When the days get longer and the sap rises, I feel that old, familiar urge. Actually, I feel several urges, but the safest one to act on is building something. Not that you can’t hurt yourself with chain saw, you can, but even if you saw off a limb, your marriage stays intact. Know what I mean? So when the flowers appear on the Earth and the time of the singing of birds is come, I head to Home Depot. Not that I’m adding a wing to my house or anything. One, I don’t live in a house, I live in a Manhattan apartment so small that the only place to add a bookshelf is on the ceiling (don’t try it) and, two, I’ve never built anything in my life. It’s the idea of building that appeals to me - especially if it involves shopping for tools. Thus, when the year’s at the spring and the day’s at the morn, I head to my local Home Depot with one thing in mind – erection.
“I don’t need a reciprocating saw and it doesn’t need me. Is that how the tool got its name?” “No,” said Joe, my friendly salesman at the first Home Depot to open in Manhattan, “It means the blade goes back and forth.”
“But don’t all saws do that?”
“If they have crosscut blades. A ripsaw, for instance, is better suited for moving in one direction.”
“Can a reciprocating saw have a rip blade?”
“That would be difficult.”
“It can make a big loop like an elliptical trainer.”
I trace loops through the air with my hands while Joe grips invisible hammers with his. “I’m sorry, you want Salon Depot,” he sneers, “where people discuss tools instead of buying them.”
Actually, he doesn’t say that, but it’s possible because, as I’m sure Joe realizes, I’m there as a tourist. After puzzling over laser operated measuring devices (Why don’t they shoot holes through walls?) and racking my brain for a reason to buy one (“Honey, it’s so much more accurate than our old, steel tape measure.”) I need a new department. Someplace where I can impress the sales help with my knowledge.
Within minutes, I am confronted by an attractive, young woman with a perky, blonde bob and an orange apron. Her name tag says, “Becky Sue.”
“Can I help you?”
“Yes.” I strike a casual pose. “My second floor lintels between the lally columns. I’m thinking of rabbeting them.”
“That hot water heater you’re leaning on won’t help.”
I tilt my head forward and look up at her (which is hard because she’s shorter than me) and fix her with my most superior “ I can’t believe you said that” look.
“When I work, I need strong coffee and,” rapping twice on the heater, “lots of it.”
Becky Sue snorts (that could be her full name) and I decide to seek more familiar environs like sinks and toilets.
Too familiar, I’m afraid. Even my apartment has a bathroom and a kitchen; I want something exotic. Something with hidden glamour that your typical homeowner takes for granted. Like gutters and downspouts. So, I go over to home improvements and if there’s any glamour in gutters, it’s well hidden. I consider returning to tools, when I see them - my goal, my destiny. Propped up next to the shovels (trenching, round point and wide mouth) are exactly what I’ve come for - a gleaming row of axes.
There’s only one thing to do with an axe – heft it. So, I pick one up by its bright yellow, fiberglass handle and feel the weight. There’s something deeply satisfying about hefting an axe. It also feeds into several of my fantasies. As I stand there, hefting, I realize two of my favorites are merging into one in which, wearing a hockey mask and dancing like Jacques D’Amboise, I chase Jane Powell through the woods of Oregon, screaming for blood. Unfortunately, my lips are moving as I daydream. Returning to reality, I notice shoppers slowly moving away and a crouching security guard approaching. Now, I think, may be a good time to leave.
I walk slowly, but purposefully, to the front door, carefully avoiding the grills. I enjoy grilled food, but I prefer not cook it myself owing to an experience several summers ago when I poured lighter fluid onto a gas grill. Not, I should add, the holocaust you’d expect. It just wouldn’t go out for several days.
Although I’m leaving empty-handed, I consider my trip a success. After all, every home repair that I do is one less job for a struggling plumber or carpenter. Not buying anything at Home Depot is, in its way, a silent vote for the working man. Yet, I am denied even this fantasy. As I walk out the front door, I see a man in an “Acme Plumbing” T-shirt loading three pipe wrenches and a reciprocating saw into the back of his Rolls Royce.
