A Trip to the Hardware Store

 Maybe it was the company; maybe it was the mood. Little else could account for the things flying through my head. Words, always words, Words added together make sentences, which make structure. Without structure in this world, we would be a sea of chaos, which might help to explain the situation the world is in, when language and presentation have taken a back seat to style, making a statement over substance. It might been surmised that our downfall lies in sidestepped semantics, slovenly 'devil may care' slang, and a general disregard for language, the only thing separating us from primates. Words can hurt. Words can heal. Words can make you horny? Apparently. . .

 Years ago, even a year ago, I would have thought myself above this kind of thing. And, I was. Yet, here I was at a store that dripped with testosterone, screamed "man's domain," a place where most men feel at home -- a home remodeling store. Not the kind of place I wanted to spend an evening, but by necessity, there I was. More interested in conjunctions than conduit, I tried to figure out how to mentally "walk out" while appearing in the here and now. After all, sex and language aside, there are other things to life, and ground wire is just as important as grammer, in the grander scheme of things. I was present. I was accounted for, and I was going to be the good home owner and do whatever my guide said was necessary. Sexual connotations were thrown out the window.

 The first thing my guide led me to was conduit - plastic pipe. Pipe. It was long, solid and looked official, even off-putting. We were supposed to measure the pipe. What was the best length of pipe available? How wide did it have to be? How long? How many pieces did we need? What was the best length, breadth and amount to suit my needs?

 I was torn. Part of me kept associating this whole conduit search, a conductor, the connector, with a mundane task at hand. So why did I keep wondering about words like "length," "width," and connection?

 Passing it off as the misguided mental meanderings of some sort of Satanic overtaking, this thought process was nothing more than an abberation. After all, there was a real "job" to be done, and wandering off to never, never land was not a good idea. It was dismissed.

 At the next juncture, my partner, growing increasingly male by the minute, needed a "box." Right about now, I knew what I wanted to tell him. He started hammering on about the right "tool." I wondered, suddenly, while "tool" "box" "hammer" "nail" "bang" "screw" "erect" "tighten" and even "wood" was sending me somewhere I didn't really want to go. Was it getting warm in here? I'm here with a stranger, and we're discussing "male and female connections." Should I be backstage at Springer? Jumping up and down as I hear my 'main connection' wasn't grounded and found some stripper at a local store, grabbed it up, hammered it, nailed it, screwed it in with his appropriate tool, later found out it needed some support, and went back, deciding to lay some pipe, found that it wasn't a receptor and decided to mount it on some dry wall?

 I saw myself entering the vistor's door of Jerry Springer's show, not sure how I got there, feeling pretty confused, hearing a live studio audience cheering. And what had I done to warrant this? Whose wood did I measure? On what floor did I lay, feeling level but uncertain, not sure if I was "primed" or not.

 The person I was with, God Love him, was still talking about hanging Joyce's. Even if I didn't know what it mean, the hanging part drained (yes, I know, yet another quasi-sexual reference) all the horniness right out of me.  Whatever volts, amps and juice levels might have come and gone, I was working on being a dead fuse.

 It was checkout time. What was I supposed to check out? I had the tool with me. He was flush. Or plumb. Or maybe he was just the right tool for the job. We'd found the box. It had four connections, two male, two female. I felt like I could lay caulk at that point, even though I'd tried to be just another necessary piece of equipment.

 Perhaps sensing my feelings being somewhat receptored, every male in the store started making a connection with me. One man said, "We have to stop bumping into each other this way." He was clearly looking for an outlet, and airing a plug to his diminishing electricity. Me? I was still grappling with the various sizes and styles of nails.

 What constitutes a good nailing? What will last? What will simply pull apart, give way, never connected in reality,  only to require some sort of glue I haven't at my disposal?  What area of the store wasn't sexual at that point? The "sinks?" The "wooden dollies" (every man's fantasy), the curtains (I guess that's the end of the sexual relationship section, but I had a little doubt when the grill section began. This would not end without someone being taken over the coals.) We were in the "erection" section - God help me.

 At this point, I was ready to drop my trowel and galvanize whatever strength I had left. Nevertheless, my handy man kept seeking more sexual clues. He was taking this so seriously, and I was looking at it as a walk in the (somewhat randy) park bench section. If you'd grilled me, I'm not sure my answer would be that rare. The appeal of the hardware store was working it's magic glue on me. I was...apoxyed. Maybe I was just apoplectic, ready to be wired, screwed, nailed, studded." I wash flush. I was primed. Nail me, already!

 Finally, I understood. I'm not sure how words for repairing things, words for renewing things, words for making things stronger and better than they are, all became euphemisms for sexuality. But I am sure that I'll be the first person through the door next time Sears Hardware has a "down to the bare walls," sale!!