Free Delivery
A new blender would heal me.
“The worst drug of all is stupidity, but what do I know? I’m a fool.”
~ Sachem Edelweiss
It began with my own stupidity, or maybe it was just absentmindedness. I blew up a blender, one of those personal smoothie makers, when I left a spoon in it. I was trying to be healthy for the first time in months, after eating a diet of cheese and carbs while caretaking for my convalescing dog.
I was trying to be a bit healthy, make a nod in the direction of fruit, veggies and life. But no good deed goes unpunished. My blender exploded because I forgot the spoon, turned it on, and held it steady with both hands. It trembled for a moment, then the plastic blender cup exploded and I watched a splatter the size of Utah blow across the countertop, stove, wall and ceiling. A glorious mix of bananas, blueberries, oat milk, and some weird-ass protein powder - an instant Jackson Pollock. I yanked the cord and stood there, quaking. I was grateful there was no damage to my hands or eyes. The plastic blender cup was shattered, purple sludge was dripping down the walls and surfaces, including my face, and I had no smoothie to drink.
My significant other was out shopping, oblivious to the carnage, and I have learned by this point in life that it’s best to begin an immediate cleanup when facing this much slop. I glanced at the dog across the room. He had decided that the situation was not a threat and remained curled up in his bed. It took me 20 minutes to get the stuff off the walls, surfaces and stovetop. I had to get into a few cracks, using a spoon wrapped in a dishtowel, but I got the whole place clean again after some manic work. I had to address the psychic trauma next and resolved to get a new blender at once. This would heal me.
Shopping for an appliance has become a lengthy process. I might have once gone to a local store, picked something up, and walked home with it. I probably should have done that now. I should have gone to one of the remaining local appliance stores - we have one on 23rd Street, here in Manhattan - but I wanted the instant fix of ordering it NOW. I could wait for it to be delivered. That’s not so instant, when you think about it, but placing the order has become the decisive action, rather than actually getting the thing in hand. I was not thinking clearly. I just wanted to place the order.
So many choices, so many smoothie makers. I looked online at a few different “10 Best” sites. I narrowed it down and was open to the idea of a full-on blender, rather than a little smoothie maker. Then I began to look at retailer websites. I swore off Amazon late last year, but still have plenty of shopping choices. My self-weaning from Amazon did not produce a sense of withdrawal, but rather a sense of liberation and joy. There are many other places where I can throw money away online and most of them offer free delivery, as well.
I did use Amazon for research on blenders and prices. I cross-checked what I found against what was on the other sites. I wanted to get a good blender, but I really wanted to get a good deal. And I wanted free shipping. After some poking around with a blank face - some call it “research” - I settled on Best Buy. They also have a store on 23rd Street. I could reach it with a 15 minute walk, but they didn’t have the deal I wanted in stock. They are also not my go-to choice.
Let me back up a bit.
I had never used Best Buy until I was in Florida one winter, maybe 5 years ago, and discovered that they were the only place I could buy this one computer cable that I had to have THAT DAY. I had an okay experience, for a big box store, but I was also haunted by a memory at the time and it returned now. A memory that made me stand there and stare at my newly-cleaned wall.
The memory was of a photo I took in 2002 in a supermarket parking lot somewhere in Nevada. It was one of those quick shots that I took less for photographic value than to document the human condition, frustration, and the limits of our power. It was of an old Jeep, a scarred, tough and authoritative-looking vehicle. A vehicle that just screamed “Don’t fuck with me.” It had an old metal roof rack and a CB antenna and it also had large letters stuck on the back window that read:
“IF YOU WANT TO GET FU***D
GO 2 BEST BUY!”
It’s not a great photo, but you could feel the rage from five parking spots away, the message that Jeep guy was sending out to the world. As I stood in the Florida Best Buy that pandemic winter, waiting on line to buy my cable, the place seemed pretty benign and the image of that truck was a dim memory. There is always somebody, somewhere, with a grudge against somebody else. This was not my grudge.
The years went by and I continued to purchase stuff from Best Buy every once in a while. New York City is rich in electronics and camera stores, so I didn’t need to go to Best Buy often, but it was nice to have them in the mix when I wanted a quick fix. When you’re working with photography gear or computers and riding on the leading edge of technology, you have to pray at the church of consumerism. With cameras and video gear, especially during the first 20 years of their history, the upgrade cycle was relentless and I spent a lot of money, then would sell stuff to finance the next wave, the newest sensor, the latest feature set.
In some cases, I needed this stuff, but I am now co-signing my own bullshit, making excuses. I was filling the giant chasm of need that some of us fill with shopping. For many, it’s clothes. Others collect weird shit. I am a gear head. But why make excuses? Buying things is a temporary way to forget mortality and the meaninglessness of modern life. Maybe simply “life.” Some people have kids and others join cults or get into religion. Drugs, alcohol, binge-eating - it’s all the same, just different flavors. As Zorba the Greek sang, “Life is what you do while you’re waiting to die.”
Until recently, I was wedded to Amazon. It started with books in the 1990s during the golden age of the internet. Online shopping was a novelty then. To find a book online and have it delivered was a new thing. I shopped from the computer at my desk! Payment systems were clunky, the selection was small, but the convenience! You could see the future. Bit by bit, they expanded beyond books. One day, I recall thinking, “Oh, they sell other things!”
