With four waves of company arriving between now and Thanksgiving, it seemed prudent to find a suitable bed for guests. Several months ago I bought a used metal futon sofa from someone on craigslist. The finish was badly scratched, the thin futon mattress afforded little protection from the grid of metal support bars, and the sofa-to-bed mechanism produced annoying squeaks under the weight of anything heavier than a Chihuahua. (I believe this to be an ancient form of torture revived in the late 20th century for dealing with house guests who don't know when it's time to leave.) Though it looked clean, my gut told me the futon probably had an unsavory history at the hands of debauchers, dogs, and toddlers. But desperate as I was, I handed over five twenties for shabby second-hand furniture that probably sold at Big Lots for $129 brand new. Since its arrival, two people have collectively spent many nights on it, both of whom are heavy sleepers. Neither complained, and one even said it was comfortable, but I'm certain both these individuals would sleep soundly on a curbstone. I, on the other hand--a graduate of the Princess & Pea Academy of Rest & Relaxation--rank this futon among the five most uncomfortable places I've ever laid my head, including a canvas rack on a cargo ship, bare ground, the back seat of a '67 VW Beetle, an unheated waterbed that sprang a major leak and burst in the middle of the night and, finally, an upper bunk in a couchette I shared with five noisy strangers on a train from Bologne to Naples.
Futons & Frames is less than fifteen minutes from our house. The showroom boasts a good selection of mattresses and an even wider array of frames. After sitting on each and every sofa to determine which one delivered the most comfort, I chose the most luxurious (and most expensive) futon--thick foam layers sandwiched between soft cotton--and the least expensive wooden frame, hoping the combination would produce a reasonably nice, middle-of-the-road bed. Just thinking about repositioning on the used metal sofa made the thing squeak, which is why I opted for wood, all wood, with wide wooden slats. No bars. After the sale was completed and charged to my Visa, the salesman smiled and assured me it would be easy to put together.
"Put together? You mean I have to assemble this thing?"
"Yes," he said, "but it's a piece of cake."
"Promise?" I nervously asked.
"Absolutely. It'll take you just a few minutes to pop it all into place. If you change your mind, the delivery guy will assemble it for $25."
Delivery Guy carried a large flat box into the house and then returned to his SUV for the futon mattress. Still uneasy about putting it together, I asked him if assembly was simple, or whether I'd need his help.
"It's no problem," he assured me. "It's very easy to assemble."
"Do I need tools?"
"Nah," said he. "Comes with an Allen wrench."
After unpacking the box I found five stapled pages of instructions, as well as a formidable bundle of screws, barrel nuts, dowels and pins to hold the sofa together. I carefully laid them all out in front of me: 2 Clevis Pins, 4 6x18mm screws, 4 6x60mm screws, 4 6x100mm screws, 8 6x30mm screws, 8 wood buttons, 4 30mm dowels, and 4 metal brackets. The barrel nuts weren't even listed on the parts. Then the components: back deck, seat deck, front and back rails, 2 side arms, and 4 slat supports. Already I could see this was far more complicated than anticipated, and Delivery Guy was halfway to the next county.
"Step 1: Attach the brackets to the bottom holes of inside leg of the arm as shown in Fig. 1." If you've ever assembled furniture from a third world country, you already know that instructions written in English by non-English speaking persons are usually convoluted, unclear and mystifying. The illustrations alone were mind-numbing. I held the sheets upside down, then right side up, hoping something recognizable would jump out at me. As I stared at the crude drawings, my befuddlement deepened. Once I figured out where the "inside leg of the arm" was, I realized the designated screw didn't fit in the Step-1-specified "bottom hole." In my zeal to make it fit, I partially stripped the head while forcing the screw into the hardwood with the flimsy factory-supplied Allen wrench. Fearing I'd destroy the frame, Marcia flew to the kitchen and placed a call to Futon & Frames, demanding they send someone out immediately to put the sofa together. As I struggled with a tool that was evidently fashioned from reconstituted Reynolds Wrap, I cringed at the sudden verbal explosion coming from the kitchen.
In that moment, one thing was made crystal clear: cranky women who are out of estrogen shouldn't be allowed to assemble furniture. Period. It should be a federal law.
"The screws don't fit! Your directions are wrong! The Allen key is a piece of crap!" she wailed.
Not surprisingly, the condescending man on the receiving end of Marcia's wrath responded to the assault by insisting the directions for the easy-to-assemble sofa were "obvious" and "self-explanatory." This sentiment apparently did not help the situation, nor appease the cranky woman, who was by now shrieking into the telephone like a banshee on crystal meth. Her diatribe concluded with the words, "Your instructions suck!" followed by the sound of the receiver slamming into the cradle.
(N.B.: Our phone cradle has taken a great deal of abuse over the years. I'd like to personally thank Uniden for making a product capable of withstanding impacts equivalent to a pile-driver.)
Inasmuch as Marcia's phone rant didn't help us with Step 1, nor was Futon & Frames about to send someone to assist two homicidal lunatics, I considered a more thoughtful approach. Take a deep breath and try again. A careful examination of the parts showed a second hole above the first hole. Eureka! It was the same size as the screw I was holding. Moving past this initial hurdle, I realized the directions were not only incomplete, but dead wrong. One by one we attached the screws. We slid pieces into place and coaxed the dowels into cleanly-drilled holes with the help of a rubber mallet. When it comes to furniture assembly, directions are designed to be interpreted loosely, not literally, by creative minds. It took us 90 minutes to attach all the screws, nuts, dowels and pins, lift the large pieces, line them up, tighten everything down and finish the job.
There are several futon stores in Albuquerque. This is a blessing, because we can never again show our faces in Futons & Frames after yesterday's indelicate display of rage.
This blogger sincerely hopes all the screws are secure and the sofa doesn't collapse under our next overnight visitor. Brave souls are cordially invited to spend the night. For those interested in purchasing an inexpensive metal futon sofa, I'll make you a great deal, no extra charge for squeaks. Come and get it. It's sitting in the front yard, looking sad. Even the birds won't perch on it.
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