The IKEA Pardox
        
        
        
        "Honey, come here!" screamed my husband from the bedroom.
        "What?" I screamed back from the kitchen.
        "Come quick!" he screamed, even louder.
        In a panic, I rushed through our apartment, down the hall, and towards our bedroom. My husband is sadly accident-prone. Visions of severed fingers ran through my head as I raced towards him.
        "What's wrong?" I shouted, nearly out of breath, as I sped into the room.
        "Look!" he shouted.
        I scanned the carpet for bits of his fingers. I looked at my husband for signs of bloody gashes. I screamed at him, "What? What?"
        "There! Look!" He was pointing madly at the TV.
        "The TV? What's wrong with the TV? Did you lose the remote again?" Besides being accident-prone, my husband has a propensity for losing things as well: car keys, his wallet, his wedding ring, and, frequently, the remote control.
        "It's on the fucking bed." I said, angry with him for needlessly worrying me.
        "No, not that. There!" He sounded desperate, so I looked at the TV again.
        "What? It's a commercial. What am I looking for?"
        "It's IKEA. They're opening up a store in Emeryville," he explained, beaming up at me.
        "IKEA? That's why my heart is racing? What's the big deal?"
        "It's IKEA!"
        "So you said. And?"
        He looked up at me with a bewildered look on his face. Like I was supposed to know what the hell he was so excited about. My husband and I often have differing opinions on what constitutes exciting, but this one was way beyond my comprehensive abilities. He had never shown a predilection for IKEA or Emeryville before. I stood there clueless as he sat there grinning at me.
        "Okay, I give. Please tell me why we're so happy all of a sudden?"
        "What's wrong with this apartment? He countered my question with his own.
        "You want a list?" I stood there, arms akimbo, and glowered at him.
        The apartment was always a sore spot with us. San Francisco apartments are notoriously small. My husband's apartment was just barely big enough for one person. When we met, and I moved in, we agreed that it would be a temporary thing, our living there together. But finding a vacant apartment in the city was about as easy as finding a needle in a field of hay. Especially an affordable one. So, five years later, there we were: happily cramped and resigned to the fact that we weren't moving anytime soon.
        "Okay," he said, still smiling, "but what's the one biggest complaint."
        That was easy. "No closet space." Which was true. We had one small closet; and it wasn't even a walk-in. Basically, we crammed all our belongings into whatever furniture each of us brought with us to the relationship. Nothing I owned was crease free. Finding specific clothes I wanted to wear was a huge headache. And we never, ever bought anything new. There simply wasn't room for it.
        "Voila," he said, pointing again to the TV.
        "What? Alpo? We're getting a dog?" The commercial had changed; my husband's demeanor had not.
        "No, two armoires." He practically beamed.
        "From IKEA?" Now I was getting it.
        "From IKEA," he concurred, glad that I wad finally with the program.
        "And where do we put two new armoires?" I asked, even more nervous now than when I was imagining rushing my husband to the hospital, his pinky nicely chilling in a bag of ice.
        "Easy. We get rid of that small thing, that small thing, and that small thing," he said, pointing out our old furniture, which was clearly brimming with our clothes and assorted accessories.
        I stood there for a minute before speaking. It did make sense, what he was telling me. It would be wonderful to be able to hang my clothes up and actually be able to find them again. Still, a chilling sense of foreboding hung in the air.
        "Well?" he asked.
        "Weeeeell…okay. Sounds like a great idea." I like to see my man happy. That definitely did the trick. He jumped up and hugged me and planted a big wet one on my lips. Who knew Scandinavian furniture could have such an extraordinary effect?
        ***
        IKEA was much bigger than I expected. Almost a small city unto itself. I never needed a map to maneuver my way through Macy's before. What if we followed the wrong overhead arrow? Would we end up in Stockholm? I was nervous, but still excited, nonetheless. I was getting some much-needed, new furniture, right? Visions of neatly folded t-shirts popped in my head. And my husband was clearly beside himself. So I pushed my worries to the back of my addled brain, and I happily smiled as my husband gleefully pointed to the home furnishings section that lay sprawling before us.
        Okay. I hate to admit it, but IKEA really does sell some beautiful furniture. And it was all so large and practical. I would love to have had any of their reasonably priced furniture in our too small apartment.
        "Which one do you want?" asked my husband.
        Crap, this was going to be hard. I wasn't expecting so many viable options.
