OFFICE MAX & GERMANS (DON'T MENTION THE WAR)--PART TWO

Picking up where we left off last week:  my twelve bookcases and desk were finally delivered from Office Max, I'm now out of the hospital after emergency back surgery, and the time has come to put the damned things together.  Oh, yes.  I have to put them together all by myself.

First, the bookcases.  According to the box, no tools are necessary for assembly, and each case only takes twenty minutes to put together.  Buoyed by that statement, I opened the first box and ripped open my right hand on some sort of packing crap…I think it may be called a brad or a staple or, hell, Mildred Pierce for all I know.

Following a quick trip to the emergency room and 57 stitches, with the promise of a 50/50 chance of being able to use my thumb again, I set to.

I yanked at the boards in the box.  Nothing.  They were stuck.  I sat down on the floor, braced the box with my feet, and really put my back into it.  Out flew a long board, narrowly missing my head before embedding itself in the wall.  Try as I might to remove it, it became clear that  board and plaster had plighted their trough, and would be joined there for all time.

I stepped back and surveyed the destruction; much like van Gogh would step back from a painting in progress just prior to cutting off some body part or other.  To sum up, I now had clotted, drying blood all over my beige oriental rug and a six-foot board sticking out of my wall, looking as if it were shot there by some gigantic deranged Indian.

What to do?

I grabbed two stools, placed one on each side of the board, and called it a "Breakfast Nook."

Being a humorist and therefore having no capacity for self-preservation, I opened another bookcase box.

Out charged the biggest rat I've ever seen since Humphrey Bogart in The Roaring Twenties.

My ferret, Gizmo, took a great deal of interest in this rat, and in a frenzy, managed to get out of his cage and make a beeline for Mickey Mouse on PCP.  The fact that this rodent was twice the size of Giz didn't seem to bother him at all.  He latched onto the hairless tail with all the might and killer instinct that a two pound animal can muster, and proceeded to be dragged around the room by this panic-stricken, shrieking rodent.  Vases toppled and smashed gaily on the floor.  Plants were overturned and trampled.  Bric-a-brac didn't stand a chance as the rat scrambled up onto furniture with my ferret still attached to his nether regions.  Watching him try to get shed of Giz reminded me of kids playing "Crack the Whip" at ice skating rinks.

But Gizmo would not be moved.  Well, that's not entirely true.  He'd allow himself to be dragged around the apartment like a dust mop, but that tail was going to remain firmly clenched in his fangs.

Finally, the rat got tired of it all, reached back and gave Gizmo a roundhouse punch in the nose.  It surprised him enough to let go, and the rat legged it to parts unknown, leaving me with an embarrassed, ashamed ferret to comfort.  After two hours of assuring him that I didn't think he was a pantywaist, I returned to the bookcases.

The rat was still at large, but I didn’t care anymore.

I emptied the box of its selection of boards and little hardware doodads that I assumed I'd be needing, and picked up the instructions…which were written in German!

I am nothing if not game, so I laid the pieces out in what looked like the appropriate arrangement, and started putting in dowels and screwing in screws…for the next three hours.

"Twenty minutes! @$%#%$#% Office Max!   @$**%#$#% bookcases!  And mostly, %$#@$#@%#%#% Germans who don't have the decency to provide English instructions!" I remarked.

At any rate, at the end of three hours, the swearing was done and I stepped back to drink in the full impact of my creation.

It didn't look like a bookcase.

It looked more like a chicken coop in a slum. 

I took it apart and tried again.

This time, it was a ghastly recreation of my ex-husband that I knew would haunt me until the day I died.

Some would call me "persistent," others might opt for "idiot," but I gave it one more try.

My final effort resembled something out of an Irwin Allen movie, and  the rat immediately moved into it…to give birth.  Though I had to relocate them to a shoebox, I am keeping her family, and the rest of us, nice and warm.

Guess what I'm using for firewood?

BOOKCASES, IDIOTS & NOVENAS

I made the grave error of buying something from Office Max, a/k/a "Temple of Doom."

But let me backtrack a bit.

Having moved into a new apartment, and living alone for the first time in my life, I discovered I was woefully unprepared to deal with setting the place up.  For one thing, I am a book fanatic, and have a personal library of over 6,000 volumes.  Unfortunately, I had not one bookcase to my pitiful name.  The time had come, as the Walrus said, to stop threading my way through my living space around ten-foot vertical piles of books.

