Take Away My Hammer

Have you ever met someone who has a hammer in their hand, and they keep smashing themselves over the head with it? Carl is like that. He's at a dinner party, hammer in his hand, whacking away at his temple, walking among the other guests. He's even wearing a work glove on his right hand, to keep the wooden handle from slipping from his grasp.

As is typical in this kind of situation, everyone in the room tries to be polite. They don't want to point out Carl is smashing himself endlessly with a hammer. They avert their eyes, sip their wine. They smile politely. They try to talk about anything else.

Carl notices that people are treating him a little oddly, and can't understand why. People have always treated him this way. He assumes there's just something about him that makes people uncomfortable. He has no idea what it is.

"I have this terrible headache," Carl complains casually, just trying to make conversation. "All the time. It never seems to go away. I have no idea what's causing it. I suppose I should see a doctor."

"That does sound like the best course," says one older lady.

And still no one tells him. It's too embarrassing. Too personal. Too awkward. No one can talk about the hammer in Carl's hand.

But I can't stop myself. I can't just let it slide. Maybe if I hint at it.

"Hey, uh, Carl, what's your opinion on hammers?"

"Hammers? Uh, I don't really have an opinion on them. Why do you ask?"

And meanwhile, CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH as he hits himself in the temple over and over again. Blood is running down the side of his head, staining his T-shirt.

People shush me.

"Nik, please."

"Yes, Nik, please stop it."

"You're being mean."

Carl hears all this and simply looks confused, smiling, tilting his head to one side. He doesn't understand what we're talking about.

Why can't we tell Carl about what he's doing? Why can't we say something? Why is it considered rude? I want to ask everyone at the dinner party about it. I want to stir everyone up. But when I turn to look at the faces around me, and see their irritation and embarrassment, I chicken out.

It doesn't matter, I suppose. Even if I bluntly told Carl about his hammer, he probably wouldn't believe me. And the sad thing is, I know from experience he might even convince me I'm wrong. My own resolve would crumble.

You're right, Carl. There is no hammer in your hand. I'm mistaken. How silly of me.

So the dinner party continues, and Carl keeps smashing himself in the temple with that hammer of his, and no one says anything.

Of course there are people at the party with their own problems. They have their own hammers.

There's Roger. He keeps dating the same horrible men over and over again. If given a choice between a saint and a drunk, Roger would always choose the drunk.

"I know he loves me, in his own way," Roger says. "He's like a project I'm working on. There's hope for him yet. Not like the last jerk I was with."

There's Helen. She has this incredibly screwed up relationship with her son.

"Spoiled brat! Don't you cower like that when I scream at you! Now come here and give me a kiss. Why don't you love me? What's so horrible about me that you can't even bring yourself to kiss me?"

And much to everyone's embarrassment, she begins to cry.

There's Derek, the rebel. He's aloof and snooty, sticking to the corners of the room, quietly judging the rest of us. While he'd never say out loud what he's thinking, it's easy to read his thoughts.

Everyone hates me, Derek thinks, so I may as well hate them first, before they get a chance to hate me. That'll show those idiots.

Then there's me. What am I doing to myself, that everyone else can see, but that I'm blind to? What is my hammer?

And how terrible to think I'm hitting myself in the head, right now, and no one is telling me. They see it, and they say nothing. They smile and nod, remaining polite, while I keep hitting myself with whatever happens to be my personal hammer.

Despite all of the hammers in the room, the dinner party is uneventful and bland. It ends rather early.

A year later, Carl dies from an untreated concussion.

There's another dinner party, and the guests all cluck their tongues in unison.

"How sad," everyone says. "We all saw it coming."

And none of us said anything to stop it.