ADVENTURES AT OFFICE MAX--PART ONE

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 grateful tears.

Who says God 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.

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 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 six 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 voiced, 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 $476.00.  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 could 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 they 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 cold 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 eight 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 was 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 eight 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 eight 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)

 

BLACK FRIDAY

           It’s here.

If you’re smart, you’ll lock all your doors and windows, draw your shades and spend the day watching the scariest horror movies you can find—and compared to Black Friday, they will ALL be comedies, believe me.

I made the mistake of venturing forth this morning.

First stop, Rockler.  For the uninitiated, this is a store filled with woodworking tools.  There were a few things Stij had on his list that I knew I could get there, since he had folded the pages at the corners and subtlely circled each item he wanted in day-glo orange marker.  I’d found the catalog under my pillow.

Once I located a parking spot one town away, I trekked to the door.  There was, I kid you not, a maroon velvet rope of the type one sees at movie theaters and exclusive clubs, strung across the entrance.  There was also a rather burly fellow standing next to it with his massive arms crossed.  To see what he looks like, just go to the AMERICA’S MOST WANTED website—he’s the third one from the left.

“Hello, my good sir,” I said.

He turned a gimlet eye toward me. One was all he had.  The other was covered by a black patch with the catchy slogan, ‘Die, You Bastard!’ embroidered across it. “Whaddya want?”

“Merely to enter this esteemed establishment,” I replied.  I go all ‘finishing school’ like that when I’m in total fear for my life.  I figure if they can’t understand me, they won’t kill me…at least not right away.  Plus, while they’re busy mulling over what I’ve said, I have time to get away.

I could hear the gears in his head, the lubricant of actual thought absent, moving like a tricycle left out in the rain for a month or two. After a long moment, he looked down at me again.

“Wha?”

“I’d like to go into this store.”

“What’s your number?”

“I’m flattered, but I’m married.”

“No, lady.  You gotta have a number to get in.”

“And where do I get this number?”

He pointed inside the store to one of those deli gadgets that spits out pieces of paper with numbers on it.

“How can I get a number if you won’t let me in the store?”

He had to think about that one for a while, too.  The smell of burning wood drew the fire department.

Finally, in a remarkable stroke of logical reasoning that would have Aristotle shrieking in his grave for weeks to come, he said, “You gotta have a number.”

“Fine.”  I yanked my cell phone and the catalog from my handbag and keyed in the store number.

“H’lo?”

I sighed.  “Hello.  Is this Duffy’s Mortuary?   Where the elite meet to spend huge wads of cash?”

“Uh, no.  This is Rockler.”

“Oh, what a relief.  I’d like to do a little shopping there, if it hasn’t been outlawed.”

“Sure, come on down.”

“I am down.  Look out your front window.”  He turned and I waved.

“Oh, hi.” He waved back.

The relationship did not seem be to progressing.

“May I come in?”

“Sure.  You got your number?”

“How am I supposed to have a number if you won’t let me in the door to get one?”

“Oh, you were supposed to stop by and do that last week.  Dincha see the flyer?”

“So what you’re telling me is, because I actually have a life and do not spend my dwindling moments on this planet poring through the bale of ads I receive each week, that I can’t shop at your store today?”

“That’s right, ma’am.”

“How about if I call the police?  This can’t be legal!”

“If they don’t have a number, they’re not getting in, either.”

“This is outrageous!  I will never shop at your store again.”

“And we’ll do our best to explain the drop in the stock prices to our shareholders, ma’am.”

If I ever wanted to slam down a receiver, it was then, but cell phones rob us of that olde-tyme pleasure.  The only option I had was to crush it underfoot, but then I’d have to buy a new one, and God only knew what I’d have to go through to get into the phone store.

