Exchange

When someone’s sofa is damaged, whether by us or the customer or by God Himself according to most of you, or when the products are not to the liking of the customer, for whatever reason, they call the store and demand a new piece be brought out to them immediately.  Approximately two weeks later, we go out to perform said demand.  Now, for all intents and purposes, I don’t care what’s wrong with the sofa or how it happened.  However, in order to duly inform the company and it’s warehouse personnel, I ask the following question; “Is there any damage, or are you exchanging/returning the piece for some other reason?”  Then I scribble the reply on my paperwork (which may never be seen by another human being again), and proceed to do my job.  Please realize that when I ask this question, there is really only a certain number of responses that I expect, or can use;  “The damage is here”… “We’re exchanging the color”… “This piece doesn’t fit”… and so on.  I’m not asking for your personal opinion of the company, or the manufacturer, I don’t care how much you paid for this piece of cardboard, particle board and fabric, I just want to know what’s wrong with it.  It’s always people who buy the cheapest piece of crap the store offers who expect the most pristine product. 

I recently received the oddest answer to this question that I would never imagine.  The customer was a little old blue-haired lady.  She didn’t put her two small dogs away because she probably couldn’t catch them if she tried.  She was returning her sofa, a high-end model, nice stretched leather throughout, solid and sturdy.  When I asked my mandatory question, the response I received was both shocking and mortifying. 

“Oh there’s nothing wrong with the couch.  It’s a wonderful sofa.  I’m just returning it because it’s too stiff to sleep on (please stop there, I thought).   You see, I’m having surgery soon to remove this growth from my back.”  And she proceeded to turn around and pull her shirt down past her shoulders revealing a grotesque throbbing knot sticking straight out from her back.  OOOHHH!!  NOOO!!  PLEEAASSE!! EEEEWWW!!!  “You see it?” She asked.  How could I not?? AAARRGGHH!!  GROSSSS!!  HHHMMPPH!!  I didn’t respond because I was chewing back the bile that had risen from my stomach.  I tried to turn away, but the pulsing, oozing reddish lump looked like if I fixed my gaze on something else, it might jump at me.  Finally, before I passed out, I ripped away and looked at my partner who was trying and failing to hold back a laugh from the other side of the room, must’ve been the expression on my face.

DAAAMMIIT!  That’s not what I asked her!!  I didn’t need or want to know that!!  She just felt it necessary to provide me a vision that will haunt me for the rest of my life.  NAAASSTTY!!

Dream

I had a funky ass dream last night.

It started out as a family gathering for Christmas coming up, or Thanksgiving that just passed, I don’t know.  Dinner had ended, everyone was talking.  I was being my usual quiet self, just listening, processing what everyone was saying.  I wasn’t cracking the usual witty jokes, though.  I was deep in concentration. 

A statement my uncle made changed my posture; “It doesn’t matter how careful you are, when God says your time’s up, you die.  It’s that simple.”  He’s said it many times before, always giving spark to the answer in my head.  I’ve never entered such and argument, I knew better.  However, tonight was different.

“I don’t buy it Unc,” I said, “Just over the last 150 years, advances in science and medicine have exponentially increased the average life expectancy.  Is God being more lenient today than back then?  Or is it because there are so many more people on the planet, He doesn’t need to take em so young?  56 million people die every year, though, more than any ever in recorded history.  Maybe not.” I continued, “And how do you explain the differences in death rates in around the world?  Are you saying God prefers some countries over others?”

Then I went on a rant like I wasn’t even aware that everyone was now listening to me.  “I don’t think God exists, and if He does he doesn’t care about us, mankind is the architect and engineer of his own destruction.  We are responsible.  Everything we do is to enhance the quality of life around the world, but who says we are even capable of making it better?  Everything we’ve built, from the microwave, to drugs, to weather changing Haarp antennas are supposedly adversely affecting life as a whole.  We’re told everything will be ok.  So we drive along in our natural resource consuming, greenhouse gas emitting vehicles, with airbags that can cause serious spinal injury, listening to music that alters your thought pattern, drinking coffee that’ll lead to drug-like dependency, talking on our cell phones that cause cancer.  We believe we can change the world, but we can’t even change ourselves.  What if we’re just a mistake?  A cosmic coincidence?  An accident we’re not smart enough to fix?  How can something so insignificant think so highly of itself?”

Then I look up and see the blank expressions on my family’s faces.  I’m not sure if they’ve heard a word I said.  “How can a populace of 6.5 billion people be so disconnected that the ones closest to you don’t even understand you?  I guess it doesn’t really matter how close you are to anyone, everyone dies alone, right?  That’s an experience you just can’t share.” 

Realizing I had spoiled the evening and that everyone thinks I’m crazy now, or suicidal, I apologize and leave.

