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Throughout modern history, the local hardware store has been something of a magical destination for most men (and even many women). The glimmering promise of tools and materials, all waiting to transform the decrepit, run-down hovel into the dream home of legends, is enough to send all but the most atrophied mind into flights of imaginative fancy. One could easily picture the poor, beleaguered homeowner standing in the aisle, looking about with jaw agape, and asking, "Is this heaven?"
"No," the smiling and helpful clerk would reply. "This is Bob’s Hardware Store." Not only was this clerk happy to assist the customer, when asked questions regarding a particular repair or improvement, he was able to answer intelligently. The hardware store employees knew how to do the things you wanted to do.
This, however, was before the days of the huge, chain "Big Box" stores, with their cavernous, warehouse dimensions, corporate "bottom line" mentality, and minimum wage employees.
I strongly suspect that Moses didn’t wander the wilderness of Sinai for forty years; the smart money is that the Children of Israel were actually lost inside a Big Box store for the entire time, hopelessly walking the aisles in search of anyone who could direct them to the building materials they needed for the Tabernacle.
I can picture Moses’ brother Aaron approaching the pimply-faced employee and asking, "Excuse me, young man, but we are in need of stones to build an altar. Can you direct me to where you have such things?"
"Sorry, dude," the barely coherent employee would reply. "That’s not my department."
When they did eventually locate the stone, Aaron asked, "We need to build an altar; what’s the best mortar to use for binding the stones together while enduring high levels of heat?"
"Like, sorry, old man," the kid in the masonry department replied. "I just work here, you know? I don’t have a freakin’ clue how to do any of this stuff."
Of those forty years, twenty would have been spent finding and studying the self-help books to learn how to build things, and the other twenty spent finding the materials and finally figuring out how to get out of the building. The original generation that walked in all died there, either of old age, or were killed by other shoppers blindly pushing cartloads of two by fours, trying to find the check-out lanes.
I’m in the middle of a room renovation, and as such have needed to brave the stygian passages of the local Big Box Home Improvement center. While visiting the old-fashioned home improvement store would have been nice, the last time I saw Bob of Bob’s Hardware Store, he was wearing all kinds of odd electronic appendages and repeating something to the effect of, "Resistance is futile; you will be assimilated."
The reason for this renovation, and hence for my foray into the local Big Box store, is that my wife will be undergoing surgery early in April, and we need to fix up the spare bedroom so she has a place to recover. Sure, she could recover in our room, but the doctor says she’ll need to rest and take it easy, and we both figured that would be more likely in a spare bedroom full of puppies than it would in the master bedroom with me.
So, lacking any other real options, I hopped in the truck and headed off to Dante’s Home Improvement and Eternal Damnation Center, hell-bent on spending as little time within as I possibly could. Passing through the entrance and beneath their encouraging corporate motto, "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate", I was greeted by a smiling associate dressed in their cheerful red uniforms. He must work for the gardening department, based on the farm implement he was holding. He did have a good sense of humor, though, judging from his hearty laugh as he welcomed me.
Maybe it was just my imagination, but at first glance, the store reminded me an awful lot of one of the levels I played through in the original "Doom". I swear I saw a cacodemon float around one of the far corners.
Surprisingly, I found the first few things I need easily enough, though with full hands I was wishing I’d grabbed a shopping cart before getting started. This was my first real clue of the true nature of this place, for despite the miles of aisle ways and acres of concrete flooring, there wasn’t a single empty cart to be found. Odd, as well, that once I was carrying a load, all the aisles seemed to ascend uphill from wherever I was at.
I looked for an employee, hoping they might be able to tell me where I could get an empty cart within the store, but every time I saw one, they disappeared with another customer before I could reach them. Meanwhile, I was jostled from every side by the hordes of other lost shoppers, all of them with that same hopeless expression on their gaunt faces. Resigned to toting my selections in weary arms, I grabbed the last couple of items I needed and looked for the way out.
By some strange miracle, I managed to find my way to the check-out lanes and the exit, directed by a kindly old man with a beard even longer than my own. He wished me well on my projects, though he did remind me to be sure and take one day a week off from my labors.
I’m not sure, but I think he was carrying two stone tablets in his arms . . .
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