I asked my roommate to check the ceiling for me. I had a feeling that what I discovered under the plaster was not wooden beams or metal supports but concrete. “Hmm, yeah,” he said, standing on my bed and scratching at the chalky grey underbelly of the ceiling. “That’s concrete.”
CONCRETE! Yes, there are anchors one could buy and ways in which one with a stronger drive could succeed at this project. But those ways involve more cost and professional labor and neither of which were options at the time.
I sat there for a few minutes pondering what to do. The fully wired body of the fan was resting sadly on the desk. The blades were mounting to their brackets, ready to be screwed into place once the motor was hung. The empty box, that I had saved for emergencies, beckoned its former contents to crawl inside to its warm and cozy styrofoam shelter.
You’ve beaten me. You did not want to be installed here and you’ve worn me down. My perseverance could not outlast your stubbornness and now that I see you are in cahoots with the concrete ceiling I know it is time to give in.
I sighed as I began to disassemble to motor, disconnecting wires and separating parts that had looked so promising together. My roommate counted out pieces to ensure that Home Depot wouldn’t be cheated out of missing parts when the box was returned. And, once sealed, I slipped the 20 lbs monster into a blue Ikea tote and set it by the door.
“Will you help me put the old lamp back in the ceiling?” I asked. Roommate had returned to the living room, engrossed in his Netflixing, but clicked off the television as I killed the power from the breaker in the kitchen. We stood on the bed, one holding the pitiful old lamp in place while the other twisted wires back together and then slipped the domed glass shell into the threaded post and screwed it safely into place where it would stay… forever.
The ceiling fan calamity was almost over. I three the tote over my shoulder, the 20 lbs pulling me to the right, and headed out for the 3-transfer trip to Home Depot in Chelsea. A to D to R… I hate transfers but I hate this ceiling fan more. No, that wasn’t even true. I didn’t hate the fan. I hated that I failed at this “simple” task. The internet had told me it was easy to do. It had even pulled my friends into the drama, each offering one or another way to solve the problem. But none of those worked, at least not within my budget.
“Excuse me,” my voice apparently only suggested that the three people at the Return counter acknowledge me before they went back to discussing one of their weekend escapades. “Excuse me?” A little bolder this time.
“Yeah,” came the dry, disinterested voice of Sullen McRetail.
“I need to return this,” I said as I pulled the fan out of the tote and slid my receipt across the counter to him.
He looked puzzled, as though I might have just slid someone’s grandmother to him or maybe a winning pie from Trivial Pursuit. “Ugh,” he grumbled, “why?”
Because I need to! I thought to myself. I have had the worst time trying to make this work and now I just want it over so if you’ll be a gem and just refund my card I’ll be out of your hair and on my way and you can continue to talk about who out ran who in your weekend motocross-speed-drifting-neon-undercarriage-monster-trick-rally-whatever-the-hell-you-did adventure!
I chose instead to simply explain, “Because it can’t be installed in my apartment.”
He sighed, turned to the two behind him and then to a stock person who had wandered by. “Hey, got another fan return.”
The stock person stopped, “Another one?!” He said this in disbelief.
“Yeah, another guy thought he could install this in his apartment.” The two chuckled.
Well, why wouldn’t I think that?! There is one in the living room that somehow got there. I don’t think it grew down over millions of years like a stalactite. Just finish this and let me know. It was like some form of torture to have to endure the taunts of a barely pubescent returns clerk who could have benefited more from a job at Duane Reade where he’d at least get a discount on Axe body spray and Clearasil.
He began the refund process and then slovenly said, “Sigh here,” and swiveled the credit card machine around to me. “That’s going back on your Amex.”
“Thank you,” I replied as he printed a mountain of receipts, stapling one to a page in a binder marked Returns, another to a stock report, another to something else and finally one stapled to my original receipt and handed back to me.
It was over.
The nightmare had ended. The fan had won but I had my dignity as I strode out of Home Depot with my giant blue tote slung over my shoulder and entered into the sunshine of Chelsea knowing full-well that, like unlike Blanche DuBois, I have never depended on the kindness of strangers.
Tommy Karr 