July 30, 2006, Decatur, Georgia

By Mark Cloud

My wife bought a desk at IKEA (Swedish for “ABBA”). “That doesn’t look like a desk,” I told her. “That looks like a really heavy cardboard box.” Undaunted by my bad attitude, she insisted that a desk was indeed inside the box and then she uttered the two most frightening words known to man that are not “prostate exam.” Assembly required.

I have no idea where she got the idea that I could put together a desk. I’m the guy who once constructed a Pinewood Derby car that was so dysfunctional it came to a complete stop halfway down the track. I’m the guy who put training wheels on his son’s bike upside down. I’m the guy who has a tool set that consists of a hammer and the toothpick from a Swiss Army knife.

So as I stood there reliving my Pinewood Derby humiliation, I began contemplating how to get the massive unassembled-desk-in-a-box out of the car and into the house. Then I retrieved my tools from the shed and started picking my teeth, because we men like to pick our teeth when we’re contemplating handyman-type things. I figured I could ask my neighbor for help moving the thing. But she’s 83 now and those slippers she scoots around in don’t have much traction.

So I decided to do it the good-old-fashioned manly way, which means I decided to wrench my back. I must have looked like a drunken walrus wrestling with an ice floe, but after three sweaty rounds of shoving and yanking and lunging and grunting. I finally muscled the wretched thing into the house. “Match over, bee-yox!” I taunted the inanimate box. Then I collapsed to the floor, clutching my spasming lumbar region.

Looking back on it now, I realize that was the fun part. After the muscle relaxants kicked in, I opened the box. On top of a neat stack of wood was the instruction booklet. It’s cover informed me that the name of my wife’s new desk is ALVE (Swedish for “the joke’s on you”). Then I started unpacking the box. “This shouldn’t take long,” I thought to myself.

But you know that trick where the magician keeps pulling scarves out of a hat? And just when you think there can’t possibly be another scarf, there’s another scarf? This box was like that. Only instead of scarves there were awkwardly-shaped pieces of deceptively dense wood. And there was nothing magical about it. Unless, of course, you consider repeatedly bending over with a stiff back to lift piece after piece of heavy wood magical.

Anyway, once I was done unpacking the magical bottomless box of wood, I opened the instruction booklet. The introduction said that assembly of the furniture does not require any special tools and can be accomplished by anyone who has not been officially diagnosed with the mental capacity of a newt. (Swedish for “Gingrich”). I felt confident at that point. Unfortunately, I then had to move on to Step 1.

In my own defense, let me just say that of the 13,571 assembly steps, Step 1 was by far the most difficult. Also, there were no words of instruction, just pictures. And other than a sick addiction to that Farrah Fawcett poster which I’ve mostly been able to control through therapy and medication, I’ve never been particularly visual. I do not exaggerate when I say that I spent an hour and a half studying the diagram for Step 1.

It clearly involved the sides of the desk, screws, and a bow and arrow. But I just couldn’t figure out where in the hell that arrow was supposed to go. So I called IKEA, introduced myself as Newt, and begged for help. A pleasant enough woman asked me what step I was on, and when I said Step 1, I heard a snicker and was passed on to a pleasant enough man. He spent several minutes helpfully telling me to do it like it’s shown in the instruction booklet. (Gee, thanks! I never thought of that!) Our conversation ended with him giving me the phone number of a company that actually comes to your house and assembles the easy-to-assemble IKEA product for you.

But I’m a proud man, so I did what any man of pride would do at that point. I started drinking beer. And as I drank, I became very angry at the Swedes. Other than playing tennis with Bjorn Borg and making delicious meatballs, what do they have to do besides assemble their furniture before foisting it on an unsuspecting public?

But lo and behold, wouldn’t you know that through a Mel Gibson-like angry haze of booze and anti-Swedishism, I suddenly saw the light. I became like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind. Numbers, equations, diagrams began speeding through my brain, and it all made sense! I saw relationships between wood pieces, brackets and bows and arrows that no one had ever seen before. I completed Step 1!

Before I knew it, I’d not only knocked off the entire 12-pack of beer, but I’d turned into a desk-assembling genius. I was ready to travel to Stockholm for my Nobel Prize in furniture putting-together. Although I must say that I’m surprised there’s this one desk leg and all these extra screws and bolts left over. Plus, I would have thought that the drawer would close all the way. But I guess that’s just Swedish design for you.

Anyway, I take back all the bad things I said about you, Sweden, and on behalf of my wife and her new desk, I’d like to say, “tack sjalv!” (Swedish for “Ace of Base”).

Mark Cloud does not like pina coladas or getting caught in the rain. He is, however, into champagne.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, October 31st, 2006 | Email This Post

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