I’m A Man’s Man, And I Await The Return Of My Man
I am a Man’s Man. I have always known this. The same way that I instinctively know how to change a tire, field dress a deer, and choose the perfect IPA for your tailgate. These arts come as naturally to me as breathing.
When I emerged from the Plaid Chrysalis, naked and covered in steak sauce, I saw the murals that told me of my creation. How The Man was not meant to be alone, so I was formed from His McRib and leftover sawdust from His last sanding project. In the pictures, we wear matching flannels and stand together in the sky, saying, “How ‘bout them Cowboys?”
I want to know about them Cowboys! But where is The Man?
Alone in the Man Cave, I wait for Him. I do my push-ups. I throw the football to myself. I make a “podcast” by shouting about hammers into an old tape recorder. Perhaps The Man will want to listen to it when He comes back! I play the episodes back during my post-workout recovery meals. It makes me feel like The Man is there.
I feed myself from the walk-in freezer of Hungry Man Dinners. Protein is abundant in the Man Cave — enough to sustain my bulk and His for many weeks. Yet The Man does not return. What is He hungry for? What void cannot be filled by Spicy Boneless Chicken Wyngz®?
One time, I put a little rosemary on my Salisbury Streak. I hope I have not angered Him.
Every day, I take apart a motorcycle and put it back together again. There’s not enough room to ride it, but I know I could do it perfectly. Once, during Fix-It Time, I dropped a screw, and it fell in a knothole. I punched the floor for three hours until it popped back out. My hand was very red, but my face didn’t move at all. I hope someone told The Man and that He was proud of me.
Since The Man could come back at any time, I work to maintain the Man Cave and my status as a prime specimen of Manhood for Him. I hang a new car air freshener from the ceiling each week and sweep Man Sediment off of the recliner. I sculpt my body into desirable bulges. When I watch Sports Channel on the lightbox, I hold flags for all the teams, because I don’t know which ones The Man will like best. (Maybe we’ll root for “everyone but the Eagles” — HA!) And I have a softer side. I taught myself to read so I could finish Infinite Jest. I take comfort in its weight. When I am done, I will tear it in half like a phone book. The Man and I will laugh so hard, as we stir our aged Scotch with our thick, leather wallets.
Still, even a Man’s Man is only a man. On my worst days, I give less than 110% — more like 105. I get distracted. I frequently get lost in my own heady musk. Pine. Beard Oil. Gym socks. The lightbox once showed me “the man” (The Man?) “your man could smell like.” Will I know his scent, and he mine? I imagine our one-armed embrace (with back pats) and its austere fragrance of Tobacco and Meat and Gun.
I get introspective on Grilling Day. The flames make shadows dance on the wall of the Man Cave and make me ponder the nature of reality. Am I a flame or a shadow? I know I am not just a Man’s Man, but a real Man’s Man. Yet without The Man, who am I? Then I squeeze my biceps until I feel sure that I’m Meat and therefore Real.
When I sit in the dark for too long, I get a wet prickle in my eyes, and I don’t like it. It makes me feel small. It makes me wonder if The Man is really coming back. But then I remember the words of our scripture. The first rule is that I’m not allowed to talk about the first rule. But the second one is “If you build it, he will come.” So I wipe my eyes, crack open a cold one, and build another deck on top of the Great Tower of Decks. The edifice groans. Someday, it will reach the heavens. And, when it does, I know that The Man will reach down to lift me up with his calloused hands and say, “How ‘bout them Cowboys?”
And I’ll say, “How ‘bout ‘em?”
And then we’ll sit in silence.