Lowe's.
A garishly lit, cavernous hangar of a place, easily capable of
housing Air Force One and mysteriously devoid of any sales people.
After three treks to the ill named Customer Service desk
- tradesmen humor, I suppose - I'm tired, disgusted, and about out of
patience. I find a set of double doors clearly marked Employees
Only! No Admittance! and brazenly push my way through
to confront a young man on a forklift. He immediately hops off and
holds up one hand like a traffic cop.
“Ma'am!”
he says, clearly startled, “You can't come in here!”
“No?”
I say and take a defiant step forward, “Well, here I am and I'm not
leaving until I can find someone to help me!”
He
scurries toward me, hastily escorting me back onto the sales floor by
the water heaters with an apologetic grin and asks how he can help.
“This,”
I tell him, holding up a length of shiny silver pipe “is from the
new stove. It doesn't fit the gas line. This,” showing him a
length of corroded and discolored pipe, “fits the gas line but
doesn't fit the new stove. I need an adaptor.”
He
nods and tells me we need to go to the plumbing section and while I
obediently follow him, he uses his cell phone to call ahead.
Apparently this is how sales people communicate in home improvement
warehouses.
“Willie,”
I hear him say, “This is Jason. I'm walkin' a customer to you.”
There's a brief pause and then he says, “Yup, be there in a
minute.” I'm beginning to wish I'd brought breadcrumbs.
Jason
is young, muscled up, bald as a cue ball and white. Willie turns out
to be very tall, very thin and black. He has streaks of gray at his
temples and a nice smile. When he finishes with the customer he's
helping, he meets us and gives the two sections of pipe a critical
look. He and Jason shake hands and it occurs to me that they may
never have met until this moment. They have some discussion about
threading and flaring, copper vs steel, and the general state of the
world and then Juan, a heavy set, middle aged man with a Spanish
accent arrives. Juan tells them they're in the wrong department,
that adaptors would be back by the water heaters. Willie nods sagely
and admits he might be right. Jason announces he needs to get back
to his fork lift and wishes me good luck. Juan leaves us as well and
Willie and I begin the journey back to the water heaters. It's a
mean thought but I'm beginning to consider the possibility that it
might've been easier to part the Red Sea.
In
the end, I leave empty handed. Willie tries every adaptor on the
shelf but to no avail. He apologizes that he can't help me and
suggests I might have to have the gas line connector changed out,
then gives the two sections of pipe a baleful look before reluctantly
handing them back to me.
“I
ain't sayin' it ain't out there,” he tells me ruefully, “I'm jist
sayin' it ain't here.”
It
seems to sum up the state of the world nicely.
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