Partly Cloudy
Man, some weirdos stick like glue to the stuff they like.
(Some weirdos = me)
Did I drive the same little Toyota for two decades? Yup.
Am I now over a dozen trips to Maui in the books? Better believe it.
Do I still carry a Luxor room key from 1999 in my wallet? Obviously.
In fairness, about that last one…
Come on. A hotel really decided put Carrot Top’s face on a room key? Seriously?? I mean, an actual paid employee came to work and said, “Guys, this is the face people want to see as they enter their rooms.”
It just never stopped making me smile.
Anyway, you get the idea.
I stick with the stuff that works.
But even I realized it was finally time for a new couch. Watching Netflix is harder than it sounds. Especially when, over the course of a movie, it feels like you’re sinking in quicksand. Not quite sure how to describe the shape of that sofa after so many years. Is “blob” a shape?
Try to imagine the couch that Picasso would’ve painted.
So, reluctantly, I went shopping.
Was it a totally fun and relaxing process? Yeah, maybe in Oppositeland. Honestly, when did furniture stores become such weird clones of each other? Is it a glitch in the simulation? This dizzying haze of all the same people selling all the same furniture. So many bad options. On a positive note, I now hold the world record for number-of-times-a-man-has-muttered-to-himself-walking-out-of-stores.
Eventually, I pulled the trigger. Bought a cheaper version of Restoration Hardware’s “Cloud Couch.”
A perfect name.
In-store, it actually feels like sitting on a fluffy cloud.
And then it gets delivered. Which is when I quickly realized the difference between sitting on a cloud for two minutes versus two hours. Lemme put it bluntly…
Even more uncomfortable than The Blob.
Somehow, I’d found a brand new level of blobbiness. Never had a lower back issue in my life. But after 72 hours with The Cloud? Urgent need of a massage and a fistful of Tylenol. By the end of the week? Rapidly approaching nightmare status. Bending down was a new and interesting challenge. And forget about tying my shoes. That might as well have been an Olympic event. Man, it’s such a scary thing when your body experiences a brand new sensation of pain. Clearly, I’d made a terrible purchase.
(Oh, and it was from a furniture store with a no-return policy)
The walls were closing in fast. After the first week, I was a borderline Tylenol addict. Started lying in bed during the day just to avoid the couch as much as possible. Bracing myself each time I gave it another try. But the results were always the same. And my only reprieve was a weekend trip. The terrible hotel furniture felt like a gift to my body. I sat peacefully in that Hyatt…riding calm waves of relaxation that I could no longer find at home. Flipping through tv channels without a care in the world.
(At one point, I did have to turn off an episode of The Golden Girls because I was jealous of their flexibility)
Life was getting pathetic.
Two weeks into my dark new Cloud World, I called the store. Begging for help. They made it clear that refunds were impossible. But maybe a technician could come by to inspect the couch. Just to ensure nothing was broken. Wait, there’s a such thing as a couch technician? But, sure, yeah. Let’s do it. Maybe he can save the day…
The next morning, this dude walks in like he’s The Wolf from Pulp Fiction. I offer him water or a coffee. He refuses anything that might interfere with his work. It’s not a social call. He’s just here to handle couch matters. Does a detailed inspection of The Cloud and tells me that it’s up to standards. Can’t help but notice the desperation in my eyes. Or maybe the pain in my back. He looks me in the eyes and says:
“This is off the record. But you’re not the first person to have these issues with this particular item. Typically, it’s a senior citizen. But there’s nothing I can do. I’ll fill out my report saying the couch is fine. Maybe you can work something out with the store. I really doubt that, to be honest with you. Once it’s in your home, they don’t take back furniture.”
With that, he disappears.
A true master of the sofa. Off to his next overly dramatic inspection.
At this point, my brain starts to go haywire. My mind races. Is this just…life…now? As some dude who lives in fear of his couch? A sad schmuck who needs to buy Velcro shoes because he can’t bend down?
There’s gotta be a better way.
I drive to the store. A different man than I was 2 weeks ago. Now a broken soul with limited options and a Tylenol addiction. Doing my best imitation of The Wolf, I strut through those automatic doors. A man on a mission. Aaaand I’m rejected before I even have the chance to sit down. A manager tells me there’s nothing they can do once it’s in the home. I’ll need to call the main number and speak to customer service. But they never do refunds. In 20 years, he’s only seen a handful of times they offered a replacement item. It’ll be a major longshot. So, to recap:
– The Wolf said I’m screwed.
– This store manager agrees.
– I’ll need a miracle to get a replacement approved.
– But everything else in the store is hideous.
– Oh, and their one cool item? It’s destroying my back like King Kong versus a blade of grass.
I stumble out of there. Limping my way back home. A defeated man returning to the couch that wants to murder him. Such a sad turn of events in a life that once held such promise. With zero optimism, I dial the customer service number. Best-case scenario? A replacement couch that only my grandmother would love.
After a long hold, I’m connected to a representative.
I can barely recognize my own anguish-filled voice.
A very jolly Hispanic gentleman asks me for some details. He listens for a few seconds. Then informs me of their no-return policy. As if I can’t already recite it by heart. Although I’ve been calling it “The Cloud,” he reminds me that their version is actually called, “The Dream.”
And then he says:
“It sounds like The Dream is more like The Nightmare for you.”
I listen in stunned silence as he laughs joyously for the next 15 seconds. His accent is hard to place. Sounds like a goofy (and possibly drunk) Antonio Banderas. Ok, I didn’t expect much help. But he’s…laughing…at me?
This is very confusing. Then he suddenly gets dead serious. Tells me he couldn’t help but laugh because of how crazy the timing is. He knows exactly how I feel. Never had a back issue in his life but is currently dealing with the identical thing from a new mattress. He asks me to please continue my story. He listens with such genuine interest. It’s unreal. I can actually feel the care coming from this complete stranger. Almost as if he’s giving me a hug through the phone line. I blabber about Tylenol and massages for what seems like 52 hours.
Finally…mercifully…he cuts me off.
With his thick Puss And Boots-like accent, he says:
“My friend, it is an honor to speak with you. And I want to assist. It is our policy to never accept returns. But I will give you a full refund and will schedule a pickup in the next week. I feel so very happy to get the chance to do this for you.”
My jaw hits the floor.
Suddenly, the weight of the world is gone. Just rolls right off my back. And this goofy cartoon character of a man keeps taking care of me for the next 20 minutes. Saying things like, “All problems have a solution” and “It gives me such joy to be of service to you.” He tells me, “No matter what, I will not let you down.”
Is this real life or a scene from Desperado?
By the time I hang up the phone, my mood is in a completely different place. All stress gone. Poof. This quirky stranger has completely changed my day. Beyond the refund itself, I don’t recall ever feeling so much kindness on a customer service call.
Thank you, Alvaro.
Ironically, speaking to you left me on such a high…that it felt a bit like floating on a cloud.
