Hammer Man: a short story about liberation

Powerless. Adjective. Lacking the power to act. Without ability, influence. Impotent

Milton couldn’t stop tapping a cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. His foot drummed an uneasy rhythm, watching digital numbers on the elevator display. Why’s this elevator so darn slow? It’s taking forever. Using his fingers, he tugged at the stranglehold of his shirt collar and tie. Milton grimaced, touching his sweat-soaked shirt.

           Looking back at a sign on his office door, he snickered. Milton McFarland – Internal Records Distribution, he thought. Milton knew its real purpose. Mailroom.

           On impulse, he walked back and used a nail file to scratch through the lettering.   

           With sluggish steps, he returned to the elevator. It felt as if both shoes were sticking to the floor, like stepping on gum, he thought. The elevator still isn’t here.

           With a ping, the elevator door opened. Milton pushed the lobby button and watched the numbers changing. He replayed that conversation, the one he’d just had with his boss.

           Kurt something-or-other. I can’t even remember his last name, Milton thought, yet recalling that conversation with exactness.

           "Sorry, Milt. There's no easy way to put this."

           Milton remembered watching a young man searching for the right words.

           "It’s not just the pandemic. It’s the damned economy –you know – everything’s electronic now. We don’t need a mailroom anymore. Email, texting, and – you know –

Well,” Kurt paused. “We're letting you go," Kurt’s words ghosting away.

           Milton recalled looking at Kurt someone-or-other as if to detect some clue of any indication of sincerity. Maybe it was there, but he couldn’t tell. Was there was a hint of patronizing? He couldn’t be sure either way.

           This from a man, Milton thought, who is at least twenty or twenty-five years younger than me, a man who surely hasn’t celebrated his thirtieth birthday yet.

           I’m being fired by a man, no, a kid that HR dropped on me like a bomb.

           How old was I when I started to work for this company? Yeah, twenty-three years old, and twenty-seven years later at this same freakin’ job, this kid now showing me out the door. I’m powerless. Who sends mail anymore?

           Milton, staring at the kid, Kurt, across a desktop, felt his world skidding. He clenched his jaw. "You've got to be joking. You can’t be serious," knowing the kid was.

           "No, Milt, this isn't anything to joke about, I wouldn’t do that to you."

           "What about seniority? Damn it. I've given this company more than twenty-seven years. What about my work history, my record?"

           "It’s nothing personal," Kurt added and looked to Milton as if he recognized how lame it sounded.

           Milton scowled at Kurt something-or-other and held up his hand. “Enough, I’ve heard enough.”

           Do we have to stop at every floor? At each stop, Milton felt more powerless, and Milton McFarland fury turned white-hot. He was embarrassed by how easily he nodded his understanding when the boss added, "Oh, by the way, make sure you have your desk cleared out by close of business. I’m sure we don’t need to involve security, do we?"

           Oh, by the way, up yours! Milton felt powerless to voice that thought, however.

           When the elevator reached the lobby a soft chime pinged his escape.

           He waited for other passengers to exit, lemmings chattering their end-of-the-workday gossip.

           The last person remaining, he bolted from the elevator, his heels clack-clacking on marble tile. Milton squinted at reflected sunlight dancing from glass windowpanes on a neighboring building.

           On the street, swarming home-bound workers moved out of his way when they recognized the anguish on his face.

           They all know. I know they know.

           Milton was brusque, waving away a doorman's cheery goodbye. It was uncharacteristic. He pushed through the revolving door and turned right. Milton was a human bulldozer, parting sidewalk crowds until he reached the adjoining car park.

           He took some comfort in the shadows of the garage, yet faced another insult, an out-of-order sign on the garage elevator. He trekked up the ramp, only stopping to tap a cigarette from the pack. No smoking? Screw that, as he shook the match flame out. He felt something, a sense of panic as he counted his remaining smokes. Milton calculated how many he would need on his drive home. Do I have enough? It will be close.            

           Why did this happen today?   

           "There's no easy way to put this, Milt." He replayed their conversation, "You're - well, we're letting you go - it’s the economy - you know." 

           Twenty-seven years! I gave that job my best for twenty-seven years, he thought. Ten-hour days I gave them, not to mention weekends. Where's the gratitude? Milton's forehead creased in a frown, a migraine that was slow to form, gripping his head in a vice.

           My parking space—gasp

           The very top floor—wheeze

           Furthermost corner—pant   

           Even his thoughts seemed out of breath.

           Milton leaned forward, walking up the parking deck ramp, a zigzag pathway to the top floor. Gasping for breath, he tossed the filter of his extinguished cigarette against a wall, in that careless manner smokers have.

           Emerging from the shade, he paused in a full brilliance of summer sun. Airless city heat was his reward for a long climb.

           Milton approached his car. Its cherry-red finish was sending up lazy heatwaves he could even see. He felt a sudden urge to kick his car.