Being somewhat frugal at this point in my life, I naturally checked the Sunday circulars to see who might be having a sale.  After flipping through Circuit City, Best Buy, Wal-Mart, Sam's, and a place called "Jimmy's House of Edible Lubricants" flyers, I came upon an ad from Office Max.  To my delight, they were having a great sale on, not only the bookcases I needed, but also on computer desks.  The clouds parted.  Seraphim sang in perfect harmony.  A ray of sunlight fell across my face--a face that was covered with a sheen of grateful tears.

Who says the universe doesn't have a sense of humor?

I high-tailed it down to Office Max, humming all the way.  I danced in the front door, only to find…ground zero when the shit bomb hit.

I had never seen such disorder in my entire life.  If ever a place of business looked as though it had been picked up 2000 feet and dropped, this was it.  But, undaunted (well, okay, maybe a little bit daunted) and spurred on the by the great prices, I stumbled forward.

Upon finding the desk/bookcase area, I glanced around for a salesperson.

Nada.

Finally, I ran serpentine through the mess and inquired at the customer service desk.  I was sent a salesperson forthwith.  Or, as forthwith as I could get, anyway.

After about twenty minutes, a wizened man three days older than dirt tottered up to me.  "Can help you, Miss?"  he rasped, in a voice reminiscent of Im Ho Tep.

 Stifling the urge to reply, "Gee, may I help you," I told him of my mission.

"I'll have to check out back to see if we have any more left," he said, and in the style of Tim Conway's little old man, shuffled off to the nether regions.

Thirty-five minutes later, he returned, and I noticed that he was now wearing one of those Mission Impossible type black headsets.   I wondered if this was really the image they wanted to project to a shopper in their establishment.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but we'll have to order them for you," he said.

"Why?  The circular was just released this morning!  How could you possibly have sold out of them already?"

"I just work here, Miss.  I don't know."

"Ah, that sounds familiar.  Just following orders?"

"That's right, Miss.  The order desk is right this way."

I shrugged and followed him.  It didn't really make that much difference, I supposed.  I'd done without them this long; a few more days wouldn't matter.

At the desk, their latest twelve-year-old hire greeted me with a highly professional, "Yeah?"

"I need to order twelve bookcases and a computer desk."  I'd brought the circular with me, so I pointed out exactly what I wanted.  "Please have them delivered on a Tuesday."

"Lady, you can't just pick a day like that!"

"Then this is the only store in American where I can't!" I retorted.

Another twelve-year-old, drawn by the raised voices, sauntered over.  "Sure she can," he said.

This resulted in a filthy look from moron number one, and additional typing.  Oh, I could see tense times at recess today!

"What's your phone number?"

I gave it to him.

"What?"

I repeated it.

"Excuse me?"

I repeated it.

"OK.  Is it 236-8799?"

"Close.  646-5086."

"What was that again?"

After another five minutes of this delightful banter, I gave it to him in semaphore and American Sign Language, and I think he finally got it.

"That's $853.72.  Your order will be delivered on Tuesday between 8:00 am and 5:00 pm."

"Can you be any more specific than that?"

"No," he said, handing me my receipt.

"Well, you're welcome, of course.  And I must say, it's been a wonderful, friendly experience, and I think I'll have you all over for a big cookout this summer!" I snarled, snatching my receipt and stomping out the door.

I wondered what the odds were that I would actually receive the items I ordered.

So, Tuesday morning came, and I bounded out of bed to the jangling of the alarm clock.  This is not easy to do on a day off, but I did it, because I wanted to be ready when everything arrived.

I waited all day and the only person who showed up was a Jehovah's Witness, looking for heathens. I sent him to the apartment below me, but not before telling him that he might want to stop back tomorrow, because by then I will have committed a murder.

"Oh.  You ordered something from Office Max, didn't you?" he asked. "Believe me, God will understand.  He may even help you."

I thanked him, gave him a cookie, and directed him downstairs.  Misery loves company, don't you know.

At 5:15, desperately trying to keep my voice from sounding like something out of "The Exorcist," I placed a call of Office Max.

"Office Max.  How may I direct your call?"

"The store manager, please," I said.

"Hello, this is Wayne."  Good God!  His voice hadn't even changed yet!

I told him my tale of woe.  No matter what I said, he replied with, "I can certainly understand how you feel."

Finally, after the fourth time he said that, I asked, "How can you possibly understand how I feel?  Have you bought something from Office Max recently?"

"Oh, no!  I'm a whole lot smarter than that!"

"Yes, you probably are," I sighed. "How are you at ducking throwing knives?"

"Why?"