Maybe I bought a lightbulb. You dip your toe in that pond, a minute later, you’re drowning. Jeff Bezos now owns super yachts that serve as lifeboats to his super yacht. He owns the world and the servers it’s hosted on. Of course, I have been boycotting Amazon the last few months and, in the process, rediscovering the joy of physical shopping, buying stuff in person and saving money. A few weeks before my blender exploded, I wanted to buy a new TV. Mine had died and, even though I cut the cable years ago, I still stream an occasional show or watch an old movie.
The usual places were closed - In New York City, Saturday is not the best day to buy electronics. I decided to purchase from Best Buy. I found a small TV for cheap on their website and they said they could deliver it that day for free. Why not, I thought? I could save time. I added a wall mount, since I am trying to free up some floor space. I clicked “Purchase” and settled back with my cup of tea, something to eat, and a good read on the destruction of America.
By the end of the work day, nothing had arrived. Best Buy could not help me, either. I could not reach them on the phone. I began to regret my choice. I should have gone to the store. I spent an hour of time calling “Roadie,” the delivery company owned by UPS that handles these gig workers. An hour of phone menus, automated bots, bad waiting music, and pain - an hour of being reminded that I was a powerless, meaningless pawn in the money and data harvesting system we call modern capitalism. I finally got to a human. She sounded like she was working from her parents’ basement.
She assured me that SHE could cancel the delivery, that the money would revert to Best Buy, and that Best Buy would then automatically refund me the cost. I believed her. I wanted to believe her. I needed to get that TV today. I dressed and went up to Best Buy, thinking to myself, “This is what happens when you start to watch TV.” They could not release my television to me, even though it was in the store. The counter person called the manager over. Neither looked happy with their life. The manager said, “The driver for the delivery company is issued a credit on their card for this purchase. They come and get your product with that credit. Then they deliver it.” He looked at me with practiced patience - “We cannot issue a credit.”
I thought this strange. Since I had already canceled the TV, though, I went downstairs and paid for a new one, then wheeled it home on my folding hand truck. I experienced the joy of anonymity that you get when everyone assumes you are another faceless delivery person on the streets of New York City. I got home, hooked it up with my significant and miraculous other, then got on with my day. At 9PM, I was contemplating when to walk the dog, who was recovering from back surgery. He got most of my attention those days. A notification from my phone said that a delivery person was 5 minutes away. My blood pressure spiked, I went downstairs to the front door in time to see a furtive guy in a sweat shirt crossing the street with a television box in both arms at a crooked angle. Neither one of us smiled as he gave it to me. I carried it upstairs grimly.
The next day, I spent 20 minutes getting through to Best Buy on the phone. My anger must have shown as I spoke in a deadpan voice and answered their questions before they finished asking them. It took them a while to say, “You are within the return window.” I thanked them, hung up, then got out the hand truck and wheeled it back up to the store, which is a mile from my door, through some of the busiest streets and sidewalks in North America. I got to the basement, waited on the return line, and made the transaction. The guys at the return counter did not look happy, either. Nobody here had much joy. I took the escalator back upstairs and felt as though I had put this whole time suck of an experience behind me. Life resumed.
Two days later, again, just before the late night dog walk, I got another notification. “Your driver from Best Buy is approaching.” I knew the drill and went downstairs. A small, beat-up car idled at the curb. The engine was running rough. A young woman came out holding a package. Her boyfriend stood at a distance, making sure she was safe. She smiled and gave it to me. The TV wall mount, I saw. She said she had to take a photo to document the delivery. I held the package up in front of my face and said, “No problem, BUT NOT MY FACE.” I was left holding the wall bracket that should have also been cancelled in the zombie delivery.
They drove away, another few bucks in her pocket from another gig work delivery on another contract job that gave her no security, no joy and no satisfaction. I felt sick to support such a system. I felt exhausted from my day of interactions and worry. I made a vow to myself to never use a service like that again. I said out loud, “NEVER AGAIN.” I decided to keep the mount and swallow the nineteen dollars, rather than lose another chunk of my psyche and an hour of my time trying to return it for a refund. Just another hunk of metal to hold onto for years before throwing it out one day.
Three weeks pass. The dog continues his recovery. My magnificent other is out shopping. I’m hungry and decide to make a smoothie. I am tired from taking care of the hound and forget about the spoon in the blender. My blender explodes. I’m wiping blueberry sludge off the wall and my mind is working hard, really hard. I want to clean up this mess and I want to put this whole explosion behind me.
I look on Amazon, Costco, Macy’s and a few other stores. I settle on Best Buy. I figure I’ll just run up, get a new blender - it’s the one that I want and it’s on sale for a great price - then I’ll come home, make a new smoothie and forget that this ever happened. Life will resume. When I get to the checkout screen, though, I see that there’s a catch. They have the model at the right price, but it’s in Rego Park, Queens. That’s around 8 miles away as the crow flies, maybe 10 miles by car. And a million miles away in real terms. I’m not to going out to Rego Park today. Rego Park is the end of the world.
At this point, I should have made some phone calls and run my choices by a friend. I should have stepped away from the car and put my hands up. I should have sucked up the extra ten bucks and just bought it somewhere else. I did not. I saw “Free Same Day Delivery” and my powerful engine of mental denial kicked in. With the dim echo of me saying “Never again” in my ears, I clicked “Complete Purchase.” What could possibly go wrong?
To be continued next week…
Paul Vlachos is a writer, photographer and filmmaker. He was born in New York City, where he currently lives. He is the author of “The Space Age Now,” released in 2020, “Breaking Gravity” in 2021, and 2023’s “Exit Culture.”
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can't wait for "the rest of the story!"
😩🙄😞😥 I'm sorry to use imojis, Paul. I don't have the words. sigh