When I woke up this morning, I felt awful.  Like I’d been punched in the stomach.  Maybe I was just hungry.  Then I started thinking; It was just a dream right?  Do I really believe that stuff?  I don’t feel that I do, but maybe I’ve just been lying to myself.  How well can I know anyone else, if I don’t know anything about myself?  What would it be like living with someone like that person in my dream?  Am I doing a disservice to my girlfriend by being with her?  Will my negativity bring her bubbly self down to my level?  I would never want that, but how do I get passed these thoughts that are so intrusive they’ve invaded my sub-conscience? 

AAAARRRGGGH!!!  I hate having dreams…..

You feel a draft?

This story starts about half-way through a huuuuge delivery.  We’ve been here an hour and a half already.  We’re outfitting this guy’s entire apartment; two bedroom sets with mattresses, living room, dining room and entertainment center.  Everything but the sofas have to be put together.  This guy, and his, um, “decorator” are completely plastered, drunk.  I’m not even sure they know we’re here.  It’s almost eight o’clock in the evening and we’ve been grinding all day.  Late to every delivery, I’ve already scratched my arm up pretty good and smashed my right hand.  My partner, however, has hit his head twice and tripped over the bed rails at this very delivery.  All we have left is to finish this guy’s delivery and one more stop.  We’re dog tired, beaten up and hungry.  To top it all off, we’ve haven’t used the bathroom all day. 

Now, I’d like to point out, we don’t make a habit out of using people’s bathrooms.  I don’t like letting strnagers in my place.  I feel uncomfortable using the bathroom in someone else’s place.  We were thirsty and this fella gave us some kind of energy drink, which by the time it was empty, we were full.  Ready to burst we had to ask him.  Of course he said yes, that guy was in the best mood ever.  He couldn’t wait for us to leave, so he could break in the new bed with miss decorator.  Afterward, we felt so relieved.  We knocked out the rest of this guy’s stuff and, after refusing a couple glasses of wine, went on to the next, and last, delivery. 

When we were on the phone, this woman, who also sounded drunk, was pissed that we were so late.  However, when we arrived she cordially greeted us and invited us in.  She offered us everything from cookies to hot chocolate.  She was following us around as we worked, which is kind of offputting.  Always with her drink in her hand, she smiled everytime one of us looked up from our work to catch her face.  What’s with this lady?  She is starting to creep me out.  Her husband sat alone on the sofa and his eyes seemed to locked in a roll everytime we looked to his direction.  Maybe they were fighting when we showed up.  Anyway, almost finished, my partner and I headed out to truck for her last piece.  I asked him in a whisper because she’s standing in the doorway, “What’s her deal, man?”  “She’s weirding me out.”

When my partner turned around he was beet red, laughing hysterically.  I started laughing just lookin at him.  we were completely inside the truck by the time he composed himself long enough to speak, “I felt a draft when we came out here.  My fly was open, and my dick was hangin out!!”

We both burst laughing.  I probably got as red as him, I couldn’t breathe it was soooo funny!!  His cock had to be hangin out since we used the bathroom at that guy’s house almost two hours earlier!!!

We took a minute, or two to compose ourselves.  When we went in, to our surprise, the lady’s face had been wiped clean of any smile.  She looked at us for a second, then walked off to the living room with her drink.  We were trying not laugh again.  A few weeks later, we returned to her house to exchange a piece.  My uncle was with me because my partner took a few days off.  As soon as we walked in the door, the first thing she said was, “Where’s the big guy?”

HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHa!!!!!!!!!!!

Pain

I’ve heard stories of athletes and actors performing with broken fingers and arthritis in their big toes and the flu, and they’re made out to be some sort of super hero because of this.  All I can say is, they better fuckin perform through pain.  They make 20 million dollars to perform.  Let’s see if they can work through pain when they make $200 bucks a week.  For 20 million dollars, I’d deliver furniture with a fuckin gaping chest wound!

I had a dream once. 

I was lying on some sort of black tarp.  My head at one corner, my feet at another.  I couldn’t move my arms, I was completely calm and surrounded by bad men.  A few of them took the three corners of the tarp that weren’t at my head and covered me, leaving my face exposed.  The leader of this group look me in the eyes and said,

“You can pay me what you owe, or take a beating to square your debt”. 

The decision felt like it had already been made for me.  I barely had money to pay bills, let alone this crazy guy.  Without speaking, I sit upright and fix myself into a ball.  They cover my head with the tarp and proceed to kick me.  All over, the pain shoots into my neck, back, shoulders, forearms, hips, thighs, calves and ankles.  My joints ache because they’re locked in place.  When I woke up, the pain remained.  My muscles were sore from the weeks work, my joints and tendons hurt from overactivity, I guess, and yep, I’m still broke. 