        "That one!" I pointed, truly thrilled for the first time. It was an enormous armoire, made from beautiful, cherry wood. The doors were a translucent white material, framed in silver. And the inside had a long bar to hang a fair share of our shirts on. Centered below this, there were three deep drawers that would surely hold all of our underwear, and then some. On either side of this were three sets of shelves on the left side and three sets of shelves on the right side. And this was all in one armoire. I gladly imagined what we could store in two of these things. I was beginning to see why my husband was so excited about IKEA.
        Until…
        "How do we get these into out apartment?" I asked, my good senses finally returning to me.
        "That's the beauty of it, hon. They sell it so cheap because we build it ourselves."
        "We who?" I asked. "The last time you tried to hang a nail into the wall, you put a three inch hole into it."
        "That's different. This stuff's made for your average person to be able to put together," he assured me.
        I wasn't so sure, but it was awfully beautiful and easily large enough to hold practically all our stuff, so, "Okay. Why not? But let's get just one for now and see how it goes. We'll come back for its twin if it's as easy as you say. Deal?"
        "Deal, sweetie. And don't worry. This'll be a snap."
        That hole in our wall was still there, but I smiled at my husband as he signed for our new armoire, anyway.
        That's where the snap stopped.
        We were given our receipt and told where to go pick up our furniture. Seeing this wisely hidden area of IKEA was my first clue that all would not be "snappy". There were endless rows of stacks upon stacks of incredibly long boxes. I gulped when I looked down at our receipt and saw that we'd have to find six of these boxes to fit on our huge, flat, rolling dolly. And I thought Costco was a pain in the ass. That was nothing compared to this. My husband and I painfully strained our aging muscles loading these monstrosities. I remembered that the Swedes were descended from the Vikings. That made sense. Who else could have lifted this shit?
        I kept reminding myself how little we paid for it, as we wheeled our belongings up to our noticeably small car. That was the only thing keeping me smiling.
        "Um, how do we get all this in the car?" I asked. Yes, we could have had it delivered, but that cost extra. Wasn't the whole point of this to save money? I was beginning to wonder.
        "We open the windows and have everything slightly hang out," my husband answered, still oblivious to the consequences of going cheap.
        Okay, that could work. And forty minutes later, after countless shifting and reshifting, we actually made all six boxes fit; though it hung out of the windows way more than I would consider "slightly". I prayed that our fellow freeway drivers would see us coming and clear out of our way. We drove extra slow, just in case, and made it home in one piece - us and the armoire.
        Now all we had to do was get it all out of the car, into the house, and built. Suddenly, my husband realized what we were in for. Our smiles were rapidly leaving our faces.
        "New furniture!" My husband squeezed out one last ounce of jocularity.
        "New furniture." I mimicked, less than enthused. I hoped our marriage was strong enough endure it.
        ***
        I never realized how small our apartment really was until we tried to fit those six big boxes in it. Even with our old furniture gone, we had to put a few boxes in the bedroom and a few in the living room. How we were going to get all of it together and in one room was beyond me. I just had to have faith in my husband. I remembered what the minister had said: for better or worse, in sickness and in health. Too bad he never mentioned IKEA. I might have had second thoughts.
        We stood there in our bedroom looking at each other, once the boxes were in place.
        "Now what?" I asked. I could tell he had no clue. "The biggest boxes must be the outer frame. How about we open them first?"
        "Yes," he said. "Of course."
        I didn't think he was too happy with my suggestion. This was his baby, and I knew it.
        "You know," I suggested, "there really isn't enough room in here for both of us and all of this. Why don't I let this be your little project?"
        The smile returned. I gratefully let him be. If too many chefs spoil the stew, too many inept carpenters surely spoil the armoire. Besides, I was glad for the peace and quiet of my still uncluttered kitchen.
        Twenty minutes later, I heard, "Fuck!"
        "What's wrong?" I asked, after running through the house to check on him.
        "Look at this," he said, handing me the papers from within one of the boxes.
        There were no words, just diagrams. I supposed IKEA was now all over the world and this was an easy way for them to standardize the process. I could tell immediately why my husband was so upset. The instructions were pages long and incredibly difficult to figure out. This was going to be a major undertaking. Fuck indeed.
        "Want some help?" I offered.
        Dejectedly he said, "No. I can do this."
        Thirty minutes later: "Honey, come here."
        Nervously, I walked to our bedroom.
        "Wow. The case is done," I said, as he stood there grinning. But then I noticed something. "Honey, what are those holes in the front?"
