I am seeing red and not just because I have my head dropped to my chest in disgust while wearing a red shirt.
Living in New York City entails a certain amount of dependency on others. Sometimes, no matter how self-sufficient I pride myself in being, I have to have things delivered, like full-sized bed frame and eight-foot tall wardrobe I bought from Ikea. Lamentably, Ikea’s delivery system, much like the hand-drawn picture construction instructions, is full of treachery and lies.
I blame Ikea very little for the former (the latter seems to be some cruel Scandinavian joke to assert superior intelligence and Allen wrench dexterity), as there is a delivery/messenger service monopoly here in New York City: Urban Express (or UX for home deliveries).
I hate them.
I set up delivery two weeks ago, requesting a morning time slot. I spoke with someone last Wednesday, requesting a morning time slot. Today, I get a confirmation call telling me my furniture will be delivered between 2 PM and 6 PM. Pissed, I call Urban Express to try to rectify this situation. After 25 minutes, mostly on hold, the first customer service representative hangs up on me. This didn’t make me less upset. When I called back, the second representative didn’t fuck around. She told me there was nothing she could do and that was the end of the conversation. In my very best passive-aggressive* voice I told her I didn’t know how their company stayed in business and hung up the phone.
My intense anger at this situation might seem a little disproportionate, but it stems from a long, bitter history with the paragon of mediocrity that is Urban Express. My company uses them for everything. “Have it messengered” is a common phrase around here. Often, the food orders for company lunches have to be messengered to our office. I would say three times out of seven they find a way to mess something up, mostly through lateness and incompetence. And there’s nothing to be done about it. No other company to turn to.
These moments are when I most wish I’d been born with incredible wealth. I would take a couple hundred thousand dollars and start my own messenger/delivery service, making me a mogul and ultimately putting Urban Express completely out of business. My Urban Express man on the inside would call me with news as the Chapter 11 email circulated the company. Then, I would turn my Ikea wheely chair towards the fire while stroking the Persian cat I’d bought just for that moment, cackling a maniacal laugh of vengeful satisfaction.