A Tale of Essential Things

Constructed of soft, highly porous foam rubber descending from soft rounded apexes to comfortable flat bottoms that are connected by a resilient nylon cord, my pyramid shaped bright luminescent orange “Howard Light Hearing Protectors,” commonly referenced as “ear plugs,” hung on the peg board wall of my shop for years. They had originally been purchased to muffle the loud whirring sounds made by my table saw, jig saw, and router as I diligently worked weekends on fine wood projects. Easily accessible in a remote spot near the upper right hand corner of the pegboard, they were a colorful addition to the montage of iron gray, dull silver, and cold-black hand tools beside them. They looked good. I even kept the cellophane covers on them in order to prevent unwanted dust getting in my ears on the day when I would definitely have to use them.
That day never came because the diligent weekends of fine wood working never came. Usually, I had something to do that I felt was more important or decided that breaking out the tools was too much trouble; furthermore, the really fine wood came at a much higher per-foot price than I wanted to pay. Consequently, the elaborately carved Queen Anne pieces I had envisioned remained intricately designed only in the chemical configurations of my brain, where they cost nothing and where discovery of my inept wood working ability was unlikely. Eventually I no longer felt guilty about the money wasted on unused power equipment and no longer saw the obvious intrusion of the bright orange beside my hand tools. In effect, they disappeared.
Briefly, they came out of hiding a few years later when I hastily grabbed them on the way to a tractor pull and monster truck rally at the Memphis Pyramid. Inside the confines of the huge building it would be extremely loud, they said. I assumed the plugs would come in handy and slung the cord around my neck as I passed the shop. They actually looked chic as the individual plug members dangled across my chest, contrasting smartly against the red flannel of my winter shirt. Unfortunately, they weren’t much help. The vibrations and sounds of the huge equipment were overpowering. My teeth rattled clear to the permanent ridge formed on the crown of my head when the old country doctor yanked me into this world some decades before. Cupping my hands over my ears and the plugs at the same time helped only slightly, and I suspected that the foam rubber surface served only to store the sounds and amplify them through the point directly into my eardrums. Out they came.
About thirty minutes later, I considered trying the plugs again when a group of loud-mouthed truck ladies squeezed passed the back of the seat in front of me to plant themselves, bleached blonde hair, artificial tans, crude t-shirts, skin tight blue jeans and all, on the end of the row. From that moment on they were louder, more insulting, more obtuse, and more invasive than the mind-dulling howl and scream of tractors and trucks could ever have been. The offensive combination of their overly applied cheap perfume and miniature cigar smoke easily masked the burnt-oil smell of the machine smoke that by then almost obscured the main floor of the arena.
I think I knew one of the women. She didn’t appear to have aged much, but I was certain that I had seen her about twenty years before at the National Guard Armory in my hometown in Mississippi where the weekly wrestling matches were held. I was sure that she had been the one. Wearing a ragged pair of shorts with a big hole in the seat (she had scarlet red drawers), she had jumped out of the grandstands and onto the ropes when the Masked Red Demon was pummeling my hero, Rex Mobley, to a fine pulp. He had been working Rex’s right arm all night with horrendous wrenching twists. Rex could hardly use the poor arm and could barely fight because of the pain. At last, the Demon managed to get him on the floor and began his awesome work. Most sane people were, of course, dismayed and horrified, but this gal sided with the Demon. Holding to the ropes, she began yelling as loudly as she could for him to tear his Rex’s head off. I could see a sort of glazed effect on Rex’s eyes as he turned toward her for a moment. We were incensed, but fortunately someone (as I recall, it was my uncle) grabbed her legs pulling her away from the platform. She then lost her grip on the ropes, fell, and on the way down busted her bottom lip on the edge of the mat. After that she couldn’t yell at all, but insisted on staying to make a scene and further embarrass the entire audience. I know this was the same woman I saw at the tractor pull and monster truck rally.
That night, I re-hung my plugs on the board, and they stayed there for another six years until I came to Missouri. For some reason, I snatched them off the board and stuffed them in my brief case. Living temporarily with my daughter’s family of five young children, I soon found that the plugs I took for granted were indispensable. Crammed tightly into my ears until the pyramid shapes are transformed into a fat blob, they effectively fend off the incessant crash of violence on the cartoon channel and the continual verbal feuds of competitive siblings who sometimes resent each other worse than I resented the lady who caused Rex to lose that last match of the season so many years ago.
There is also serendipity. They may save my knurled hide. I realized that with the protectors in I can ignore my wife with immunity. If I remain clever enough not to look her in the face when she is talking, she can’t accuse me of deliberately not listening to her. For the first time, she can’t scold me for unconsciously tuning her out when she talks. The plugs are permanently essential.