        He looked down and I could see the creases in his brow start to form. He had the base on backwards.
        "Fucking Swedes. I hate them. I hate their meatballs. I hate…I hate…ABBA. I hate…them." I guess he couldn't think of too many Swedish things to hate. I didn't want to rub salt in the wound and remind him about the Volvo parked in our driveway. I quietly left the room. I don't think he noticed. Poor man.
        I started to make dinner to try and keep my mind off the turmoil that was surely ensuing in the other room. If patience was a virtue, my husband would not be considered a virtuous man. I'm sure the armoire was testing his limits. I was happy, another thirty minutes later, when I heard a gleeful, "Honey!"
        "Nice," I commented, upon entering and seeing the case done, correctly this time. "What's wrong with your hand?" His hand was wrapped in paper towels.
        "It's nothing. Minor accident. Okay, back to the kitchen now." I was being dismissed.
        "Okay, sweetie, call me if you need anything." Like a tourniquet or an ambulance or anything.
        Ten minutes later: "Honey, where's the power drill?" Uh-oh. I was afraid of that one.
        "I thought all you'd need is a hammer and a screwdriver. Isn't a power drill a bit…um…extreme?"
        "You have to drill holes in the doors to install the door pull things."
        "Oh. At the store they looked like they were already part of the door," I said, and regretted it immediately.
        I could see he was counting to ten before he responded. "Please, just tell me where the power drill is." I did and rushed back to the kitchen. I prayed our nice, hardwood floors would somehow miss being marred by that power drill. Better yet, my husband's hand.
        An hour later: "Honey!"
        "Wow, the doors look great. It's almost done, huh?" I smiled appreciatively at my husband. In truth, the door pulls were just slightly uneven, but there was no way I was going to make mention of it. Besides, the floors and his hands were still in tact, so I was counting my blessings.
        "Almost, just the inside stuff needs to be put together. I'd say…another half hour."
        "Would you like dinner first? It's almost done."
        "No, this shouldn't take long and I'd like to get it done."
        "Okay, sweetie. I'll keep it warm for you. Great job, by the way." He smiled, but went right back to his work.
        An hour and a half later: "Honey!"
        Thank God. I was starving by that point. But then…
        "Oh, not done yet?" I asked, timidly.
        "Close. Those bastards had three sets of screws that all looked about the same on the diagrams, but weren't as interchangeable as I thought they'd be. Had to start over again midway through. Fuckers. Anyway, fifteen more minutes, tops, okay?"
        "Sure sweetie, no problem. Take your time." Poor thing.
        Thirty minutes later: "Honey!"
        "It's beautiful!" I beamed. He beamed back at me. I didn't mention the mysterious extra parts that were lying on the floor, or the several bandages wrapped around both this hands. And it really was beautiful. I couldn't wait to put our clothes in it and be done with this whole thing.
        Then I remembered: "What about the other one?"
        My husband paused before answering. I held my breath.
        "JC Penny's. We're only buying American from now on. Fucking Swedes. Now, what's for dinner? I'm starved."
        "Hamburgers and fries, honey."
        Can't get any more American than that.
        
        
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TEN MINUTES AND COUNTING
        
        
        
        Pardon me if I ramble. Nah, nix that. I only got ten minutes left to record all this; least that's what it said there on that site. If I ramble, so be it. It's my prerogative, right?
        Anyway, don't rightly know who's gonna hear this thing anyway. They're all gone now, my family and friends that is. Outlived 'em all. Not something to be proud of, really; just a statement of fact. Actually, that's pretty much the reason I took the pill in the first place. What's the point of going on? Ain't got nobody to share my remaining years with, anyhow. All the ailments that come with old age, they ain't nothing compared to the loneliness. Especially at night, when it's so quite you can just about hear a pin drop. So I took it and I don't regret it. Tell the truth, I'm sorta lookin' forward to what's coming next. If there is a next, that is. That's what I'm hoping for, at any rate.
        I sure deserve something for puttin' up with all this old age crap. Losing the wife was the worst thing, though. What a bitch. Er, sorry, old age is the bitch, not the wife. Though, truth be told, she could get quite ornery when she put her mind to it. Especially those last few years. The cancer made her sorta mean. Still, I'd give just about anything to have just one more day with her, mean or not.
