How to bewilder the staff at your local big-box hardware store

Last week, my buddy Bird and I went to a local big-box store to pick up a little lumber and hardware, so Bird could tackle a few home-improvement jobs at my house. To be fair, I won't say whether we went to the big blue box or the big orange box. Not that there's a heck of a lot of difference. Go to any big hardware/lumber/garden store these days, and the clerks will run from you like they're dodging brain-eating zombies.

After we waited a few minutes in hopes a clerk would show himself, Bird looked up at one of the giant aisle markers and said to me, "I know what hardware is, but what the hell is a ferreteria?"

"Well," I said, "when I get asked that question—and it happens more than you might think—I tell people that a ferreteria is a place where ferrets eat. But in actual fact, it means 'hardware store' in Spanish."

"You swear to God?" Bird asked, quizzically.

"Well, sure," I said. "I swear to God that I offer that explanation every time I get the opportunity. And people believe me when I say it. It's a blend of ferret and cafeteria."

While I was explaining how I explain "ferreteria," Bird wandered toward to a cubicle that contained three sales associates, who were passing around a can of WD-40.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Bird said to the three men, "but could you tell me when the ferrets come out for lunch?"

"What?" said the associate holding the WD-40 can. "What about ferrets?"

"I was hoping to see the ferrets come to the ferreteria for lunch," Bird said. "I'd envisioned something like the duck parade at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis."

They looked dumbfounded, as if to say, "The things you do for minimum wage and an employee discount on mulch." My buddy Bird, though, took their silence as encouragement.

"I used to have an albino ferret, Buddy Precious, who lived in my oldest daughter's underwear drawer," Bird continued, "until my ex-wife put Buddy outside in August, and the heat killed him. I still miss that ferret. My daughter made a ceramic copy of him after he died. It was the only good thing I got out of the divorce."

We walked away from the cubicle, which was now as quiet as a mental ward on double-med day. Bird was clearly feeling philosophical. "You know, there's no reason in the world for those three men to be playing with a can of WD-40," he said. "The only reason they'd need a can of WD-40 is to loosen up frozen nuts or bolts, which should be brand-new, and not in need of lubricant."

"You've got a point there," I said. "Every metal thing in the store ought to be lubed up and ready to go before a customer ever touches it."

Just then, Bird took off in search of a lumber cart. After about 10 minutes of searching, he found one, and parked it next to the two-dollar two-by-fours.

"I need to take a little side trip," I told Bird. "Part of my mission here is to find a little garden spreader and some weed-and-feed, and bring that home."

"Go get it," Bird said. "By the time you're done, I'll have this cart loaded up."

So I headed toward the lawn-and-garden section, which was deserted except for one very nice man named Lou. Lou actually walked toward me and said, "How can I help you?" I was stunned.

"I could use one of these garden spreaders," I said. And then I witnessed a miracle. Lou reached up to the garden-spreader shelf, picked up a spreader, and set it down right in front of me. "Here you go, sir," Lou said with a fair bit of enthusiasm. "You can just push it out to the checkout line."

I would have, too, except for the problem with the push handle, which, along with the wheels, makes the spreader only a little more useful than a headless hammer. I unfolded the handle, lined up the nuts and bolts, and started tightening up the parts. That's when the rusty metal bolts shredded the plastic nuts, and the handle fell right off.

Lou, bless his heart, went and fetched some locking pliers and tried to fix the now-useless $40 spreader.

"Lou," I said, "love you man, but I'm pronouncing this spreader. Time of death is 5:32."

I walked back to the lumber section, where Bird had loaded up our cart. "Where's your spreader?" Bird asked. "Brenda won't like it if you come home without a spreader."

"The spreader's dead," I replied.

"What killed it?" Bird asked.

I replied, "It was Chinese. It fell apart when I touched it."

Bird nodded, knowingly.

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