It was just shelves.
But somewhere between intent and installation the project derailed, became unnecessarily complicated, and I became a murder suspect.
I blame my handyman friend Jason. And the Container Store for their limited inventory.
After seeing the “crappy” shelves I purchased from the so-called “shelving experts,” Jason offered to build me new ones. Weeks, however, ticked by and my closet would be bulging with boxes of photos and Christmas ornaments before he appeared back at my door with product in hand. Any effort to hurry along the process was met with typical male nonchalance: “When did you say you needed those shelves?
The first installation attempt was a no-go. “You gave me the wrong measurements,” he snapped when it became apparent the shelves he built were too skinny to hold my boxes.
I quickly retrieve the crumpled napkin he jotted down measurements on, and resisted the urge to remind him how he cracked my Ikea desk after refusing to read those “f-up Swedish directions.”
The second attempt was not much better. After lots of wiggling and pushing, he admitted the shelves were too long.
The Container Store shelves suddenly looked good.
“Call your concierge and see if they have a saw,” he directed.
Was he serious? This is New York. Home of Son of Sam and the East Village nut who used his girlfriend’s body parts to make soup.
His bravo persisted until I relented and made the absurd call and asked my doorman Umberto the unthinkable: “Do you have a handsaw down there?”
Umberto said nothing.
I heard him converse in Spanish to the building’s maintenance guys. I think I heard the word loco.
After several minutes of back-and forth he got back on line.
“Can I call you back?”