           It was almost new, and he remembered his pride driving it home from the dealership. He became obsessed, now spotting a small dent on his driver's side door, souvenir of some inconsiderate ass parked in the next space. That lone dent almost diminished Milton's pleasure in his car. He felt absolute powerlessness. Where’ the joy in the beauty? He felt an urge to drag his key across its bright shining paint. Then he did.

           Only forty-two more payments to go – and no job.

           He jerked his hand back from a poker-hot door handle, from a day baking in a burst of summer sunshine. He envied those assigned to shaded parking levels below.

           Puzzled by this sudden lust to demolish his car, he eased into his driver's seat, turned on the ignition, feeling a promise of conditioned air whisper through dashboard vents. He turned the air control to maximum and dialed the radio to his driving home station.      

           Fifty years old, fired, and powerless.

           Milton stored that thought for later consideration as he steered toward the exit ramp. By the time he corkscrewed down and reached the bottom level of the garage, he was shaking his head, feeling dizzy from the downward spiral. Sam, the garage attendant, blocked the exit, waving Milton to a stop. "Hey, McFarland, you're late. You owe us for two months. If you don't pay by—”  

           He jumped aside as Milton accelerated, and Milton felt the jolt crashing through the parking gate. Shattering splinters flew past his windshield, perfect symbols of his emotions.

           Fuck you, Sam. But Milton never said that aloud.

           Milton urged his car up to speed and entered a dance with stop and go street traffic. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, a Morse-code of impatience, and counted off each of seven blocks to the freeway ramp. The car’s heat gauge was starting to climb, registering a mute protest. The air conditioning system, so full of promise, only sputtered fetid jets of air mixed in with diesel exhaust from a bus directly ahead.

           And this is a brand-new freaking car?

           He opened his pack of cigarettes. Damn, not enough to get me home, as he took one and pushed in the lighter.

           A green light winked its invitation to enter the westbound Eisenhower Freeway, and Milton accelerated. It was a sudden feeling of liberation from his emotions. He bid a silent goodbye to an office building that now seemed like a dungeon. He was leaving that city behind and almost felt a stirring of driving joy as his car leaped ahead.

           Get me out of this city, and I can always find another job – fifty isn't too old.

           His enthusiasm was short-lived, however. He glanced over his shoulder. Nobody’s going to let me merge. Each car was nose to the bumper of the vehicle ahead. He believed they’d all conspired to keep Milton Wilson McFarland off the freeway.

           With no options, he slammed on the brakes, feeling the seat belt grabbing his shoulders. He sat, pounding on the steering wheel. Precisely three minutes and forty-two seconds later, he made his move. He shot ahead into a merest gap in the freeway traffic, clearing a fender by a measly four inches if that. A furious driver signaled his displeasure with a prolonged honking. Milton glanced back at an offended driver through his rearview mirror, a balding head reflecting sunlight, his middle finger extended like an exclamation point. The man began gesturing wildly and appeared to be yelling at no one, or perhaps everyone.

           Maybe he was fired today too, Milton thought and puffed cheeks-full air and exhaled air between tight lips. Baldy, in the mirror, reminded him of his old boss, the one before this new teenager, Kurt something or other. Milton was thankful he didn't have a gun at work.

           Freeway traffic oozed westward, Milton kneading his temples, his radio jangling a throbbing, rhythmic beat, adding to a blooming migraine.

           His darting eyes came to rest on a billboard. "Metro's Florist at twenty-three convenient locations." 

           That sign urged him to take flowers home to an adoring wife. My adoring wife, he flinched. This morning's fight had been a particular razor-sharp one, even by their standards. I’m powerless. She always thinks she’s right.

           Flowers, I don't even know why I bother going home. It was a thought Milton often had driving home.

           As Milton let that thought float away, he saw an opportunity to switch lanes to his left, but the moment passed him by as swiftly as fluttering wings of a hummingbird. He remained wedged in a stationary lane, watching in disappointment as the left lane of cars began moving ahead.

           As summer temperature passed the century mark, his air conditioner belched an ineffectual attempt, unable to keep pace, not to mention dealing with smoke from Milton’s cigarettes. He tried stabbing his latest cigarette into an overflowing ashtray and gave up. Lowering his window, he disregarded the blast of hot freeway air. He flicked the cigarette with his fingertip. Watching ember's graceful arc toward the pavement, ignoring disapproving look from other drivers.

           A school bus pulled alongside, reminding Milton of his children. One young passenger, a ten-year-old boy, directed an obscene gesture in Milton’s direction.

           I get no respect, even from kids I don’t know, he thought. I sure don’t get any from my children. Now, they’re nothing more than mouthy, brassy, disrespectful little people that I'm guilty of unleashing upon an unsuspecting world. Milton preferred to blame their behavior on his wife, believing she spoiled them.

           Milton had long-ago given up, feeling powerless as a husband and children. Now he didn’t even have a job.

           Traffic in Milton's lane, at last, inched ahead, just a bit. Pounding music came to a stop as the announcer promised a traffic update for drivers trying to escape downtown Chicago. A commercial followed the update urging Milton to get away for a romantic weekend in the Bahamas. He flinched, hearing a public service announcement for Planned Parenthood. Talk about a perfect irony, Milton thought, a romantic getaway should follow planning parenthood, not the other way around.

