Dateline: IKEA World. Many children have been dropped off here for a fun-filled vacation and not seen again until they need college money.
To comprehend the danger that awaits the soul of a person who is not a savvy shopper, or a savvy anything in the outside modern world, you must catch up with Episode One and Episode Two.
Now that you’ve caught up. We return to the IKEA Virgin.
The adventure began with a search for a couple of desk-tables small enough for the bedroom. After finding no tables small enough to fit my needs at normal furniture stores, I’ve taken the well-dressed furniture store lady’s advice and driven the twenty miles to IKEA. Covering the mile or so from where I parked the car in twenty minutes, I suck in a breath ready for my adventure.
The automatic doors whoosh open and I am in IKEA World. There are no salesladies in evening wear like in the traditional furniture stores. There are also no people my age and everyone seems to know just where to go except for me. In IKEA World, assistance is not provided by word speaking humans. All directions are communicated with cartoon signs. I resist asking any of the spritely shoppers buzzing around me where the tables can be found. Thus, I must activate my own secret shopping method. I wander aimlessly on the theory that after a certain amount of directionless wandering, I will happen upon the department I need. It’s exercise, right?
Remarkably, I not only find the table section, I find the perfect table. Great. I knew I could do this! I skip all the way to the nearest IKEA native in a yellow shirt. Big victory smile on my face, I announce that I have found just what I want and if IKEA woman will just come along with me, I’ll show her.
Ikea woman’s face freezes in horror. What? Do What? She sighs heavily and says, “How lovely for you. Now, go back to the item you want, write down the name of the item, the aisle number, the bin number, the price, the color selection, the time, temperature, and the zipcode.”
She pivots to escape. I salute. Then I blurt, “Wait! I don’t have any paper.” She points to a customer service counter at the back of the store only a couple of miles from where I stand. It’s exercise, right? The Ikea counter boy gives me a tiny sheet of paper. Three minutes into my attempt to re-discover my perfect table, I realize I don’t have pencil. I ask a passing yellow shirted native who, not wanting to be seen with the shopping geek who’d somehow wandered in from the previous century, doesn’t even slow down. He points in the direction of the customer service counter hidden in the back of the store.
IKEA customer service boy hands me one of those miniature golf score keeping pencils without looking up. After a mere twenty minutes of wandering, I find my table again. I do my assignment and return to IKEA woman who’d given me instructions. I hand her my sheet of paper as proud as punch.
Her look of horror returns. She explains that now I was to take my little sheet of paper to the warehouse. There I must find my item in one of the four million boxes, then I can check myself out. I’m thinking, and where do I pick up my paycheck? But I say nothing. I’m so close. How bad can the warehouse be?
Next: How Bad the Warehouse Can Be.
