Mr. Primitive

They called me Mr. Primitive in my shop class in Jr. High School. These were the days in which dinosaurs roamed the earth, students used slide rules, people played vinyl records on a record player, gas was considered high priced at 35cents a gallon (and you could fill your car’s tank with $5 of regular), McDonald’s hamburgers cost 10 cents, cheese burgers 15 cents, and there were no cell phones and no internet.

I was in 9^th grade, and it was required that all boys in 9^th grade, (not girls, there was no Women’s Lib in those days. Women’s Lib meant that mom bought a new clothes washer), take wood and metal shop. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps it was pre training for serving in Viet Nam, but to me there was neither rhyme nor reason to this concept. I was planning to attend the “College of my choice” and had no need, desire, nor mechanical bent to do build-it-yourself projects. As much as I protested, I had to take Shop class. A full year of fumbled fingered frenzy, and I was full of fumbling fingers, or to be more correct, thumbs. I was all thumbs when it came to working with my hands. I had no desire to work with my hands, except on dates, which eventually came to pass (but not soon enough for me). I couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler (still can’t but don’t care), didn’t know the difference between a buzz saw and a buzz cut, couldn’t open a pen knife with out cutting myself (or my shop teacher, but that is still today a sensitive area that I don’t even wish to think of). Work with my hands? You’ve got to be kidding!

I have changed some as I matured. I do know which end of a screwdriver to use and I know that you never mix ammonia and bleach together (a very harsh lesson, which I believe every boy has learned early in life). I now realize that a hammer isn’t used to pound a difficult piece into a plastic model of an airplane and I finally even learned to set the digital clock on a VCR. The point is, I no longer consider myself as Mr. Primitive. I have become enlightened to the point that if something needs repaired; I know just what to do…call a Professional. In Jr. High, though, this was not an option and I had no choice… I suffered through wood and metal shop.

So… Mr. Primitive became my new nick name (which had nothing to do with how many nicks I took out of my fingers and hands during that terrible year). This name, this dishonorable designation, came from a film (film, yes, there were no videos then) that was required viewing for all students taking shop. Ironically, the name of the film was…you guessed it…Mr. Primitive. Mr. Primitive was a Fred Flintstone-type cartoon character (long before Fred Flintstone or Wilma came on the TV scene). A Neanderthal mental moron who was always misusing tools and was the epitome of “WHAT NOT TO DO” in shop class. Unfortunately, the what not to do stuck with me and I could easily use any tool wrongly. Primitively. Except for the fake leopard skin overalls, I had become Mr. Primitive. The perfect antithesis to Mr. Fixit. And believe me, the name stuck for the entire year and probably beyond. I have these terrible fantasies of grown men, whom I knew in shop class, working in steel mills or building houses sitting around and saying “remember when we took shop with Mr. Primitive?” and laughing like hyenas.

Every Tuesday and Thursday I would lumber into the wood and metal shop with the aroma of shellac and varnish and burned flesh assaulting my senses. To this day, I can still recall these sour but all too familiar smells. I can also recall the knotted feeling in my stomach as I attempted to fumble finger my way through whatever project we were working on at the time. The class made an address sign out of wood. My looked like a doorstop with numbers. The class made a tray out of wood and plastic. I made a wood and plastic doorstop. The class made a metal tack hammer. I made a metal doorstop. No matter what I endeavored to create, it always turned out to look like a doorstop. At least it had function. All the doors in my family’s apartment stayed open very nicely, thank you.

Of course my fellow classmates would laugh uproariously at my “precocious projects”. They would shout “Way to go, Mr. P” and poke me in the ribs and snort and chuckle. My ego and my ribs were bruised for years. I couldn’t look at a tool with out breaking out in a cold sweat. I couldn’t pound a nail without visibly shaking. I couldn’t pick up a screwdriver without the sinking feeling that I were a miserably failing brain surgeon about to botch a crucial operation. So I avoided all sorts of repairs. I naturally went into a field that worked with people…no tools required. Their lives may have been screwed up but I didn’t need a screwdriver to correct the situation. I successfully managed to avoid having to use any type of tool or participate in any do it yourself projects…at least until two years ago.

My brother in law was the victim of MS He had great difficulty in walking, as his legs were extremely weak. He needed handrails to grip in his hallway and bathroom to assist in walking. “Hey” I said cheerfully. “No problem. We can pick up the rails at a local lumber warehouse and have them installed.” Notice that I wasn’t foolish enough to say, “I’ll install them.”

My wife and I traveled to the good ol’ Home Depot Store where, if you can’t find what you need, you don’t need it. I figured this would be a piece of cake. Get two railings, one 5’ long and one 4’ long. Buy the attachments or whatever those thingys are that hold them, and be on our way home again, jiggity jig. If you would like a piece of sound advice, never ever take something for granted. We found the rails all right. Nice, wooden, semi-round, sturdy rails that would be perfect. Unfortunately, the railing materials came in long, infinite, “tower of Babel” pieces of wood. Looking at these monoliths of wood towers and trying to determine just where a 4’ and a 5’ railing would be hidden in the entirety, I had an epiphany! I was in a Home Depot! Surrounded by tools and by friendly, helpful sales people who wanted nothing except to make the customer happy. They would be only too willing to cut the lengths for me and probably without charge. Of course!!! Or so I thought. I approached one bright looking young “associate” (they aren’t employees now, but associates) and told him my desires and my request to have the railings cut for me. He looked at me as if I’d just propositioned him to go to dinner and a movie and have some after hour’s fun. “Cut it,” he asked incredulously. “We don’t do that.” He pointed off to my right. “Good” I thought. “He’s pointing towards the chief cutter or sawer or whatever they call themselves.” My eyes followed his ominous pointing finger and saw, instead of a burly, Lumber Jacky kind of guy with a saw, a sign reading mockingly CUT YOUR OWN WOOD HERE.

