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Yesterday I was working on one of the multitude of projects assigned to me by my wife. You are probably familiar with the kind of projects I’m talking about: “Honey, the (household object of your choice) isn’t working right. Could you fix it?”
I discovered that I needed to get a couple of things from the hardware store. Since the closest one to me is Home Depot, I went to Lowe’s. No luck, but lots of employees lounging around in their blue vest-smocks, trying vainly to appear interested in the questions the customers were asking. Next I tried Orchard Supply, a California chain of hardware stores known for odd sales gimmicks like “No Sales Tax this weekend from 7am to 8pm*. (*Only good for bulk purchases of copper nails”). Orchard Supply was orderly and reasonably clean, but did not carry the items I needed. Nor did they have any copper nails left.
I decided to check one of the local independent hardware stores only to discover the most disturbing collection of odd-looking employees I’ve seen since my tour of local Quik-Stops in 1993. Some of those employees will probably find their way into medical textbooks or a carnival sideshow. Or both.
Having exhausted all other reasonable avenues for getting what I needed, I caved in and decided to head over to Home Depot. I try to avoid the local store due to the surliness of the typical employees coupled with the normal disarray found there. Plus, I suspect that the people who stock the shelves area bunch of sadistic bastards. Not only do they seem to have random groupings of item scattered around the store, some of the placement of items seem to have been done with a theme of causing intentional harm. My favorite pairing of products was an in-aisle display of portable heaters, nestled amidst the rows of bathtubs. There was even a selection of extension cords with the heaters. One time might be accidental, but that display goes up every few weeks.
So I headed into Home Depot, pausing to check out the display of spray paint and paper bags. I knew that I’d never find the parts I needed without assistance from one of the vacant-eyed zombies that pass for employees, so I gritted my teeth and approached one of the apron-clad “customer assistance specialists”. When I described exactly what I was looking for I was greeted by the open-mouthed, drool-on-the-apron, count-his-remaining-teeth expression of puzzlement I had come to expect from these folks. As I was neither surprised nor daunted by the lack of assistance, I set off to try to find a less defective specimen hiding somewhere in the clutter.
This is where my story takes a strange turn. I was greeted by a passing employee who in no way resembled a troglodyte and he asked me what I was looking for. I told him, again giving the exact specifications of what I was looking for. He immediately told me which aisle the parts could be found in, which bin to look in, and even what color the packaging was. Feeling that I was the victim of some new sophomoric prank by the management of the store, I set off in the direction of the indicated aisle.
When I got to where the employee had sent me, I was flabbergasted. The parts were where he had said they would be. He even had the color of the packaging correct. I stepped back in shock, almost knocking over a display of stepladders and sisal rope. This couldn’t be the same store I has entered, the store famed for its ability to keep you from finding what you are looking for. I thought to myself “Did I drop acid earlier today?” I replied to myself “No, you stopped taking acid last week.”
Since I’m not one to look for unlikely explanations, I grabbed up the parts I had come for and walked to the nearest self-service register to pay. I had driven home before the realization struck me: the person who helped me must have been an angel. Nothing else explained what had happened.
Next week I’m setting up a shrine in aisle 17.
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