Ikea Essay

Ikea

I’ll share with you a little known factoid about Ikea. In the 1930‘s the cigarette was nearing the height of its popularity, following the sharp rise in demand from soldiers in the First World War. Lighters had been rendered impractical for that population because once they ran out of fluid they were useless chunks of nickel and silver. The need for a portable, dependable lighting device fueled the popularity of the wooden match. Ingvard Kamprad, a young lad growing up on a farm in Sweden, discovered that he could buy matches in bulk in Stockholm and sell them for a reasonable profit in the countryside from his bicycle. In 1948 he founded Ikea at his Uncle’s kitchen table and today he is estimated by Forbes to be worth six billion dollars.
But thats beside my point. In the early aught’s I teamed up with an Aussie by the name of Jason who introduced me to a Dane by the name of Bjarne. The idea was that Jay and I would install Ikea kitchens that Bjarne would line up, bid and contract. Bjarne had been doing this in the New York area and had a unique contact with Ikea that he was interested in parlaying into a national concern. His American wife, however, wanted to move back to Houston to be near family, so Bjarne would run the NY clients from afar, and build his empire from Texas. It was fine by us and we were making good money.
But thats beside my point. Robert Costanza, the ecological economist writes,
“ While Quality of Life (QOL) has long been an explicit or implicit policy goal, adequate definition and measurement have been elusive. Diverse “objective” and “subjective” indicators across a range of disciplines and scales, and recent work on subjective well-being (SWB) surveys and the psychology of happiness have spurred renewed interest.”
Gallup researchers have repeatedly found Denmark to top the list of the world’s “Happiest Countries” Bjarne who’s last name is Rasmussen, was born and raised on a pig farm in the happiest country in the world. He is a strapping, handsome, blond-haired blue-eyed, good-natured immigrant to the United States. Having benefitted from an upbringing of honest hard labor in the outdoors, he coupled that with carpentry skills honed as an apprentice to master carpenters in Denmark and set his sights on America.
But that’s beside my point. Two and a half years into our partnership with Bjarne’s company, Traemand (‘wood’ in Danish I believe,) we were floated a take-it-or-leave-it offer. Dismantle our company and sign on as employees or take a hike. There will be no sharing of the proceeds or credit in the building of the increased traffic of the NY Ikea installation business. It seems a corporate advisor had been hired by Bjarne down in Houston. He was given a piece of the company as partial payment for his help in bring the brand national. His first piece of advise, naturally, was to cut loose anyone who might compete for a slice of the pie. On top of that Bjarne’s wife had been in a bad car accident with the kids onboard. Some minor injuries were sustained by the young ones and mom had some serious rehabilitation to contend with. It was all horrible.
But all that is beside my point. I’m an American but I am a lousy capitalist. The fact is that I’m not a big fan of capitalism, which to some means I am not a big fan of America but to those I say, “don’t be absurd”. To me it needs to be recognized that market capitalism is a man made construct first and foremost. We made it, we theoretically have the ability to unmake it (or change it, or regulate it, or make it do what we will). We also need to acknowledge that as a monetary system, capitalism has no soul nor should it be expected to have. In fact it cannot. Therefore we, as its creators need to impose limits and procedures onto the capitalist system in order to foster outcomes that approximate our collective morality. Those who call repeatedly for market outcomes to be left to sort all things out are naive or self serving or both. Its like a guy inventing a great riding lawnmower but then refusing to steer it, so it careens along taking out all in its path, based only on the laws of physics and topography, when it could so easily be steered to do more good and less harm.
But that is beside my point. Two guys, one from the happiest country in the world who moves to the richest country in the world (which is alarmingly low on happiness) and the other, born in the richest country, solidly middle class, yearns for the stagnant economy of the happiest country, (willing to jettison possible prosperity for probable comfort and contentment,) cross paths.
And my point is...?