        I don't got much, but I still got my memories. Well, most of 'em, anyways. The mind's been kinda goin' lately too. But I remember my Ruthie, all right. Least the good stuff. I sure do remember how we met, that's for sure. Hard to forget a thing like that. I was already kinda old for that sorta thing. Woodstock was for the youngsters. But good music is good music, right? Besides, I wasn't all that old. And the farm was just outside the city. New York city, that is; which is where I was living at the time. Transplanted from deep inside the hills of Arkansas, where people didn't cotton to folks like me.
        What a crazy weekend that was. Luckily, I didn't get my hands on any of that brown acid they talk about. That stuff made you plumb crazy, as I remember it. That Wavy Gravy had his hands full in that tent of his. Nah, I had me some nice smiley-faced blotter. The pure stuff. Went down smooth as silk and lit the whole place up, it did. Put a swirl of colors upon all that brown mud. Made it all beautiful.
        I remember it so clearly, sitttin' on the lawn, listening to Santana, then Janis, and Sly, and CCR. We called that a mind fuck: listenin' to all that super sweet harmonizing and tripping like we were. I just sat there with my head bobbing to the rhythm of the music, my eyes closed, watchin' the lights from within, smiling and happy to be alive. Transcending, we called it.
        Then I opened my eyes to watch The Who come on stage and there she was, standing over me, lookin' down and just a grinnin' from ear to ear. The sun, what there was of it, was high up overhead and she was blockin' it, so that an aura of light surrounded her. It was like an angel appeared out of nowhere. And then the light around her head started to change colors, from blue to red to green and then purple and orange and then back to blue. What a sight that was. I grinned back up at her and told her to take a seat, which she did. The Who had a long set. She sat next to me the whole time, not saying a word, just smiling and humming and holding my hand while I stroked her long, blonde hair. It was nice. Calming. For real, as I like to put it, back in the day. She would have said groovy, but I was a might too old for that.
        Ruthie spent the night with me there on the lawn with the other hundreds of thousands of other kids, all of us tripping on one thing or the other. All of us happy to be there, with or without food or showers or johns. We were young. Who gave a crap about those things anyway? Not me and Ruthie, that's for sure. Besides, we had each other. And the music.
        The next day started off with Jefferson Airplane. Great fucking way to start the day, I say. Ruthie and I dropped as Grace Slick sang about a white rabbit. That's something you can't forget, no matter how easy you forget everything else, like where you put your keys or shopping for food. But I remember Joe Cocker and Blood Sweet And Tears and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Ain't it funny that most of them guys is still around. Still playing at their age. My age, that is. Kind of ironic, huh? Then again, we had that idiot Reagan runnin' the country while he was about the same age as me and I can barely wipe my own ass. Oh well, that's life, so they say.
        Anyway, Ruthie and I left before the fourth day. Sorry to have missed Jimmy perform, but eager to get us back to my place in the city. Eager to start something together. Something real; which we did. Though Ruthie hated the city. Said it was too fast. Too loud. Too mean. So we left. Fuck it, I said. We had that wanderlust that so many of our generation had. And we wanted to see San Francisco while it was still in its heyday. We'd heard the flower children out there were fast becoming disillusioned. That the drugs were turnin' 'em all hard and desperate like. Still, it was the place to be. Least for us it was. So that's where we headed.
        Crossed this big country of ours with nothin' but our backpacks and our legs to take us to the promised land. Met a whole bunch of kind folks that were glad to help us along our journey. People, by and by, we found, were good and kind. Maybe they are that way today. Don't rightly seem so, though. Lord only knows what'd happen to ya if you hitchhiked from one end to the other these days. Probably get yourself killed. Not back then, though. People was glad to offer you a ride. Give you some of their food and maybe a place to sleep. Tell you their stories. Share.
        Ruthie and I shared, that's for sure. By the time we reached San Francisco, we was tighter than two peas in a pod. Knew each other backwards and forwards. Were deep in love and glad to be home, our new home, that is.
        Found lots of other kids just like us out there. They called us hippies. We called us happy. Screw them, anyway, we said. They didn't know what they was missin'. Life wasn't easy, not by a long shot, but it was fun. Ruthie always made it fun.
        Woke me up every morning, in that small flat we shared with six other kids just outside the Haight, with a warm cup of homebrewed tea and a big smile. Never started my day off without that beautiful smile of hers. Always went to bed with it, too. Who could have asked for anything more? We sure as hell didn't. We were happy with what little we had: with our friends, our home, our lives together, not to mention the drugs; which weren't like those drugs they got around today. No sir. Drugs didn't make you mean, back then. Maybe a bit crazy, but we never got violent or nothin'. Besides, it all came so freely. Never needed to do nothin' but ask for it and it was given to you. Same thing went for food and clothes and a warm bed. Even sex, but Ruthie and I never shared that. That was for us and us alone. Ruthie wasn't for sharin'.
