There’s something life-affirming about stepping on a nail. Something that transcends mere pain and transports you to a place where you become aware of every molecule bubbling in your veins. It’s the same sensation you get after jumping naked into a freezing lake, snorting a jalapeo, or electrocuting yourself in regions of your body that are better left unsaid.
It can’t be a little nail — not some puny finish nail that looks like a shiny pine needle. It has to be a big one. A thick one the size of a carrot. A spiral one. And it has to be firmly planted into a block of wood, jutting up straight with a malicious smile on its face. No wobble or give. And no odd angle upon entry to blunt the full experience, and the pain. It can’t be a wimpy little half-step, either. The kind where you stop at the first tingle in your toes, then pull back in relief. The full experience means full entry. It means stepping all the way down. Getting to know every exposed millimeter of that monster. Anything else just doesn’t count.
I’ve been demolishing a large part of my house as we prepare for a new addition that will attach to the back and give us new room to expand our ever-increasing piles of crap. My contractor decided he would take time off in January to go snowboarding, and not wanting to wait for him to get back, I decided I would start the demolition myself. I actually call it de-construction.
And it was going well. Demolition is such a liberating experience. It’s as enjoyable as it is grueling. It takes no skill whatsoever, unless you call dodging falling beams and watching out for razor sharp spikes skill. Nothing has to be level, nothing has to be square, and the only measurement you need is deciding (for safety reasons) at what point to stop drinking beer.
Anyone can critique your construction skills and snicker at your carpentry, especially if they fall through a hole in the floor. But in demolition, the more careless and haphazard you are the more impressed people get. You’re aiming for comments like this: “Damn! Did you mix dynamite and kerosene?”
But in all that destruction — with all those bits of wood with angry nails — there’s bound to be trouble. And I found it just as I neared the end, as I was breaking up the final pieces of the deck and getting ready to turn it all over to the professional.
The sad part is I did it to myself. I stepped on the nail on purpose, trying to bend it over with my shoe so I wouldn’t have to whack it with a hammer. That might have taken bending over. But I misjudged the angle and put my foot down darn near flat on the nail. The little feller wasn’t going quietly.
I watched it all in slow motion. It was sort of an out-of-body experience, and like an observer from afar, I could see it all happen, yet was helpless to stop it.
“You’re … stepping … on … a … nail … you … moron,” I heard a voice in my head drone on. My foot, however, didn’t hear and was skewered like a shish kabob.
In truth, it didn’t hurt that much. But once you’ve stepped on a nail, the worst part isn’t what just happened — it’s what’s about to. You know, the pulling it out. I was tempted to just live with the 2×6 stuck to my foot like a snow ski, but thought better of it when I realized showering would be problematic.
So out it came. Another life-affirming experience, only this time in reverse.