9 Pound Hammer

He wasn't much for manual labor. He had worked long hours, in hot places, doing dangerous things; but it hadn't been manual labor. It had been work, hard, but not labor. People that have never held a hammer in their hands and used it to either build something or tear it down in the hot summer sun had no idea what labor meant. His hands hurt, they hurt like hell, from wrist to nail. Most mornings he had to use both hands to light his first cigarette, sometimes his second and third. He looked down at them as he moved them from fist to open palmed slap, over and over. He was afraid that one day they were going to eventually just be perpetually stuck in the grip he held the hammer with.

“It's damned hot out here. I swear I saw the devil walk by with a glass of ice water a little before noon.” “I don't suppose that son of a bitch offered to share did he?” “He said he'd be waiting for us in the shade.” “There ain't no shade.” “And there ain't going to be any.”

The conversation stopped and wouldn't start again until the next declaration of extreme temperature. He looked down at the 2x4s and decking planks that lay strewn across the ground in front of him, waiting to be turned into something greater. The sweat rolled off of his shaved head and salt stung his eyes. He had nothing to wipe the sweat away, anything he could have used was already soaked in midday perspiration. He bent over to pick up a board and continued his labor.

The wood didn't talk and it didn't listen. It just waited to be made into something more. He hammered at it, sawed, and drilled. He hammered it like it was an opponent. He was a carpenter, a handyman, a laborer. He had nothing left to fight but the remnants of old forests. He beat on those planks and 2x4s like they had called his mother nasty names and spit in his face. He didn't think about anything but securing one more board to the frame. His mind was clear. His body ached.

“It's hot as Hades, it has to be.” “Pretty close to it if it ain't” “You got the hammer over there?” “Yeah, you need it?” “I do.”

He had to get another hammer. One of his own. He didn't mind sharing but sometimes he just wanted his own. A man needs something of his own to hold onto and a good strong hammer would do during the day. He tried to wipe the sweat away with a soaked sleeve, he looked ahead of him at what remained to be made into more. He glanced over at the remaining remnants, soldiers valiantly waiting to be vanquished. There wasn't much left, just a few more feet to be decked, and it looked to his eye like he had planned things out well enough that he wouldn't have to make any cuts to make the last piece fit square. It was doable.

“It ain't got any cooler has it?” “Did the Devil ever bring you any ice water?” “Here's the hammer back, let's get this done and get out of here.”

He took the hammer in his stiff hands, held onto it tight, and went back to join the fray. His body ached, but his mind was clear. It was filled with thoughts of something softer to hold in his hands, a cool place to lay his head, and the shade of a porch.

The last board was in place. The tools and surviving pieces of wood were loaded. He took one last look around him at the shimmering waves of heat and noticed something there that was not there the day before. Something more. He climbed into the work van, rolled the window down, and started for home. As he cooled off he started to think. He reached down, grabbed the hammer, and gripped it as tight as he could manage. The thoughts slunk back into the darker places and he relaxed. He pushed down hard with his right foot, he had to get home where there was someone softer to hold onto, someone that could keep the thoughts away and not hurt so much in doing so.

“It's going to be even hotter tomorrow.” “It's going to be hotter for a long time to come.” “It ain't even started yet. Two weeks til July.” “A long time.”