I couldn’t believe it!!! It might as well say “DO IT YOURSELF AMPUTATIONS HERE” or “SELF-DIRECTED VASECTOMIES…SUTURE SELF.” The letters mocked me. Each angle and curve had a 3 dimensional picture of Mr. Primitive leering at me saying “C’mon, you can’t do it, you know you can’t.” My breathing became shallow and quickened as much as a humming bird’s heart rate at a 5K marathon. I wanted to say to my wife “ The hell with it. Your brother doesn’t need any rails. Let’s just get out of here!” What I did manage to say, casually, I hoped, was “Hey, no problem!” Every fiber of my being wanted to take my tongue and rip it put of my mouth and use it for the tourniquet I knew I’d be needing soon. I looked under the fateful sign and there was a metal cart-like set up. It had pieces of wood on an upper level (from previous users), a groove to insert the unsuspecting piece of wood into, to hold it in place. And a saw. The saw was a typical wood saw; metal, shark like teeth, and a wooden handle. I swear I saw the teeth break into a wide grin and heard the music from the old JAWS movies coming from the Home Depot’s Musak speakers. The saw’s handle was, appropriately painted blood red. This toothy grinning weapon of board-horror was attached to the cart by a thick metal cable. I assumed it was so that no one would walk away with the saw. To me, however, it was just one more way which I could injure myself if the cable wrapped around my wrist. On the lower level of the cart was a shelf to catch falling sawdust, bits of boards, and of course, severed body parts.

I took a deep breath (amazingly I could still breathe) and said “Ok, let’s get this done.” The “let’s” was meant as a subtle hint to my wife that she could take charge at any time and do the work necessary. It was obviously too subtle and went right over her head…she made no response to bail me out of this situation. I took another breath, walked over to the rack holding the monolithic rails, picked what seemed to be a short piece that would, I prayed, give me one 4’1/2” and one 5’ railing. I schlepped this wood over to the cart-like contraption with the ominous attached saw, double-checked that my HMO card was in my wallet, and placed the wood into the groove on the cart. Ok, that worked. No problems yet. I reached for the saw…or tried. I kept imagining all the jerks in my shop class gathering around me, laughing, poking my ribs, and placing bets on how many pints of blood I would lose before passing out. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes, muttered a short prayer, and firmly grasped the saw in my hand, which, I noticed happily, was still firmly attached to my wrist. Looking at my wife, I said “I haven’t done this for years.” I wanted to add “and there’s no reason to start now” but I couldn’t. I held out my shaking palms and spit on them and rubbed them together and then on my pants. Isn’t that what “real men” did before they tackled a home project? Taking aim at the wood I placed the blade of the saw on the part that abutted up against the edge of the guide groove. There was even a ruler attached so I could actually get a length to shoot for. Now, what do I do next? I couldn’t think… Mr. Primitive was messing up my mind again. Oh, I remembered…I pushed the saw in a downward motion and with an agonizing sound, the blade tore into the wood, making a first cut for starting. Ha…now I had it. I began to saw madly. Sawdust was flying, sweat was pouring from my brow and under my armpits, and the ghostly laughter of my Shop chums echoed in my ears. The cart, which was, for some unknown reason, on wheels, began moving back and forth with each stroke of my blade. I was afraid I would have my toe crushed before I could saw through the piece of wood. How would my insurance company react to that? No matter. I kept sawing and sawing until, suddenly, my railing became two parts. A 4’1/2” piece, and the rest of the infinity reaching board. I checked. All of my fingers and toes were intact. I had done it!!! This is a breeze…I placed the mother board into the groove again and measured a 5’ length. Again, I began sawing like crazy. The wood protesting loudly and my muscles straining. But finally, a 5’ length separated neatly from the main board. I had two lengths of railing and seemed to possess all of my original body parts. Not even one drop of blood flowed from my veins. I looked up at my wife and smiled. “See, nothing to it” I smirked. My arm was ready to go on strike and fall off because my muscles hurt so badly…did I mention I was not in prime condition? My jaws ached from clenching my teeth together. But, I had succeeded! The ghostly echoes of the shop fiends faded away. Mr. Primitive’s faces turned into smoke and “poofed” out of existence. I replaced the monolithic mother board, gathered up my two railings and placed them in the shopping cart. I said proudly, “My work here is done,” to a strange woman walking past me. I began walking away from the wood section, strutting just a bit. No, a lot. I had finished a do it yourself project and it did not have any function as a doorstop. I went for railings and, by God, I had railings. The Musak seemed to be blaring a roaring rendition of Eye of the Tiger from Rocky 1. I smugly paid the bill for my railings, winked at the cashier, and strutted out of the store. Halfway to my car, I turned, saluted the store, and jumped up in the air and tried to click my heels together. I missed, but I didn’t care. Victory was mine. Goodbye Mr. Primitive. I beat you fair and square. Ok maybe I wasn’t planning any more do it yourself projects, but I had triumphed over Mr. Primitive! That, my friends, was enough. I was a true “GUY.”