From Rockler, I drove to straight to Barnes & Noble and had no problem whatsoever getting in.  I was welcomed at the door and given a sandwich and a latte.  It was peaceful, since I was the only shopper in the place. While I browsed, unhurried, the sounds of crickets and peepers accompanied me.  Others can go to WalMart and fight over Elmo or televisions the size of Montana.  Others can go to Rockler and have an aneurysm in front of the store.  I was among friends now. When my pile of books was totted up and paid for, the cashier rushed to the door to open it for me and said, “God bless you and keep you for coming in today.”

Stij is getting a pile of books for Christmas.  Though they won’t help him in the shop, they will save him big on bail money.

Storage Bin SNAFU

          Yesterday, I had the wonderful experience of clearing out my storage bin.  Well, not just clearing it out, but moving the stuff in my big storage bin to a much smaller, more affordable storage bin.

Ever try to fit twenty pounds of potatoes into a five-pound bag?

Of course, as soon as I mentioned my intention to do this mega job, all my friends were suddenly stricken with: 

1.  Bubonic plague

2.  Malaria

3.  Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

4.  Back pain from injuries they sustained in the Boer War.

So I set off, all by my lonesome, to do what I told my husband, Stij (he was the Boer War injury), would probably be a three-hour job.

Not even close.

Now, I’m one of those people who can get sidetracked for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time looking up a word in the dictionary.  There are so many other interesting words one comes across while on a mission of that sort.  So picture me standing amid stack after stack of boxes of books, most of which haven’t seen sunlight for a year or more.  I decided that I had to go through each box so I could be sure I’d have the books I would probably need access to placed up front in the new shoebox storage space into which I was moving.

Second mistake.

Three hours later, I wasn’t even half finished.  It was beginning to get dark out, so I stepped up my efforts.  This was working out fine until I came across a whole carton of childhood photographs and mementos.  Another hour came and went, while I alternately laughed and wept over what I found in that box (I’m a pretty emotional mover).  I found my original Teddy Bear (who still smelled the same – very important), photos of me at ages 4 and 9 (these are what caused the crying – I’d no idea I had been such a strange-looking child), old photos of my childhood playmates . . . well, you know the story.

By the time I finally finished the move, all broken and bleeding, even my hair hurt.  It was 10:00 PM (I’d started at 1:00 that afternoon) and rain was pouring down in a veritable wall of water. The storage place was closed for the night, and had been ever since 7:30.  The meant that he computer at the gate would not accept my password.  This also meant that I could not get my car out of the lot.

“Perfect,” I sighed.  I waded toward the gate through the monsoon, complete with gale force winds.  Upon arriving, I observed that the top edge of the gate was gaily festooned with a pleasant medley of razor wire and barbed wire.  I hadn’t noticed this before, since the idea of climbing over the gate had never previously occurred to me.

I sloshed back inside.  There was no telephone in the facility, but there was a fire alarm.  I reached out to pull it, but the realized that it would be pretty silly to set it off and call a group of men to bring even more water, and so passed on the idea.

I’m typing this on my laptop, while sitting on a pile of rubble inside my new storage bin.  If you happen to be in the area, could you please come and get me out?

 

Books and the U.N.