We offer this leather sofa at the store.  It’s dual recliner with steel frame construction.  This sofa clears 300 lbs.  I was loading one onto the truck one day.  One hand on the dolly the other holding the frame of the sofa.  When I hit the ramp, the weight of the sofa shifted, it slid on the dolly, and wedged my hand between the two metal frames and fell to the ground.  A tremendous shock shot through my whole forearm.  When I pulled my hand free, there was a line where the sofa frame dug into it.  “Was it broken?  Did it break?  Hell I don’t have the money or insurance to find out, so let’s just say it’s ok”.  While the throbbing started and my hand burned in pain, I noticed that all of my fingers moved freely.  Whew!!  It can’t be broken then.  About fifteen minutes later, the pain was manageable, the throbbing continued but I didn’t want to waste any more time.  We finished the day, with as little pain as possible.  I shifted as much weight of our hall to my other hand.  The next day,

For about three months after the swelling went down, I felt pain when I rubbed my hand.  Now there’s a small bump in there that won’t go away.

Another time, we had delivered a sleeper sofa.  Not exceptionally heavy, maybe 200-250 lbs.  We got through the whole delivery with no problems, but this particular sofa has a felt strap that holds the accent pillows in place.  Normally this felt piece is easily torn off but this one was being stubborn.  So I gripped it tight, pulled straight up, and my entire forearm locked up on me.  Pain shot up my arm like convulsing lightning.  Try as I did, I couldn’t release my grip on the felt strap.  It was like a cramp, of which I have had many, only it hurt ten times more.  I ground my teeth and with my free hand had to pry my fingers loose, as I did, the pain rolled back down my forearm and out of my fingers.  I breathed again in relief.  My partner noticed, but the customer didn’t even turn his head.  Was all that noise just inside my head then?  My arm was incredibly sore for the rest of the day, along with the next two.  I thought everything from nerve damage to tendonitis.  Of course, once again, I couldn’t have it looked at.  It hasn’t happened since, so that’s good.

We’re sub-contracted, so when we don’t work, we don’t get paid.  Me and my partner have worked with the flu.  All the aches and pains and accidents don’t matter.  People need their furniture and my bills need to be paid.

Omen

Working in that truck, I’ve seen some strange things. 

I’ve never seen a semi rolled over.

I’ve never seen a car on fire driving down the highway.

I’ve never even seen rock formations shaped like baboons.

But by far, leaps and bounds over the rest, the strangest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, let alone in the truck, is a story my friends and family know well.  My partner and I were driving back to the store to load another delivery.  We’re on the highway in town, so we’re going about 70 mph.  We’re talking and carrying on, when THUD!!!  Now, one thing went through my head at once; something broke.  I waited for the truck to shake and fall dead but when we were still moving I knew it wasn’t the truck.  In the passenger seat, I turned to my right to see this;

“WHOOOAA!! What the hell??  Is… Is that a foot?  I… Is that a bird!?!”

“Aw hell!  It’s stuck to the door!!”  We can’t exactly stop the truck.  I’m not rollin the window down to let the wind push it in here.  It’s poor little leg is flappin all fast in the wind as it is.  We drive with it, try as we may to catch our breath.  When we get to the store we get a better look.

Poor thing.  I wonder what went through it’s mind.  If it thinks, it must’ve had time to shit itself before-hand.

I wonder, do animals commit suicide?  Maybe this guy just had his run.. maybe he hasn’t been flying long.  Of course, he managed to live this long flying without any problems.

I thought, if this bird hit two inches higher, and two inches back, it would’ve came through the window and landed on my lap. 

What are the odds???  I don’t know if you’ve seen a truck this size, but there had to be a thousand places on it’s side for this bird to hit…

But it hit in the only space on the truck that would prop it up and keep it in place; between the bars that attach the side mirror…

Not to mention the infinite space around the truck through which the bird could’ve flown…

We later scraped it off the side.. held a modest but lovely ceremony to usher the bird on… then left it in the street under the curb..

Over the course of the next couple weeks, we broke down twice; once 30 miles out of town, the next 90 miles out, I may have broke my hand, my partner got the flu and we couldn’t even dream of $300/week…

Rest in Peace, little Omen bird…

Good Day, Bad Day

Once the morning’s over the day can take almost any form. I’m separating the best parts and the worst.

Good Day

A good day starts off with between 5-7 deliveries.  All sets, no single pieces, no tables to put together, no combos, no questions.  Most or all the deliveries are in town, and reasonably scheduled so that we’re not needlessly driving back and forth from one side of town to the other, or having to call people to reschedule them ourselves.  The big guy at the warehouse has pulled at least half of the pieces by the time we get there.  Everyone’s home to accept delivery.  There are no stairs, no small doors, no dogs, no kids trippin us up as we come in.  We don’t have to stop for gas, or bathroom breaks or any of that crap.  With days like this we can finish about 3-4 hours after leaving the dock, and we come home with $20 in tips.  Starting at 11am we finish around 5pm.  The weekend starts tomorrow.

