Sledgehammers, Strippers & The Purpose-Driven Life
I cradled the sledgehammer handle just behind the head, finding that elusive perfect balance point as I ambled through the parking lot of the Saturday Night Live Exotic Topless Dancers club. The callow day bespoke of endless possibilities for a purpose-driven man wielding a well-balanced eight pounder. Passing drivers shot questioning glances, weighing the risk of getting to work late against the opportunity to witness a violent crusade firsthand.
Alas, the reality of the situation portended no media-attracting outrage, no scenes of one man walking tall to stand alone against the evils of semi-public lewdity. I was on a mission, to be sure, but a mission aspiring only to get me to work. While still supine in the arms of Morpheus, my morning's repose had been shattered by my daughter's distraught phone call lamenting the lack of air pressure in her car's tire. I attired with alacrity and although semi-dazed, located her vehicle in a church parking lot, pastored by a man with whose wife I had shared a classroom while a teacher some years before. That trivia had no bearing on the situation, other than to foreshadow the dawn of an ominously unique day.
Too soon I discovered that the wheel was rusted on to the hub, such that vigorous kicks were incapable of dislodging it despite the prior removal of all lug nuts. Determined to vanquish my foe, I sent my daughter to work in my van. Her last glimpses of the scene including my desperately ineffectual heaves of the spare tire against the recalcitrant wheel, followed by mad sprints after the spare as it rolled mockingly away, defying my attempts to impose order on the increasingly Monty Python-esque situation. I wondered if she despaired of my sanity in that deplorable moment as she drove out of sight. I momentarily thought of discarding any remaining dignity and sprinting after her, but envisioning her eyes locked straight ahead and her lips firmly clenched in a brave attempt to stifle the tears at the thought of her father's valiant sacrifice on her behalf, I grasped the import of the scene--never again would I be my little daughter's knight in shining armor if I failed in this quest. Surely the armor was tarnished in her eyes already, but even Don Quixote tilted at windmills when the opportunity arose. Could I attempt anything less? Besides, the tears may have been due to the blow her knee suffered when my first attempt to catapult the spare at the tenacious tire resulted in a wayward rebound. Pleading for a ride to work would have added an insult to her injury while doing nothing to solve the problem, and would have ensured an awkward silence for more than several blocks.
After mulling over the possibilities, I began walking towards Federal, a major street less than half a mile away. Calmly resting in God's providence, I journeyed cheerfully on, quickly discarding the impolitic idea of ambulating to my job site, a full 10-minute drive beyond. What lay ahead should I survive the trek? Only God knew. The dubious nature of the refuse in the streets reminded me that I was on the broad road leading to destruction, albeit as a temporary guest only. That perception was only heightened as I came within sight of the aforementioned club of ill-repute, but my suddenly vigorous and purpose-driven strides in no way indicated traumatic stress-inculcated moral disequilibrium--besides, the club was recently closed and unlikely to open until much later in the day. No, my focus was beyond the club, locked firmly on to the Area Rent-All one lot over where tools were available to anyone possessing valid plastic, such as I carried.
Some six dollars later my sledgehammer saga began, and before long I was beating the rusty wheel with greater effectuality. I carefully lined up the fourth swing and with one more mighty blow vanquished the giant problem. Minutes later I returned the sledgehammer to the rightful owners who, as the bizarre nature of the episode would have it, turned out to be in-laws of a couple in my small group from church (they disclaim, however, any connection to the adjacent establishment).
Fifteen minutes after leaving the locale of the busty, rusty and trusty (the latter being the sledgehammer, of course), I purged the stain of the dragon entitled "manual labor" from my well-manicured fingers, victoriously embraced my princess and bore her the glad tidings that her once-reliable steel steed was once again viable as a mode of transportation. So began a day that I hope and pray will remain unique in its beginnings.
