Letter From Milo: The Chicago Chainsaw Massacre

A few years ago some rotten bastard broke into my garage and stole my chainsaw. It was a loss of staggering proportions. I have yet to recover.

Now, losing a chainsaw may not seem like much of a problem to the sissified, cheese-eating, ballet-going, opera-loving, Prius-driving readers of The Third City, but any real man will tell you that, next to castration, losing a chainsaw is about the worst thing that can happen to a guy. It’s like a Hell’s Angel losing his Harley or a bluesman losing his Mojo – the symbol of his manliness, the totem of his tribe is gone and a vital part of his spirit has vanished with it.

You see, over the decades and centuries, symbols of manliness are slowly being erased from human society. Trophy scalps are frowned upon, high noon shoot-outs on Main Streets are illegal in many municipalities, dueling scars are relics of another era, Detroit has not made a decent piece of iron since the GTO and high stakes poker is played by nerds on the internet. Even tattoos, which were once the province of sailors, circus freaks and wild South Sea Islanders, are as common as braces at Chicago’s Latin School.

In my opinion, the only remaining symbols of masculinity are power tools.

And the unrivaled king of power tools, the epitome of macho-osity, the defining symbol of manhood, is the almighty chainsaw.

Some of you may say, “As usual, Milo, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. A gun is much more of a masculine symbol than a chainsaw.”

Bullshit! The only thing a gun is good for is killing people and animals. You can’t cut down a tree with a gun. You can’t clear brush with a gun. Plus, has there ever been a better horror movie prop than a chainsaw? There is absolutely nothing better than the sound of a chainsaw sputtering into action for scaring the shit out of a bunch of horny teenagers camping in an isolated spot in the north woods.

Back in the days when I was still a proud chainsaw owner I would look for any excuse to use it. If there was no reason to use it I would take it out of the garage and mess with it – clean it, change the oil, check the spark plug. The smell of the chainsaw, a combination of oil, gas, grease and sawdust, was intoxicating. It sent my testosterone levels soaring.

Then when I was satisfied that it was in top condition, I would pull the ripcord and start the bad motherfucker. When it roared to life, the vibration of it ran up my arm, through my shoulder, down my side and settled in my nuts. It was beautiful.

I was a wreck in the days and weeks after my beloved chainsaw was stolen. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, and my already considerable consumption of alcohol and drugs tripled. The lovely Mrs. Milo, always sensitive to my every mood, and tenderly solicitous of my well-being, was worried.

“What the hell is wrong with you!”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Is this about that stupid chainsaw?”

“It’s more than a chainsaw, honey. It’s a symbol of…”

“Quit acting like an idiot. Just go out and buy a new one.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not meant to have a chainsaw. Maybe this is a sign from…”

“Oh, my God! You need serious help. Have you been drinking already?”

“I may have had a smidgeon of vodka with my bacon and eggs this morning.”

As the years passed I thought I had recovered from the emasculating loss of my chainsaw. But, then, something happened a few days ago that sent me back into the depths of despair.

An uncommonly violent storm hit Chicago, heavy rains, rumbling claps of thunder, lightning flashing as often as a disco strobe light, and winds that gusted to 70 miles per hour. Power went out in many parts of the City. Downtown office buildings had windows blown out. And trees were knocked down by the fierce winds.

On the block where I live, large branches were torn from the trees that line the street. It seemed that every yard was littered by broken branches, including mine.

Then, the morning after the storm, I heard sounds that opened a wound that I thought had healed. It was the sound of chainsaws roaring to life. It seemed that all the manly men on block — the accountants, the insurance agents, the lawyers, the hair dresser, and the restaurant owner – had pulled out their chain saws and were preparing to clean the debris from their yards. They were doing what men do best, fiddling with power tools and cutting wood.

And what was I doing? I didn’t have a chainsaw. There was nothing I could do.

I pulled the drapes, turned off the lights and retreated to the basement to lick my wounds and try to salvage the ragged remnants of my self esteem. That’s where the lovely Mrs. Milo found me, all alone, sitting in the dark, feeling extremely sorry for myself. She took one look at me, nodded knowingly, and patted me gently on my receding hairline.

“It’s the chainsaw thing, isn’t it?”

I didn’t bother answering. Who cares what a broken and defeated man has to say?

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