My first summer after high school, I worked for a local building contractor. The job required me to acquire several tools, which I did with pleasure. Tool buying, you might know, is one of any real man’s favorite things to do, much more so than, say, actually using tools. Not only do we like our tools, we like having good tools. We generally go for the best we can find, and never mind the price, because, as our wives frequently need to be reminded, they pay for themselves!
But back to my new summer job. Of the necessary tools for my new occupation, one of the most basic was a tape measure. The standard model in every carpenter’s belt at the time was a Stanley Powerlock, 25-foot by 1-inch, which currently sells for about $10.00. It served me well during my time on that job, and for several years after when I was no longer in construction. It was that same tape that I took to work ten years later when I went back to construction. It was still the standard among my coworkers, and still served just fine, until . . .
One day, shopping at Menards, I saw it: a Stanley 30-foot Contractor Grade tape measure. Not only was it 5 feet longer, its blade was “13% thicker” and “reinforced with BladeArmor coating”! Even better, unlike my scuffed silver-gray 25-footer, this one was yellow, a perfect match for my DeWalt cordless tools. Sure, it was twice the price, but it would pay for itself, don’t you know. And within the first hour on the job, it did just that. I entered the jobsite that day just itching to measure something. At the first opportunity, I drew my tape and extended the blade.
My partner, Biff*, looked askance with eyes narrowed. “Where’d you get that?” he asked, fingering his own pathetic 25-footer. I almost felt sorry for him.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“That tape!”
“Oh, that. Picked it up at Menards Saturday.” Rats, I thought, realizing how short-lived my elevated status would be. Sure enough, next Monday, Biff showed up with his own 30-footer. Still, I was first. I’d always have that.
A year or two passed with tool parity maintained. Then one day Biff caught the end of his tape in a crack. He whipped it up and down a few times in a attempt to shake it loose, but it held fast. Not giving up, but not about to walk the distance to dislodge it manually, he whipped the tape with increasing violence until the end, already fatigued from use, snapped off. Biff cussed, and I chuckled, little knowing how seriously our détente had been unbalanced. I loaned him a spare until he could get out to buy a replacement. Had I known what he was about to do, I might not have been so generous.
Did I mention that Biff used to drive me to work, since I was on his way? Well, the next week, when we pulled in at the shop, he casually reached across to the glove box and pulled out a shiny new 35-foot tape, clipped it on his belt, and strutted arrogantly into the shop, displaying his symbol of victory with deliberate ostentation. 35 feet! And he knew, having borrowed my spare, that I couldn’t justify going out and buying one myself without exposing my jealousy. Either way, he would get the last laugh . . . or would he? Not if I could help it. I had a plan. I went shopping.
I had two sets of carpenter’s tools in those days, one that mostly stayed in the work truck, and one that I kept at home. Biff didn’t know that — yet. So one particularly hot day, when he was dropping me off after work, I casually asked if he wanted to stop in for a cold one. (To this day, I marvel at my cool demeanor as I set the trap.) He did, and we sat in the shade by the garage, slaking our thirst, my vengeance drawing nearer. We talked about work, kids, anything to get him relaxed and lower his guard. Then my chance came.
“I see you’ve still got that stack of siding we salvaged for your garage,” Biff said. “When are you going to nail it on?”
“I’m not sure I’ve got enough,” I said, “I haven’t measured the garage yet. Hey, give me a hand, would you?” Outside, I remained cool. Inside, an evil laugh burst forth. He was mine. I went into the garage, and returned with tape in hand, holding it with the label clearly visible: Stanley FatMax 30′. The blood drained from his face. Sure, it was only a 30-footer, but it was the FatMax, 1-¼ inches wide, with 11 feet of standout. And we both knew we seldom needed even 30 feet.
“New tape?” Biff whimpered.
“What? Oh, yeah. Hey, check this out.” And, standing about 10 feet away, I began extending the blade through the air, reaching him without bending. “Cool, huh?” I had won. With a brand new tape in his belt, he couldn’t, with any dignity, one-up or even equal me now. He could strut his stuff at work, but he would always know that I had the big dog laying at home, and that I didn’t need to carry it to prove anything. I was on top, and I was cool.
That is the story of my tape-measure war. Now, of course, I’m older and too mature to get dragged into such a silly competition. I don’t need the biggest and best anymore. Good enough is good enough. So when my second son got a construction job this summer, rather than have him buy all his own tools, I gave him some of mine, including the 30′ FatMax. “It’s okay,” I said. “I can get myself a new one.”
So I did.
* Well, duh; of course it’s not his real name.
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3 Comments:
#1 || 11·11·16··16:33 || Victoria
a real LOL! thanks so much-funny is always very good-when most of your pots are very good-and very sober!
#2 || 11·11·16··20:52 || Victoria
oh well-lol again- should have been posts and not pots-however since I am a cracked pot-that may have been a Freudian slip.
#3 || 11·11·17··15:53 || Suzanne
Humorous story! Poor Biff…. Out done by the 30’ FatMax. Men and tools! It’s on an even keel with women loves. Only, somehow, it seems that men own this a bit more than we women. Albeit, I must admit, I do like my 1985 DeVille: in mint condition.
Suzanne McMillen-Fallon, Published Author 2011
“On Wings of Love”
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.com/title/Mommy’sWritings.html (currently not active)
The Mommy’s Writings Series
Mommy, would you like a sandwich?
Book 1