"Oh, no reason.  Just call the warehouse and find out what happened, will you please?" I asked.  "And then call me back and let me know what's what."

"Fine."

After twenty minutes, Wayne called me back.

"It seems that there was some damage to some items on the truck, and they couldn't be delivered," he sniveled.

"And when was this reported, Wayne?"

Mumbling.

"Pardon me?  I didn't hear you."

"At noon."

"AT NOON!  And you couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone and let me know?  I've been sitting around my apartment all day with my thumb where the sun don't shine, and you're telling me that your people knew AT NOON that the delivery wasn't going to be made?  Is that what you're telling me, Wayne?"

"Um, yes?"

"Hold on, Wayne.  I have to run and stick my head into a bucket of ice water so it won't EXPLODE!  Don't go anywhere!"

When I returned to the line, I was considerably calmer.

"I WANT TO KNOW JUST WHAT THE HELL YOU PLAN TO DO ABOUT THIS, YOU AMAZING MORON!" I remarked casually.

After screaming myself hoarse, we decided that the items would be delivered the following Tuesday, when I would again be at home for the day.  In return, I agreed not to lie in wait for Wayne in the parking lot with the intention of chewing his leg off.

During the balance of the week, I said twenty-three Novenas, sacrificed three white roosters, and danced naked by a fire in the light of the full moon.  Confident that I had all bases covered, when Tuesday rolled around, I again leapt from the covers early, and waited with, as Dickens would have said, great expectations.

At 12:30, there was a tap at my door.  Sure it was the delivery, I flung it open.

On my welcome mat stood a short, fat creature who looked like he just crawled out of a pipe.  "Delivery from Office Max," he mumbled.

"Fine!  Bring it on in!" I cried.

"Nope.  I was told that this was a dock-to-dock delivery.  I don't get paid to haul this stuff up two flights of stairs.  There are fourteen boxes in the truck and they're really heavy."

"Do you mean to tell me that they sent you out all by yourself, with no help?"

"Yeah, lady, and I have a bad back like you wouldn't believe."

"My friend, once I get through with your boss, he's going to wish a bad back was ALL he had!"

Door shuts.  Short, fat deliveryman exits stage left.  Our protagonist grabs the phone and dials Office Max.

"How may I direct your call?"

"WAYNE!  WAYNE NOW!"

"I'm sorry, but he's tied up at the moment."

"THEN GET HIM UNTIED, YOU PERVERT, AND PUT HIM ON THE PHONE, PRONTO!"

"One moment."

Thirty seconds later, my buddy, Wayne, arrives.

"Hello?"

"IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY?  'HELLO?'  THIS IS CARSON BUCKINGHAM, IN CASE YOU DON'T RECOGNIZE MY SWEET, DULCET TONES!"

"Oh my God.  What happened?"

He didn't have to ask ME twice.  He got such an earful, it had to have been leaking out his nose.

When I finally lost my voice, Wayne said he'd call the warehouse and see if they could get the short, fat deliveryman some help and send him back over.

"Fine," I croaked.

Two hours later, another tap at my door.  I said a quick prayer of thanks to any deity that cared to listen, and opened up.

It was the Jehovah's Witness again.

"Hello.  I just thought I'd stop by to see if you needed any calming down."

"How on earth did you know?"

"You're dealing with Office Max, my child."

"Right.  Please come in."

We talked for hours and he calmed me down considerably…until I glanced at the clock.

"It's 4:35!  DO YOU BELIEVE THIS?  IT'S 4:35 AND NOT A GODDAMNED SIGN OF THEM!"

"Now, Carson, remember what we discussed…forgiveness, serenity, patience…"

"OH, BLOW IT OUT YOUR ASS!" I suggested, scrabbling for the phone.

"Office Max.  How may I direct your call?"

I shrieked into the receiver.

"Oh, hello, Ms. Buckingham.  I'll get Wayne for you."

"Hello, this is Way…"

"THE QUESTION YOU HAVE TO ASK YOURSELF IS, 'DO I FEEL LUCKY?'  WELL, DO YA…PUNK?"

"Oh, Ms. Buckingham…hello.  Did your delivery arrive?"

"NO, MY DELIVERY DID NOT ARRIVE.  CHRIST WILL ARRIVE BEFORE MY DELIVERY DOES!"

Wayne, fearing for his life, came up with a cunning plan.  The items would be delivered the following evening at 6:30, when I would be home from work.

OK.

The next evening, I actually allowed myself to feel hopeful.  I arrived at home at 6:20 and walked up the stairs, only to discover that my doorway was completely walled in, 'Cask of Amontillado' style, by fourteen huge boxes!

