"Invited To A Bash," A 20 Year Old Post Reworded

Brought Back to the present moment; this is where I was and what I was doing back exactly, sort of, 20 years ago.  

Yesterday, I was  dispatched via a demolition ticket from the Workforce Labor Pool to assist in the dismantling of a Holiday Inn, situated on the distant reaches of Jacksonville Beach.

We entered the  fray armed primarily with sledgehammers—formidable, masculine implements—which we swung with a certain reckless abandon, bashing away at the structure.

Among us were  several formidable laborers. One individual, known to his peers as "Cowboy" or "Wild-man," was entrusted with the stewardship of myself and a fellow worker. 

Nothing was to be spared, we were to swing the hammers as if possessed, and, there were some guys whacking desks and microwave ovens, mirrors, whatever... 

When the hammer  was in Cowboy’s own grip, he became possessed by a convulsive fervor, his movements so animated one might have supposed he harbored a profound personal vendetta against the establishment. 
In a phrase, I believe he was on meth..
He was, in other ways though, a singular inspiration. 
Accompanied by great heaving grunts and groans, he whirled and struck with such tempestuous rapidity that he was soon drenched in honest sweat, his countenance a vivid crimson as he doubled over, hands upon his knees, gasping for the very air he had exhaled in his fury.
I mean; can I meet his dealer?

I observed that  his blows frequently landed upon the very points least likely to yield. Had he possessed the foresight to turn an object upon its flank and strike a more vulnerable seam, he might have cleaved it in two; instead, he labored through twenty or more redundant strokes. Loath to offer criticism to such a whirlwind, I maintained a respectful distance—as, indeed, did everyone else—and allowed him to proceed with his industry.

I had to  sort of ruminate on the 120 year history, or whatever it was, of the famous Holiday Inn on Jacksonville Beach, before destroying it...
The ghosts and memories being symbolically thrown from a third floor window to a dumpster below..
More than a century of days and nights the inn had stood: the wedding celebrations, the famous people and other souls...

I felt a pang of nostalgia, wondering what secrets those walls might have whispered, had they the gift of speech.

Then, I grabbed  my sledgehammer and started bashing away.

The strains of  Peter Gabriel’s "Sledgehammer" were in my head, most of the day -a pretty good indication of the speed and rhythm I myself adhered to, when bashing...

I wound up (excuse the pun) with fifty-three dollars and some odd change.

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