Jack the Jackhammer

A mighty man lived inside a toy box, and he was forced to stay inside this fierce plastic toy box from the summer of his freshman year until the spring of his sophomore year. It was much too long a time to be crammed inside such a confined space without any food, water, or company. 

The mighty man’s name was Jack. The details of how he came to be crammed inside this strong plastic box the size of a coffin is not important, for it is all so trivial and run-of-the-mill that it is really not worth the amount of ink to be printed. What is important is how he came to free himself from the box.

It was in the middle of the month of April, and he had been singing a slow and sad song to himself. The song was “Unchained Melody”. He had been singing this ballad to himself in more frequent repetitions in the month of April in fits of increasing desperation. He had been trying over and over again in the past months to break through the top of the box by pounding on it with his mighty fists. His fists would become bloody and bruised after a while, so there would be periods of time when he would be forced to stop and allow his hands to recover. But something changed for him on this particular day in mid-April. He was preparing to use his fists again to beat on the walls of the box in the hopes of breaking through. He had lost track of how many times he had tried to force open the box. As he prepared for another attempt upon the box, he realized that he had never tried to beat upon the walls of the box with an intention besides, “I want to get the hell out of here.”

“What if I added another intention to my efforts to be free?” he thought to himself. “My name is Jack… why don’t I pretend like each of my fists is a jackhammer? That would be pretty nifty – pretty neato-keen. That would be a fun exercise to try out.” And so he tried out the imaginary exercise that day. It’s not exactly like he had anything better to do with his time, or had any better way to think. He was sick of the song “Unchained Melody” being stuck in his head. 

As he began beating upon the roof of the plastic stronghold box, he intentionally pictured his fists as miniature jackhammers working and thumping away on the top of the box. And not only did his mind’s imagination successfully shape-shift his fists into little rattling jackhammers doing their utmost, but when his mind’s concentration lapsed and he found himself just passively watching everything in front of him (which wasn’t much), he discovered to his shock that his hands were still in the shape and form and color of little strong jackhammers, jack-jack-jacking away at the top of the box. Miniaturized pieces of machinery attached to his wrists and working like hell to at least make a dent in the top of that box. He was sure of the fact that his imagination had, at least for the time being, changed things into a reality. 

He watched it all unfold. He did not exert any pressure upon the top of the box anymore –  he just let his jackhammer hands do their thing. “Jack the Jackhammer!” he cried in ecstasy as he watched the pieces of machinery hammer away. His hunger was suddenly gone and he no longer felt thirsty or tired or lonely. “Haha!” he shouted again.”Go, go, go! Work, work, work! Jack the Jackhammer! Jack the Jackhammer!” 

Within a few minutes, he could see a few tiny holes poking out there from the top of the stronghold box. “Whoohoo! Yeah, baby, yeah! Go, go, go! Vroom, Vroom, Vroom!” 

The apparitions did not vanish. They continued working away tirelessly, for nearly an hour, until there was a gaping hole at the top of the box, sizable enough for an average sized adult to wiggle his way through. Lucky for Jack, even though he was indeed a mighty individual,  he was also average sized. He wiggled his way through the hole at the top of the box, but even though he was the right size he found this surprisingly difficult to do with miniature jackhammers for hands. It would have been ideal if the jackhammers had shifted back into slightly bruised fists once the sizable hole at the top of the stronghold box emerged, but this was not the case. And what’s more, they did not turn off once the decent sized hole had been made and he was climbing his way through. He could not find any kind of ‘off’ button for these things, and even if there was, how on earth was he supposed to press it?

“Careful, careful, careful,” he said as he was fitting himself through the hole. The miniature jackhammer on his right- hand side had grazed his thigh not a moment before and left a very real mark. It took quite a bit of effort and calisthenics, but he wriggled his way out of the plastic strongbox without harming himself any further. He allowed himself a tremendous sigh of relief.

“Finally,” he said. “Finally.” He looked around him at his new surroundings, now that he was finally free. It looked to be the size of a small bedroom, but not even that. It was incredibly small. Horribly small, perhaps half the size of a compact personal bedroom. As he stood there looking around, the top of his head nearly brushed against the ceiling. He lifted up his arms, and his rattling jackhammer hands nearly brushed against the walls. There was a small electric light on the ceiling, and the light was rather dim. 

He noticed that his hands had actually turned back into hands. No more rattling jackhammers. The plastic stronghold box the size of a coffin, the box that he had broken free from, took up roughly half the size of the floor he was standing on. 

He noticed that on his right, there was a small black metal door. He did not have to walk over to it – it was right there in front of him. He had to stoop down, because the black metal door was about half his height. A dwarf could have easily walked through it, but he would have to waddle through, staying crouched, in order to pass through. He tried the doorknob, and it was locked. He tried again – still locked. He beat his fists upon the door and could feel the impenetrability of such a real barrier. It was at that moment that his hunger, thirst, loneliness, tiredness, and depression returned all at once. 

He lifted his fists, and concentrated very hard. “What if these fists of mine were jackhammers instead, and could help me tear through this strong locked door? I am Jack the Jackhammer, after all.” But no matter how hard he concentrated, and no matter how much he strained to use his imagination as a tool, his hands would not change. He flexed his fingers, hands out wide, palms out. He formed them back into balled-up fists. But they did not change form. 

He leaned against one of the walls and slid down slowly so that now he was sitting on the floor, propped up. He started to sing the popular ballad “Unchained Melody”, but a few verses in, he discovered that he had forgotten the lyrics.