After I finished banging my head against the wall and shuffling these monoliths out of the way, I propped open my door and dragged the fourteen boxes, easily weighing about 150 pounds each, into my abode.

As a result of all this heavy lifting, I am now in the hospital.  They want to put me in traction to correct my back problem and relieve my pain, but the traction machine is broken.

They're waiting for a part from the medical division of Office Max.

I may just slit my wrists and save them the trouble.

(NEXT WEEK:  PART TWO)

ADVERTISING, RESTRAINTS & THE TOOTH FAIRY

     I left the field of advertising (I was a copywriter) when I determined that wracking my brain to come up with catchy names for lard and tampons was one of the most ridiculous things a grown-up person can do for a living. 

 Here’s a small vignette, by way of demonstration:

HE:  How was work today, dear?  What did you do?

SHE:  Oh, I spent two hours of my finite existence naming toilet bowl cleaner.  How does “Flushy Brushy” grab you?

HE:  I don’t really understand it.  I think it needs revision. (“HE” peels off his human facemask revealing . . . gasp . . . the client!)

SHE:  You!

HE:  Yes!  Yes, it’s me!  And I’ll keep on throwing this copy back in your teeth until I get what I want!  I don’t know what I want, but this isn’t it!  “Flushy Brushy” is way too cerebral!  The average consumer will never understand it.

SHE:  What about “Potty Clean”?

HE:  Where do you get your ideas, anyway?  The city dump?  That stinks!  (HE pauses)  Hey!  I’ve got it!  “Stink-Away”!  Whaddya think?

SHE:  Yeah, boy.  That sure has class-A mass-market appeal.

The product is released and consumers go wild, snatching up every tin of Stink-Away they can find.  Then they all run, with pitchforks and torches, to sprinkle it all over their local advertising agency.

         That’s pretty much the way things go.  The real payoff was that I was continually subjected to copy direction from a man who thought “comma” was spelled “coma.” (a state into which he would have fallen, had idle wishing proved productive).

The funniest thing that ever occurred during my tenure was the company picnic, attended by two dozen advertising executives standing around, trying to figure out how to have a good time at a function that they couldn’t bill to the clients. 

Should any of you still be considering a career in the field of advertising, even after reading this far, I shall now include the first six lessons from The Ad Man’s Primer (which I just made up).

LESSON #1 – The Ad Man

See the Ad Man

See him thinking.

Think, Ad Man, think,

See him get nervous.

He chews his nails.

He tears his hair.

He gulps Maalox.

And it’s only 8:00 in the morning!

LESSON #2 – New Employees

See the New Employee.

See her smiling face.

She is happy.

This will not last.

She does not chew her nails.

She does not tear her hair.

She does not gulp Maalox.

The other employees are not sure

Whether she is dead

Or on drugs.

LESSON #3 – The Art Director

See the Art Director

He flits from here to there.

He worries about color

And amount of copy.

He talks funny.

He adores antiques.

He wears tight silk pants.

He works part time

For the Tooth Fairy.

LESSON #4 – The Account Executive

See the man panic.

Panic, man, panic.

This is the Account Executive.

He is called “A.E.” for short,

Though others have four-letter names for him, too.

He browbeats The Copywriter.

He makes The Art Director cry.

He “suggests” changes

While he holds a stick

With a nail in it.

He “points things out.”

He “asks for clarification.”

He never comes right out

And says, “Change this!”

He doesn’t want to stifle

Your creativity!

LESSON #5 – The Client and The Agency

The Client is who

The Agency depends on to survive.

The Agency is the parasite.

The Client is the host.

Or vice-versa.

The Agency does everything

To please The Client

No matter what!

Want to be the smartest person in the world?

Become The Client.

The Agency will treat you just like Einstein,

Even if you can’t add, write, or tie your shoes.

Think of all the money you’ll save.

Now you don’t have to go to college

        Or even finish high school!

LESSON #6 --THE CLIENT

        See The Client.

        Demand, Client, demand!

        He is unreasonable.

        He makes Donald Trump

        Look like Tinkerbell.

        He will draw all over original artwork.

        The Art Director will hang himself in the Ladies Room.

        He will rewrite award-winning copy.

        The Copywriter will be taken away in restraints.

        He will tell The Account Executive how to do his job.

        The Account Executive will toss him out the nearest open window.

        The Client learns a hard lesson as he hurtles toward the ground.

        You don’t screw with salesmen on commission.