In college, I associated IKEA with plasticine trendiness and the disposability of youth. I now associate it with desperation and corporate oppression. IKEA is what people of all stripes resort to just because the prices are a couple hundred bucks below what REAL furnishings cost.
The B61 bus dropped me at the foot of the ruthless blue structure. After tapping at the walls, I found the gaping entrance, which reeked of mass produced cinnamon buns.
A cold sweat rolled down my back as I navigated the distracting displays. Using a tiny pencil, I tried to write down their Dewey decimal style item number codes, along with aisle and bin numbers. I shuddered, imagining the self-serve center lying below like hell below Earth.
After I'd gingerly tested out the browned display mattresses and self-taught myself technical Spanish and Swedish because of the lack of English tags, I made my descent. Like everyone else, I first had to walk by rugs that made me sneeze, fake potted plants, standing lights impractical for NYC, and a disconcerting mass of real furs.
At the warehouse, I saw the future...as prophesized in the movie Idiocracy. Impulse shopping was still a risk at this stage because key items were displayed overhead. For example, a mod-style desk and a patio table made of heavy wood started looking like necessities when I'd only come for a mattress and a bookshelf.
All representatives were helping other shoppers. Laborers dressed in plain clothing were busy drag racing carts up and down the aisles - certainly couldn't ask them anything.
One woman who'd tried to take matters into her own hands rather than track down human help held her hand to her forehead as spurts of blood leapt from a gash created by a fallen box. A rep, too lazy to run to her side, hollered, "Come over here and don't move!" Astounded she bleated, "Please don't yell at me!" At this point, some random ghetto onlooker interjected, "He's NOT YELLING AT YOU. Just LISTEN and DO WHAT HE SAYS."
The store closes at 9 p.m., but stays open to milk every last drop of revenue from straggling shoppers. The wait is 45 minutes to pay, followed by another 45 minutes to schedule delivery. "They have to input the data," they say as you stand in line listening to a mouthy European woman be silenced by the sticky, feeble sounding kisses of her anemic boyfriend....and so on. When you get up to bat and realize that the "data" consists only of your address, you wonder what the FUCK took TWO agents so long to do this for seven people in front of you. Outside, you realize that the last shuttle left over an hour ago. Your only choice is to wait for the B61 as shitty cars whiz by with all kinds of crap strapped insecurely to their sloping, rust-spotted roofs.
On a Sunday afternoon, I came here to get ONE more thing and figured it was easier to hop on the B61 than to root out a Bed, Bath, and Beyond. The predominant makeup of the crowd wasn't a race or socioeconomic division - it was families; several generations and their screaming offspring, since it makes perfect sense that you'd bring a fucking INFANT to an austere, intensely crowded place filled with industrial dust, sharp pencils, manic strangers, and hard corners of pasteboard, steel, and glass.
I just couldn't believe that this many people move or require furniture on a regular basis. At the "bistro," I caved into a "slice" of "pizza," which was blatantly broken off a frozen, dehydrated disc with heavy oregano. Avoiding the people stuffing 50 cent hot dogs into their maws, I stood in the strange grocery-type area nearby in the section with gallon tubs of Lingonberry Preserve where I knew absolutely no one would be.
I randomly looked up and saw a SQUIRREL. At first, I thought it was a decoration intended to impart the peculiarity of Scandinavian charm, but realized it looked too expensive, too well made. I asked a dude if the squirrel was real. He started backing away from me, but when I insisted he look up, he burst out, "OH! Oh my! You're absolutely right!" The squirrel peaced out.
It took half an hour to buy my one clothing organizer. A register I was waiting for closed, then a fake nailed cashier left right before my turn, mumbling that she needed a break. Another shiftless woman replaced her, and took five minutes with my transaction, even as I had the cash out and counted and under her nose. I powerwalked away, only to realize I needed the receipt to GET OUT. "That's what I was saying," she said smugly. "Fuck you for being so slow," I muttered under my breath, secretly hoping she heard.
One of my goals in life is to never have to shop at IKEA again. But as the '80s anti-drug campaign commercials used to say..."No one says 'I want to be an IKEA shopper' when I grow up. But here I am.
Oh, the two stars are for each of the delivery guys who actually carried the shit up to my apartment. One of them asked me how to stop hiccupping. I told him maybe chug a beer after the job. read more