Bad Day

Bad days either start with 1-3, or 9-10 deliveries.  Three or more are out-of-town; one in 60 miles North of town, another 40 miles South and another 35 miles East on the other side of the mountain.  Two are combos with solid oak bedroom sets, dining sets and an entertainment center.  One lady isn’t home because she forgot we were coming, another isn’t home because her husband told her he would take care of it and both of them want us to wait while they finish grocery shopping and cross town.  Four of the sofas have broken frames and two tables are missing pieces or hardware.  No one tips because we left the dock late and every delivery is at least an hour passed the deadline.  The store and customers are blowin up my phone and everyone is asking the same questions.  We have to stop for gas, twice, because the first station only let me put in $75.  Two deliveries are to second floor apartments, one goes to the third floor, all of which don’t have elevators.  Two customers live in trailer homes and bought the biggest set they could see.  One customer didn’t measure the bedroom door that they want the 400 lb. sleeper sofa to go through.  We started at 9am today, but didn’t get to finish until 11:30pm, and then I have to drive the 60 miles home.  My forearms are on fire, my head hurts, my legs are ready to buckle underneath me and we have to do it all over again tomorrow.

 This is just a taste of what we’ve been through on the job.  More specific adventures on the way.

Morning Routine

Every day starts the same.  My eyes creak open at 7:34 in the morning.  The alarm doesn’t go off for another hour and a half.  I stare upward at the cavernous popcorn ceiling of my 450 square foot, one bedroom apartment.  Shrouded by darkness and silence, my heart beats hard and loud, my eyes sink into the back of my head and I’m overcome with disappointment.  I ask myself silently, “Why the hell did I wake up”?  I lay awake for another two and a half hours drudging over which way to turn out of bed.   I drag myself from my filthy bedroom to my filthy bathroom to clean up.  I check my mocha colored hands and arms for new scars.  Then I carefully stretch to try and ease the pain in my perpetually aching joints.  I shower, shave, brush my teeth and scrounge up the clothes that are closest to clean.  I make sure my paperwork’s together from yesterday’s haul and I head out the door.  I run back in to check and make sure the fridge is still empty.  I’m surprised to find a Coke in there that a customer gave us as a tip from who knows how long ago.  I grab it and run back out, when I turn the corner of the building is when the truck comes into view.  It’s a plain white, 2004 Ford F650 with a 24 foot box.  Behind the scratches from tree branches and in front of the small holes from fallen sofas, I can still see the outline of peeled off letters that read Enterprise Commercial Truck Rental.  It’s not my truck, it’s my uncle’s.  He lives in Denver now, so I sort of unofficially take on full responsibility for it.  I circle around the front to the drivers side door and jump up the two steps into the cab.  I throw the clipboard holding our paperwork onto the passengers seat next to the permanent residence of an utterly useless toolbox.  I turn the key in the ignition only halfway to allow the points to reach full compression.  I pop open the Coke only to realize that our last tip was far too long ago.  I turn the key full this time and the truck erupts to a thunderous start, which I’m sure the neighbors love, about as much as they love the incessant beeping as I turn around to exit the rear gate of the complex.  SometimesI have to pick up my partner because, even though we don’t start our day until eleven, he or his wife somehow find trouble getting up in time to make the trip to my place.  I drive East for about a mile as I arduously drink from the long expired Coke can.  Then I turn South for another mile and a half and turn East again.  I pull into my partner’s apartment complex and text to inform him of my arrival.  I pop open his door from the inside to unlock it.  As I wait I stare out the windows or play on my phone, checking my mirrors from time to time to make sure I’m not blocking anybody in.  When he opens the door I’m almost upset to be broken of my trance.  His 6’4″, 277 lb frame rocks the cab as he enters.  It looks like him or his wife cut his hair again.  By the depth and frequency of the patches on his head, I’d say he gave it another shot himself this time.  He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a modified white Maltese cross on it and the word “Choppers” written on it.  Not to signify any particular brand of choppers or chopper builders, just choppers in general.  His black Dickie shorts show off his hyper white legs that look something like string cheese that’s been rolling around on the floor, covered in hair.

“‘Sup queer”?  The son of a bitch asks me. 

With a loud sigh, I respond, “I hate you man,”

He seems to be caught off guard a bit as he looks back, so I turn away to watch where I’m headed as we exit the driveway. 

“Really?” He asks, “‘Cause I don’t hate you.  Even though black people got no souls!” 

I can’t help but smile.  That was a rare good one for him.  He must’ve been waiting a while to use it. 

I take side streets to the store in preference of the highway.  There’s no reason to rush today, yet, but there will be.  There always is.