Mallet Man
Mallet Man (MM) can be found at Indian Wells Beach when the summer sun is ablaze and you probably shouldn’t even be out in it. “But Ma, you promised. There’s surf to ride, pails to fill, holes to dig.”
You spread your blanket on the sand, open the chairs, and begin the struggle with the umbrella, screwing the bottom pole down to China so it doesn’t fly off and impale other beachgoers. Superman is not going to swoop down to lend you muscle, nor is Batman going to Batmobile-it over. There are no miracles, says you.
But wait! Who is that man making his way over to your blanket? And why does he carry a mallet on the beach? Alas, he proceeds (with your permission, and with the mallet) to help you out by banging that sucker into the sand like there’s no tomorrow. Yes, Virginia. There is a Mallet Man.
A brief history of how MM came to his calling — I’m privy to this because Mallet Man (when not in disguise) is my husband. With retirement came more time for fun and games, which landed us a house at the beach. It was good for a while, yet wore heavy on the skin. MM spent much time at the dermatologist, who carved away like there was no tomorrow, and perhaps there wouldn’t be one if he hadn’t done his job.
“Old sun stuff,” the doc diagnosed, but MM was taking no chances on a new accumulation. Thus the purchase of a beach umbrella. Being the handyman that he is, aware of the ordeal of the umbrella setup, he ran for his mallet and moved it to the trunk of the car. Voila!
It was just our little trick at first, yet when Mallet Man saw a couple struggling with their umbrella, he couldn’t help but offer his assistance. They were so pleased. About three clops. And then a little chitchat. “Where ya from? C’mon over for a drink” — them to us, us to them. Friendships blossomed. People were grateful. A friend made him an MM T-shirt so the world would know help was near.
But then. Progress will out. People will upgrade, especially when they are in vacation mode. Beach umbrellas were popping up at Indian Wells Beach with a screw-bottom attachment that can be worked into the sand without too much difficulty . . . without a mallet, even.
Mallet Man got caught up in despair. He no longer wanted to go to the beach — what would he do there? Not fond of the sand and rarely putting a toe in the ocean, his presence there was mostly a matter of helping keep an eye on the grandkids.
“Make peace with technology,” I told him. “Move on. Be a volunteer lifeguard at the pool. Hardly anyone uses it so you probably will never need to get wet.”
“Meanwhile,” I continued, “I’ll phone the classifieds.” Free: 1 mallet, 1 Mallet Man T-shirt.
MM was horrified. “This mallet belonged to my father,” he said. “It’s a family heirloom. I’m not just getting rid of it.”
“Give it to our grandson,” I suggested. “He’s 10 years old. It’s his turn to pick up the mallet. Give him the T-shirt too. He’ll grow into it. And someday he’ll say to his kid, ‘This mallet belonged to my grandfather and his father before him.’ I’m crying already.”
“Don’t forget to take a selfie of you and the mallet. And then a shot of the transfer.”
Hinda Gonchor is a freelance writer living in East Hampton and New York. Her work has been featured in The New York Times and other newspapers as well as on the radio.