        Married her right in Golden Gate Park, I did. All our friends and neighbors, all the kids in the Haight, were there, surrounding us. All with them flowers wrapped around their long hair. All tripping and hugging us and singing their songs. Was quite a sight to see. Can still see it, actually, if I close my eyes and sit real still like I am now. Ruthie was so pretty in her white gown that the kids made for her out of throwaways. So young. So full of life and ready to get on with it.
        Well, that's how I remember it, anyhow. Killed too many of them brain cells to be certain. Still, it must've went something like that. I do know we was happy. For a while, anyway. You can only stay poor and hungry for so long. Comes a time you gotta pull yourself up by the bootstraps and do something to better your situation. Besides, we had a kid on the way. Couldn't rightly bring it up in that sort of environment, could we?
        Nope. Went out and got me a real job working for the city, once we found out Ruthie was pregnant and all. Wasn't too keen on the work, but managed to save enough money to find us a small basement apartment for us to raise our family in. Could even see a bit of the Golden Gate Bridge, if you craned your neck just right outside the bedroom window. Sure was nice not having to walk all over those bodies just to get to the john. Still, growin' up and gettin' older brought us a whole new set of things to worry about.
        Feeding and dressing the baby was our first concern. Matt Jr. was born on a cold day in July. Yep, summers in San Francisco are pretty much like winters anywhere else, though I wouldn't say that was a bad thing. That crisp, clean fog sure was nice to smell and feel on your skin. New York didn't have none of that. Course, the baby was always getting' colds and such. And doctors' visits and medications didn't come cheap. Pretty much wore Ruthie and me out, emotionally and financially speaking. Still, I always got that smile when I woke up and when I went to bed. Always counted myself one of the lucky ones, I did.
        That is until the baby got real sick. Doctors said not to worry about it. Was natural for kids that age to get to wheezin' and coughin' like that. We was so sad that morning we found him there like that; so cold and blue like. Damn doctors. What did they know, anyway?
        Losing Matty like that took something out of Ruthie, it did. Smilin' came harder for her. Didn't seem like there was all that much to smile about, really. Something we had was missing and we weren't ever gonna get it back. That's a darn shame, too. Ruthie and I had so little and we asked for so little in return. Least we still had each other, though. Nothing could take that away from us.
        Well, least not for twenty years or so. Those were some pretty good years, too. Had our highs and lows, but, all in all, I don't think I'd change much. Never did have any more kids. Ruthie just couldn't handle the thought of losing another one. Couldn't rightly blame her for that. Besides, she had me to deal with. I could be a handful, I'll tell you what.
        Then the cancer came. Just like that. Ruthie found that nasty lump and was gone just a few months later. The Lord took Ruthie away from me and left me pretty much alone. And a man alone with his thoughts all day ain't hardly a man at all. Those thoughts get caught up all helter skelter like in your head when you can't share them with someone else. No sir, it pretty much drove me crazy. Ruthie was the glue that held me all together.
        Life went on, though. Pretty much had to, right? Not much of a choice we're given on that one. Well, up to a point. Actually, there's something to be said for all that new fangled technology they got around these days. Found a whole bunch of people like me on that there Internet. Lots of lonely people out there, it turns out. Lots of people just aching to talk to somebody. Anybody. Even an old coot like me.
        That's where I found it, actually. The pill, that is. Found how it works and where to come by it. Was easy. Hell, you can find just about anything you like on the Internet these days. A life. Or a death, as the case may be. Got it in the mail yesterday. Just needed to get some things in order before taking it. Like buying this here tape recorder, for posterity sake. Don't rightly know who's gonna listen to this, or even care. Just felt like someone should know about what I done and why.
        Anyway, I'm getting' kinda sleepy. Sure it's the pill and all. Don't you fret, though. I ain't scared. Life is scary. This here thing is easy as pie. I'm just gonna sleep and not wake up, is all. Well, not wake up here, anyway. Maybe someplace better. Someplace with Ruthie. Man, can't wait to see that smile again. Been so long since I've seen it. Seen Ruthie and that great big smile of hers. Please, Lord, let there be that smile again. Please Lord, let…there…be…that sm…..

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