BIG BOXES: Pack a Lunch, Enjoy Your Stay
Posted: Thursday, May 21, 2009
by John Brazell
You're not going to believe it but I actually got someone to help me in a Big Box store.
Everyone knows on the first page of the employee handbook is the universal Big Box creed:
"Ignore the customers and they will roam the store and buy things they don't need. Notice the restrooms are located in the most remote part of the store forcing all customers to pass every nut, bolt and toilet plunger -- seniors a multiple of 2.7 times.
Note the addendum to this page. Your Big Box now has mostly self checkout stations which are complicated, malfunction often and serve to make customers feel like a blonde Barney Fife. Fear of using them when others are around will keep the average customer lurking and shopping till the cows come home, or nap time whichever comes first."
I was at the store because I had made as much of a mess of things at home as is allowed under my marital contract. The sensors (circa '95) on our garage door went kaput again but I was determined to line up those little light beams one more time. When this happens, I don't know why the little woman can't forgo driving for a week or manually close the garage door. The step ladder is close by and she's been out of her surgery boot for a month. A lot of people in Appalachia and Arkansas go barefoot all the time.
If you haven't held one of the sensors in your hand you're missing out on a lot of amazement. The rectangular plastic box, size of a pack of Camels, weighs no more than an ounce or two, has nothing inside you can feel by shaking it, yet keeps your garage door from falling down on a grandkid or your last new Buick. I mean your LAST one. (So you thought we had settled the Japanese thing in '45, eh?)
With worn-out sensor and packed bologna sandwich in hand I entered the bowels of Big Box ready to spend the day looking, cussing and saying "I don't believe this". I decided to get the cussing out of the way early and asked the first guy in an orange apron where the garage door stuff was hidden. He mumbled something about getting a "yellow truck" out of an aisle and would be with me if I'd go down to aisle numbered approximately 1500 and start looking. Gol Darn it, that's a new excuse!
After a fifteen minute walk and looking as inept as I was, out of the lower intestine appeared an employee who asked if I needed help. While we sorted through plastic-encased garage door stuff the "yellow truck" employee appeared.
It became a hot competition to find a workable sensor though only one type was visible on the shelf.
Clerk A wheeled out a computer cart and banged away while Clerk B read information on assorted packages. Clerk C, with box cutter in hand joined the fray and cut open a package to fondle the product. Clerk B left and returned with a device to test the old sensor for bad wiring. Clerk C reappeared with a picture and computer printout of a replacement sensor though not in the store. Clerk A scratched his head, "It used to be here."
Said B to A, "If you'd take off that goofy cap maybe you could see."
For the next forty minutes, like Paris Hilton at a Navel Convention, I reveled in the attention. Unlike Paris , I tired of the love, said thanks, and took my worn-out whatzit and computer printout and maze-d my way out the front door.
Call it a blessing or curse, my guess is the three helpful "clerks" were out-of-work engineers, bankers or accountants waiting out the trickle-down stimulus magic.
I drove two miles down the street to a second Big Box and walked directly to the garage door section. On the way two intelligent looking people in button down oxfords asked if they could help. I gracefully declined.
That same afternoon I called a Garage Door company. Rex, a regular guy, came out wearing flip flops, clam-digger shorts and three rings in one ear. It took him ten minutes to replace the sensors and oil the hinges. The cost was $134 -- thirty-four for plastic parts and a hundred for replacement of self esteem. Rex, I think, used to be a lawyer.
My sweetie says she loves either Rex, or me. So long as the door holds out, I think it's him.
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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)John, I think that employee's manual started out as a self-help guide to get through the recession. I remember seeing something similar back in the late 70s. Great article, excellent storytelling! :)Danny, I responded earlier but obviously didn't do it properly which once again proves my need for help. Thanks for the compliment. Being a guy with ten thumbs that dislikes instructional manuals is a bad combination for Big Box stores. But the three guys providing the help were trying and a pleasant surprise.Best to youJohn
You are absolutely hilarious. The whole time you were fuming, were you thinking, "I'm gonna write about this?" Love it, made my day. I had a frustrating day and yours made mine seem not so bad after all. :)Brianna,Well, you've made my day! There are lots of reasons for writing, none more honorable than brightening someone's day. I'm delighted. I did shake hands with each of the three guys trying so hard to please and told them their efforts collectively exceeded my previous lifetime in the store.Yep, sometimes you think, this really is funny. People aren't gonna believe this!Best to you,JB
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