           Was it just last night? He thought back to Marci, his girlfriend, slipping her arm through his as they walked back to her apartment after a dinner out.  

           "I'm pregnant," was her simple announcement. She did not sound enthusiastic. Milton’s response was to do what he did when faced with a complication. He did nothing and pretended he didn’t hear her crying as he closed the door, leaving her apartment. He didn’t even say goodbye.

           Now, sitting in his car, Milton looked up. Traffic once again at a complete standstill. All these lanes, Chicago’s monument to urban planning, he thought. He saw lines of cars extending into an infinite haze, and frustration etched on faces of his fellow commuters.

           Like that man, over there, standing beside a raised hood, steam rising from the radiator.  

           Milton rummaged his glove box for sunglasses as the sinking sun dropped to stare him square in the face. His body temperature was rising, and his emotions were heating even faster, nearing the boiling point.

           The radio blared a hip-hop beat, swelling to a crescendo. Why can’t I cast-off this torment? He lit his last smoke, and a rush of nicotine fueled a migraine hurricane, category five.

           Milton could never describe what came next. The clock flashing 6:17 was the tipping point. Those digital numbers flashed a warning. A pregnant girlfriend, ill-mannered children, a nagging wife, rude drivers, and twenty-seven years wasted on a nothing job. Those thoughts swirled, trapping him in a straight-jacket. His heart raced.

           He was powerless, with no escape.”

           Milton scanned the adjacent landscape without seeing any of it, his breath starting to labor.

           His eyes fixated on traffic, stalled cars stretching ahead for miles. There was nowhere to go. He embraced mental gridlock on the midtown expressway. Then a great calm washed over Milton. He knew what he had to do and was amazed at his clarity of thought.”

           He turned to stare at a man in the next car. That man returned Milton’s glare and frowned. Suddenly, a transformation washed over Milton as his anguish and distress melted away, replaced by a quiet calm. He broke into a small smile, more a grin perhaps.”

           As his grin widened, Milton stepped from his car and planted his feet firm on near-melting concrete. He started slowly at first. Then, with mounting fury, he began with savage kicks, smashing his shoe repeatedly into the side of his car. It did little damage and was, in fact, painful. He struck at windows with his fist. His first rush of rage appeared to be some type of cleansing.

           Milton stomped to the rear of his car, unlocked its trunk to retrieve a tire iron. They say he looked at it for a moment as if admiring its potential.

           With a devilish grin, Milton began to walk around his car in a counter-clockwise direction. Starting with the passenger side, he tried to be systematic, attempting to break all glass panes into shards. He struck windows, but their tempered strength offered valiant resistance, cracking but not breaking.

           He changed directions and walked back, concentrating on smashing turn lights, parking lights, and taillights - until small shards of while, red and amber glass was well and truly struck. Side mirrors yielded with ease to crushing blows.

           Finished, he returned to the trunk and, with steady calm, returned that tire iron to its proper place. He was, after all, a fastidious man.

           Milton then saw it, the right tool for this job. It turned out to be his definitive weapon. When he had rented it yesterday, he planned to use it for pounding in fence posts, a weekend project. He removed a massive sledgehammer from the trunk, caressing it, and then slowly raised it to hold over his head, like a priest offering up a chalice toward heaven.

           Evening sunlight flashed as it ricocheted off the dark beauty of Milton’s hammerhead. More like it, he grinned.

           He brought that hammer down with all his strength in an exquisite arc, as one witness described it later to the police. To Milton, his hammer was an extension of his inner man, the hammer performing its destructive job, quite well. Car windows shattered with satisfying precision. Over and over, his hammer rose and fell as glass, and cherry-red metal gave way, shattering and crumpling to the brute force of his hammer.

           He felt his sweat running, his muscles were aching, burning from a job well done. His migraine vanished as he became aware of cheering. Milton turned his head, peering up in surprise to see marooned drivers standing beside their cars. He heard cheering and saw their arms raised in salute. He realized what was happening

           I'm doing this for all of us.

           His chest puffed out.

           I’m a cowboy riding into town with guns blazing. I’m a warrior charging a well-defended position.

           I’m a somebody after all. Take that, Kurt someone-or- other.

           Smiling and turning his body in a complete circle, hammer in one hand raised over his head, he acknowledged cheers. Milton had never felt such purpose in his life, not until this very moment.

           Then, he slowly lowered his arms and let his hammer fall from his grasp. It clattered to the pavement. A fleeting spark streaked off to one side as the hammerhead scraped on concrete.

           With chin raised and a heroic straight-backed walk, he zigged between cars stalled on the expressway and zagged to the edge of the road. Without stopping, Milton scaled the grassy slope. At the top of the knoll, he leaped a chain-link fence with graceful agility.

           Not too shabby for fifty, eh?

           Stranded drivers were still cheering as Milton stepped aboard a passing bus and disappeared from the story.

The End©