pete back to me. I put him in my coat pocket in my locker.
During my Freshman year, I had the worst possible gym class. It was the last class of the day. You toted all the stuff you were going to take home to gym with you because there was no time to go to your locker after class and still catch the bus home.
This particular day, we finished our activity and hit the showers. Hurrying through the showers, we grabbed up our stuff and scurried to the buses (some in various states of not quite all the way dressed). As I was running down the hall, and almost to the side door (which was closest for me to catch my bus from gym), Pete flew out of my coat pocket and landed at the feet of the shop teacher.
I scooped that knife up like Brooks Robinson scooped up ground balls at 3rd base and kept right on running. I heard a voice behind me bellow "I don't ever want to see that here again, understand me?" I didn't even look back.