The Tools Make the Man

In late 2009 the scientific community went gaga over the discovery of a tool-using octopus. Well, actually there was more than one tool-using octopus, but since no one in the scientific community could remember whether the plural of octopus is octopi, octopusses or octo-pods, they decided to just report on one of them.

The slimy critter in question was videotaped gathering up coconut halves from the ocean floor near Australia, cleaning them out, and then using them as a rudimentary form of shelter. I’m no scientist, but watching the video raised several very important questions in my mind. Why were there coconut halves on the ocean floor? Where did the octopus live before he built himself an environmentally-friendly new home? And what kind of interest rate did the octopus get for its new coconut shell house?

In answer to the first question, scientists say that people drop the coconut halves in the ocean. Once the octopus discovered them, it figured out how to use them for shelter. I think I speak for all of us when I say that I’m grateful no one is dropping handguns, explosives or refined uranium in the waters off the Australian coast. The last thing we need is a new terrorist group consisting entirely of cephalopods. If you think pre-flight pat-downs are a pain now, wait until the guy ahead of you in line has eight legs to check.

The reason that scientists got so wound up about the octopus is that tool-use has always been seen as a sign of intelligence; something that marked human beings as different than animals. If animals are starting to use tools, the only remaining difference is that we wear pants. And, let’s face it, off-the-rack plaid trousers or jeans that have a waistline just above the knees doesn’t exactly make the case that we are the smartest creatures on the planet.

We could argue that human beings are still superior because we use more sophisticated tools. Anybody can whip up a quick shelter with a couple of coconut halves, but it takes real intelligence to strip out an imperial hex nut by using a metric socket set. Anthropologists like to point out that there are chimps using sticks to fish termites out of anthills, but if they were really smart they’d invest in the Craftsman ™ 9v Re-chargeable Automatic Termite Retrieval System. Like all cordless tools it would a) make the job much easier and b) have a battery which is incompatible with every other cordless tool ever made.

Really.

Creating incompatible systems seems to be a major pastime for the tool manufacturing industry. I imagine they have entire teams of engineers dedicated to the task of ensuring that no tool is ever compatible with any other tool. This explains the freaky, mutant screwdrivers that keep showing up in hardware stores.

When I was a child we had three TV networks, two types of screwdrivers, and one telephone company. Things were a lot simpler back then. For some reason — possibly as a result of the hole in the ozone layer — screwdrivers started to mutate into weird new varieties including the star-shaped torx, the odd-looking tri-wing, the snake-eyed spanner head, the complicated double hex, and the non-Euclidian Lovecraft-slotted bolt. Half of my tool inventory is now devoted to hundreds of different interchangeable screwdriver heads none of which is just the right size and shape for the screw I’m currently trying to remove. Every new project requires the purchase of a new, special-purpose tool.

I learned this lesson during the first year of my married life. As a bachelor, when something fell apart in my apartment, I just ignored it. Paper towel holders, drawer fronts and even doorknobs could come off and I’d just find a way to work around them or do without. My new bride, though, had definite preferences when it came to living in a space that was both attractive and functional. When two towel holders — one in the upstairs bathroom and one in the kitchen — fell down on the same day my wife insisted that I repair them.

Since we were only newly married she can be forgiven for thinking that I actually possessed the necessary repair skills. I barely even had tools at that point. The only set I owned had been a gift from my brother-in-law, Bernie. James Bond had Q, Batman had Lucius Fox, and I had Bernie. I also had a tool set that included a screwdriver with interchangeable heads and an upstairs towel holder that needed screwed back into the wall.

As it turns out, owning a set of tools didn’t make me a handyman anymore than a tights and a cape would have made me Superman.

Like an assassin assembling a sniper rifle, I snapped the pieces of the screwdriver together, fitted the Phillips-head into the screw, braced my feet and … pushed the screw through the wall. I muttered a few rude words at a volume somewhere between “rock concert” and “fighter jet on final approach.”

“Problem?” my wife asked.

“Just checking for studs,” I mumbled.

“Let me know if you find any,” she said.

Very funny.

That was the moment at which I began to understand the twisted relationship between jobs and tools. Repairing the damage I’d caused was going to require additional tools including a keyhole saw and a spackling knife … and a sanding block … and a paint roller … and a power drill. Patching, taping, spackling, sanding, painting, and drilling kept me busy for two days. My wife stayed clear of the work site until I was done and I proudly showed her what I’d accomplished.

“Thank-you,” she said.

“No sweat,” I said. “Now I’ll get started on the one in the kitchen.”

“Don’t bother,” she said. “I fixed it two days ago with a butter knife.”