It appears that a certain large home improvement store will rent a chainsaw to nearly anyone. That is to say, they rented one to me. The first fellow who helped me had the breezy cheerful attitude of a man handing out candy to children… with no thought of the consequences. The second man, surveyed me with a look of quiet hopelessness, then proceeded to offer instructions like one might explain computer programming to a 2 year old. No, wait, it was worse than that. I just remembered that 2 year olds intuitively know how to use computers. Rather, he had the despairing countenance of impending doom.
Still, he wanted to go over how to operate the monster as simply as he could for me. I tried once to say that my husband would be using it, but I don’t think he believed me. He told me of a special blue button that would make everything easier, then glanced mournfully at me and said, “There. I pushed it for you.” Since he was insistent on explaining how I might turn on this implement of destruction, I listened politely, really trying to understand. Unfortunately, I know from experience that the 15 minute drive home would wipe most of it from my memory. That’s why I have Greg.
The car was right there for loading, and as I placed the chainsaw in the trunk I whacked my forehead on the opened trunk door. I laughed and was going to say something about being humbled, but he spoke first, with subdued desperation. “Are you okay?” I think he was more concerned because I didn’t start swearing. It was his last proof that I was loopy. I assured him I was fine, but he asked again. I suppose he was trying to stall me and think about who to call?
When I got home, Greg took the chainsaw and didn’t even ask me if they had said anything useful. I had at least wanted to impress him with my knowledge of the blue button! It all makes one wonder about laws restricting firearms if just anyone can rent a chainsaw –
