Well, I Work at Home Depot Near Me

I needed new slats for a queen size bed.  

The previous ones were supported by these poles that slid around on the floor and made matters worse, so I decided to go just get all new ones. The Home Depot near me website offered very little information or specifics, and since I never get shirts that fit online, I figured the chances of getting the right size slats delivered to my door were slimmer than Woody from Toy Story.

Besides, I’m old school. I called the Home Depot nearest me, in the Bronx near Yankee Stadium. All roads lead back to the Bronx. (God, I hope not.) 

 The young lady on the phone assured me that if I went in with the measurements, I could get them cut to order and, Voila! (I added the “Voila!”)

The slats were five feet, three quarter inches. Why not just five feet one inch, I wondered? Probably some metrics bullshit. I got on the train back up to the Bronx. 

Home depot near me

I got to the Home Depot and made my way to the lumber section. It was the middle of a weekday and the lumber department was empty except for a few people who clearly worked in building and construction; rugged dudes, stacking wood and sheetrock on those huge carts. They come in pairs and some of them even have their own tape measures. There are rows and rows of things that could one day be bed slats.

Home depot near me in NYC

I go with pine. First, I need to know where the guy with the saw is. I find someone who works there. I ask him about this whole saw my slats to order station. 

Not one to waste words, he says, “Naw man, saw aint workin’.”

He offered no further recourse and wandered off. I wonder why the nice lady on the phone didn’t mention that.

Never mind, I did not wait fifteen minutes for the D train to leave without these slats. 

I noticed a guy who was using a hand saw at this stand off to the side.

Home depot near me sales

Really? I thought to myself. You can just roll up and start sawing shit like it’s the fixin’s bar at Fudruckers? 

Fuck it, it’s the Bronx.  

I remembered that the thing is called a miter box, and figure, I got this. After he was done, we gossiped about how the big saw wasn’t working, and we were to use this set up. Alone at the self-serve-saw-station I set my lumber down and put the first one in the miter box. There is a bucket of saws to choose from, and off you go. 

A bucket of saws. Such a bad idea, but okay.

I had to measure the five feet three quarter inches. There were spare tape measures laying around – like an honor system thing – and I measured (twice) and remembered that I don’t have anything to make a mark. I used a key from my pocket. 

Life in New York has become some version of a game show, like survivor or supermarket sweep, but with a latte and a saw.

The first one goes rough. I pull a better looking saw out of the Bucket of Saws. Much better. I think it had a graphite blade or something. Four more to go. I use the properly measured board that I already cut to guide the length of the others. I start getting into it. I can go faster. Sawdust clings to my shirt. I have sawdust on me. I have never felt so alive. I chuck the saw in the bucket, wipe the sweat off my brow and heft the four boards onto my shoulder and head down the aisle. Some guy carrying a bunch of pipe nods at me. That’s respect. That’s sawdust.

I wonder if later we will meet up and slam a few Tecate in his truck before going back to work. 

And then – imagine my luck when I got to the front, and I found out that I got a promotion! On my first day! I am now the goddamn cashier! 

I wonder when break is.

No stranger to Home Depot self-check out, I had kept one of the boards with the bar code sticker on it. I grabbed the gun and scanned my boards. Gave myself my card to swipe and handed myself the receipt. 

On the way out the door, there was the security guard who was waiting to see my receipt. I asked him if there was any tape or anything I can use to hold the boards together.

“No tape. String over there,” he says pointing to a metal orange box in the corner. 

I wonder if I’ll get him for Secret Santa.

It’s supposed to cut the string for you if you shove in in this groove, but the blade isn’t there and nothing’s happening. After a few minutes of sawing the string back and forth like someone trying to start a fire in the woods, I ask the security guy for help. Overwhelmed at my ineptitude he walks over to the orange metal box thing, and yanks the string with the brute force of the perturbed. He should be nicer to me, I think, I am clearly on a management track here. I follow suit and rough house a few lengths of string and tie up my load of lumber.  I strolled back toward the train with a load of wood hefted on my muscular, bulging shoulder, sawdust blowing in the breeze behind me.