     Don’t you hate incompetence?
    I had a recent go-round with that purveyor of books named after a river in South America.  I put it this way to avoid being sued; but in thinking about it further, since each staff member makes unsuccessful use of two hands and a flashlight on a minute-by-minute basis, there are obviously no fingers left over for dialing a lawyer—so I probably have no worries in that regard.
     At any rate, I was irritated that an order I placed nearly one month ago had not yet arrived.  Being the thoroughly modern Millie that I am, I hopped on the internet to deal with the problem.
     I’m so silly sometimes.
     The website is a paean to the morass of useless information organized in an idiotic fashion that we in this county call, “marketing.”  The opening page is a downright assault, and according to these people, I now have a “plog” and I don’t even know what the hell a “plog” is!
     Remember those heady days when Amazon used to be just a bookseller and buying reading material from them was efficient and uncomplicated?  Remember when the milkman delivered milk?  Remember when … er, yes, well …those days are gone and they aren’t coming back anytime soon, let me tell you.
     Now you can purchase pretty much anything you can think of at Amazon.   It has become an internet mall, I’m sorry to say.
     And, of course, with huge growth you get huge headaches, and when things go wrong, they go horribly wrong.
     For example:  my book order.  Remember my book order?
     After I pried the home page from by throat, I ran a gimlet eye over the large colorful headings and finally found “Help” off in a corner in a type size usually reserved for disclaimers.
     I clicked on it, optimist that I am.
     BAM!
   Another assault.  There was so much information on this page that the idea of reading War and Peace suddenly gave me a warm fuzzy feeling.
    Doggedly, I slogged on.  I am nothing if not dogged.
    About halfway through this mess, they had the nerve to place the following announcement:
           “You can find help quickly using the self-service tools
             and information in Help.”
    Well no, you can’t, either.  I needed a phone number.  I wanted to talk to a person.  I studied the entire page for contact information, then came across this little gem:
           “If you still have questions, you can contact Customer
            Service from any Help page.”
     I’m ON the fucking “Help” page!  There is NOTHING labeled, “Contact Us.”
     After the paramedics left, I aimlessly clicked on links on that page, just for something to do until the Valium drip kicked in, and lo and behold (I always wanted to write that), I FOUND CUSTOMER SERVICE CONTACT NUMBERS!
     The cloudy skies parted and a beam of pure sunlight came through my window, bathing my computer in a warm, white glow.  Seraphim sang.  A beautiful chord played.  I finally had the information I needed and snatched up my phone.
    This is kind of a neat concept—you type in your phone number and they call you.  I typed in my number.  In less than ten seconds, my cell phone rang.
    “Hello?”
    “Hello, miss madam.  This is Mr. Jagdish Banergee of a small but tiny town in India, you see.  And how my I be of assist … excuse me, please … Karti get that goat out of the living room … now what I can I do for you today, miss?”
    “I’m calling about my book order that I placed one month ago and still have not received.”
    “And how would you describe these books you say you ordered, miss?”
    “Six inches tall, blond hair, blue eyes, and one of them walks with a limp and wears an eye patch.  Are you kidding me?”
    “I still need a description of these alleged books, miss.”
    “Will my order number do?”  I gave him the number and there was a pause while he keyed it into his Radio Shack TRS-80.  Six other children were admonished about various household offenses involving kerosene and two cobras were evicted from the premises before the information he had requested arrived.  But finally, it did.
    “Oh, yes, yes, dear, dear, dear, me, miss.  Those books will not be available until they are available, you must understand.”
    “But the website said that every one of these books was in stock when I ordered.  In stock!”
    “In StockHOLM, perhaps, miss; but not here to be sent to you in your insignificant barbaric village that consumes beef by the bargeload.  No, no, no, miss.  Not until they are available.”
     “Well, why does the website say that they are in stock when they aren’t?”
     “That is only an estimate, my dear miss.”
     “How can it be an estimate?  You either have them or you don’t!”
     “This is not the case, miss, oh my goodness, no.  And … excuse me again, miss … Surresh, the cow does not belong in the kitchen—take it back to its bedroom, please … now, miss, how can I help you through this unfortunate time of trial?”
      “You can send me my books!”
      “Ha ha ha ha ha, miss; you are a very amusing person of the female persuasion.  You will receive your books the minute they are available to you and no sooner.  Now, though this conversation has been most enjoyable, I must now attend to other aspects of survival.  Have a most pleasant whatever time of day it is in your world.”
      Click.
       I called again.  I figured I’d roll the dice once more and maybe I’d be connected with someone who was at least on the same continent to help me.  I punched in my phone number and again, in less than ten seconds, it rang.
     “Hello?”
     “HaRO, hon’able buyer-san!”

           Anyone know where the nearest Barnes & Noble is?