Neighbors

Three days later the paint ran down the wall. Nothing seemed to cover the Pepto-Bismal pukish pink. Some lunatic therapist had told the previous tenant that this color was soothing and good for her soul or some such shit. So the silly twit painted everything. Floors, ceilings, counters walls window sills, trim, everything was a monochromatic tyranny of salmon. I had tried to cover it time after time, coat after coat, with white, linen white, blue, pale yellow, sea foam green, limestone, corduroy. It all ran down the walls in melting flows of latex.
It was hot, no AC. Back in the day this seven- by ten-foot room was a flophouse for the docks just a few blocks away. Now it had a shitter in the closet and a corner shower in what was laughingly called the bedroom. You could swing your feet from the bed, (which was on four-foot posts so a dresser could fit underneath) and land in the shower without touching the soothing pink floorboards. The apartment was in a building behind a four story brick rooming house on Hudson. To get there you walked from the street through the entrance of 634, down a hall, out the back, across a courtyard, into another door, and up a couple of flights. There were four flophouse-sized apartments per floor, now called studio apartments, and occupied mostly by meatheads like me. Except next door. My neighbors were original.
I don’t think they were there in the 1850’s but not far from it. I don’t remember ever seeing them until that night, but I heard them plenty. They were mostly quiet during the day. Some stirrings and shiftings, some cooking smells. A bump now and again. A grunt, a quiet curse. Then the night came. If they stayed home there was a TV. Loud, but not loud enough to drown out the fighting. That began with the drinking I would guess and got louder and louder. “Fucking bitch,” and “asshole” and “you shit- stained mother-fucker, why in hell did I ever marry you,” and “get your fucking hands off of me, look at that silly asshole, I hate this show.” If they went out for the night the courtyard outside my window would start to echo with their squeals when the bars closed. “...it was Trixie that hit first dumb-ass. I saw it. I was right up in the bitches face.” “Whoever hit first, it was the funniest god damn thing I ever saw. Both of them cows going tits over ass off their stools!” And they would scream with laughter and cough and hack up tar colored phlegm and laugh some more. They’d help each other up the stairs, bumping into walls and fumble outside my door for their keys. “Why even lock this dump?” “They can have it. Fucking thieves can take it all!.” “Shut up you old bitch. Your drunk and making no goddamn sense.” “Fuck you.” “Fuck you too.” And the door would close and they would go to sleep.
This night it was later than usual, and hot. I was lying on a nylon hammock I had strung across the main room, trying to sleep. I had heard my neighbors leave earlier. Now they were back and she was crying. “Leave me alone! leave me alone.” “I can’t fucking believe it. I can’t fucking believe the filthy filth of it!” “shut-up, please just leave me alone and shut up!!” “I swear to christ, I swear on your mothers cunt that I will come down on you like a shit ton of bricks if—,” ”You leave my mothers cunt out of this!!!” I listened, hoping it would end soon. It was worse than usual. It was hot. All the windows were open and the whole world heard. “Ahhhhh! I can’t take it! Don’t look at me like that!” And they stumbled up the stairs and the door slammed.
It wasn’t long before it was quiet. Very quiet, for a long time. Then the music started. A high pitched flute-like sound drawing a slow mournful melody across the humidity. I opened my door and looked out. The sound came from their apartment across the hall. The smell of incense drifted through the cracks in their door. It started to open. I shut my door quietly and listened. Some bells, like sleigh bells or jingle bells shook with footsteps. The flute played. I peered through the peephole. A shadow made its way up the stairs. I followed.
The door pushed open with little sound. The roof was glowing with a waxing moon. The old man was standing on the ledge. He wore a head dress of feathers, and played a hand carved wooden flute as bells hung from his wrists and ankles. A black bird sat on his shoulder, then flew away.
I moved the next day, as the paint ran down the wall. As I turned North onto Hudson I passed the gurney coming in to get her.

Rule Breaking

I had just dropped off a floor sander and some extra paper on 96th Street. I hopped back into Trixie (my truck) and pulled a U-ee in order to get to Popovers in time. A voice from the passenger seat exclaimed, “You just made a U-turn in front of a policeman”. It was my dad. I thought about the statement for a second, trying to process it. Looking over I noticed the cop car a half block away. “I guess I did” I said, “no worries, they have better things to do”.
Mom and Dad had been in the city for a long weekend. My dad hates the city. Too crowded and all that jazz. He also hates it because people do crazy things like jay walking or making a right turn from the left lane or making a U-turn in front of a cop. He went back to Seattle happily after a pop-over and lift to Newark.
Rules are a huge part of his life and back when I was a mere foot soldier, a pawn within his kingdom of command and control, I too lived by a steely set of rules. If meals could have been silent, like back when he was in the Seminary, they would have been. But he lost that battle to the wife and five kids. Nevertheless I was conditioned to abide, to conform and to obey, and so I did.
Living in New York for nearly thirty years has chamfered the sharp edges of my observances. I live and let live much more than scream and shout and point my finger. In the past my righteous indignation over egregious rule breaking sent me into sputtering, not unlike my father. Now, a shrug of the shoulders or a mild tisk is mostly what is elicited.
The problem is, I drive in New York, I have to. Because of that I cannot completely let go of a desire that all people big and small should attempt to follow rules. Mostly because I want to remain alive, but also because it would be sooooo much easier. But no. And so I continue to struggle with the desire to leave my old reactions behind and embrace more fully the easy equanimity of one who is not troubled by others actions. Fat chance.
A guy in a van scratched my truck as he was making an illegal u-turn on 
Atlantic Ave against a red light. I’m being sued by a delivery guy who ran his bike through a red light and into the side of my truck. No matter he was at fault! Who cares about that rule! Pedestrians walk into the middle of the street or cross on don’t walk signs without caring, without even looking! Rich guys on cell phones cut me off! Women applying make-up cut me off! Hasids in banged up mini vans cut me off! Illegal lefts, illegal rights, running reds, picking up fares in the middle lane, double parking, being an asshole!
I don’t want to be that apple close to that tree. I will continue to slough off the rigidity of my upbringing and let it go, just let it go. Yet sometimes you just want to smack a few people upside the head.