Under the Broken Button

Photo courtesy of Brymo

Leen and I recently attempted to purchase some outdoor furniture from a local department store. It did not go well.

We had spotted a table with four chairs and a modular couch, and this being the season for consumerism, decided we could pay the not inconsequential amount to make them a part of our home. The offending items were located in a staff-free zone, so we resolved to go back later.
Leen returned on Sunday and asked if she could exchange some of her money for goods, but was told large items were kept in a nearby shed to which the store had no key. With the items inaccessible until a weekday, she resolved to return, comfortable with the message that the staff would let their weekday counterparts know of her situation.

We returned the following day. We stood near the furniture for a few minutes, standing next to a 'Press for Service' button. After loneliness began to eat at my soul I threw self-consciousness to the wind and pressed the button. I waited. I pressed it again. I waited. I played it like a Guitar Hero controller on expert but to no avail. Eventually I looked behind the button to find a paper sign explaining that the button was broken and I should head to the service desk, located at the opposite end of the store.

We headed there and explained that we wanted to buy some furniture. The woman manning the counter said she would get someone to help us. We waited for what must have been about five minutes, but during which I grew an entire beard.
Eventually someone did come and we followed them back to the furniture.
We pointed out the two items we wanted. She said the man who knew whether they had any for sale was out, and that she could not help until his return. The furniture that I was sitting on at the time was a display model, she explained, and could not be sold.
She said the man would call us later in the day to tell us whether were was furniture available for sale. We thanked her and left.
The man rang later that day to say the furniture was indeed available for sale. We thanked the man as if he had turned our loaf of bread into a number of loaves of bread.
We asked if he could hold the items for us and we would pick them up on Wednesday. He said he would.

On Wednesday we once more headed into the breech. Leen headed off to look at curtains and lights to adorn our soon-to-be-filled-with-new-great-furniture outdoor area. I went to the service desk.
"Hi. I'm here to buy some outdoor furniture," I said.
"Were you here on Monday?" She inquired.
"I was! We have been told that the things we want are available and being held for us, so I'm here to buy them," I explained, happy to have been remembered.
"Oh, they are? Hmmm. I'll call someone," she replied.
I waited.

I waited.

Another woman behind the desk asked if I was being served. I said I thought I may have been and was waiting to talk to someone about furniture.
Soon she was on the phone to someone.
Relaying what the person on the other end was saying she said "do you know what you're after?"
"Yes," I said. "They should already be on hold for us. We were here on Monday."
They conversed.
"He doesn't know what you're after so you should go and meet him down there. He's near the barbecues," she said.

I had not, in fact, been remembered.
I headed off, my feet falling into the well-worn tracks I had created over the previous days.
On the way I met Leen and we arrived at the furniture, near the barbecues.
While there were a few staff members milling around and one man indeed standing near the barbecues, no-one would offer us assistance, let on that they were expecting us, or indeed return eye contact.
So I stood there, under the broken button, and I waited.
After attempting to swipe our credit card through some passing tumbleweed, we both had a startling revelation.
"Fuck it."

We left without any furniture to speak of. Four visits and six days after our voyage began, for better or for worse, it had ended.

Apparently IKEA will deliver furniture to our city now.