Humor by John Christmann
Tales From the Man Cave
I have a Mother’s Day hangover. After a long weekend spent revering all things mom, I feel like retreating into my Man Cave.
The problem is, I don’t really have a Man Cave. I am not even sure what I would put in a Man Cave it if I had one. Or what I would take out.
What I have is this: a dingy basement in an old house. It is dark and dank, and in some spots too low to fully stand up. I share it with a hot water heater, a knocking boiler, and a large family of spiders. It is too dirty to clean. But it doesn’t matter because most of the dirt is hidden within the shadows cast by a bare light bulb with a pull chain.
There are no posters of Jimi Hendrix on the flaking walls. I don’t have a professional audio system that can shake the foundation. I don’t have a pool table, although sometimes when it rains, water seeps through the walls and collects on an old coffee table stored in the corner.
But my family considers our basement a Man Cave because occasionally I disappear down there.
“Where’s Dad?” asks my daughter.
“I think he is in his Man Cave,” replies my wife.
“Oh.” she responds knowingly, as if I were out of town. Or possibly, dead.
“He is alone with his thoughts again,” adds my wife.
My daughter reflects on this idea for a minute. “He must get lonely.”
Let me set the record straight. An unfinished basement is not a Man Cave. The basement is where we go to retrieve a screw or to find an old can of matching paint or to solve the problem that occurs when the disposal jams and we lose power in the kitchen.
But I understand why my family considers this creepy place a Man Cave. It is the only area of the house where I am ever alone. This is not because it is a secret, reverential Fortress of Solitude. It is because no one wants to go there. Not even the plumber.
On a positive note, the cell phone doesn’t work down there and it’s hard to hear my name being called.
I have a workbench in my so-called Man Cave. It is not located there because the basement is my private sanctuary. It is located there because my wife doesn’t want it in the kitchen.
Granted, it would be a lot handier for me to park my drill next to the toaster and use my table saw as a cutting board. And the blender would probably make an excellent lathe. But the kitchen will never be considered a Man Cave.
And the converse is also true. Installing a stove in the basement will not make me cook more.
Oh I suppose I could fix up our basement and make it a more conventional Man Cave: treat the walls, carpet the floor, and add a little track lighting perhaps. Maybe even mount a flat screen TV flanked with Chicago Cubs pennants and some used bowling trophies snagged on eBay.
But if I made it comfortable then my family would move in and it would no longer be regarded as a Man Cave. Eventually I would still be alone looking for things in the dark by the water heater.
Did you ever wonder where the original cave man had his man cave? I’ll tell you. It was in the cone of smoke downwind of the open fire, against the wall where the circuit breakers were mounted.
I wonder if there is a Man Cave in the White House? A place where President Obama can retreat for some alone time away from Sasha, Malia, Michelle, and Glenn Beck?
Surely there must be some forlorn space by the First Furnace where he can hang out without fear of interruption; maybe a forgotten storage room with a beer-stained arm chair banished by Martha Washington or a tattered campaign poster of Abraham Lincoln stumping at Woodstock.
Or what about Brad Pitt? Does he retreat to the peg board wall beside his hanging extension cords somewhere in the bowels of his mansion whenever his wife starts talking about adopting another child? Some dark concrete corner plastered with movie posters of Lara Croft, Tomb Raider and a mini-refrigerator stocked with Budweiser?
This is the secret world of men that women, children, and journalists from People Magazine will never know. Because for most of us, Man Caves are not the sanctuaries of our own design, they are by necessity the places no one else wants to visit.
Mother’s Day is over and the weeds in the garden are becoming visible. I think it’s time to be alone with my thoughts and bring up the garden tools.
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