This Damn House

There's a small hardware store in our town (an Ace franchise, technically) which is very convenient, but has nowhere near the prices or selection of a mega-store like Home Depot (the nearest of which is a 20 minute drive from our house). In general, we've gone to Home Depot for those several-hundred-dollar shopping trips for lumber and the like, but we do try to patronize the smaller local business, just on principle...but also on the theory that small, local hardware stores can offer quality personal service and advice that soulless big box stores cannot.

I put this theory to the test recently.

The issue was that I was installing a light fixture that didn't quite fit how it needed to. To make it work, I needed to to find a bolt that was longer than the one included in the kit, but that still fit the Fancy Decorative Nut provided. I brought both the bolt and the Fancy Decorative Nut to the hardware store, but was stymied by row upon row upon stack upon stack of tiny drawers of fasteners, whose obscure labeling and numbering scheme was Greek to me. What the heck is a 1/2x13x3 Flange Bolt Grade 8? Or would I rather have a 5/16x1-1/2 Hex Lag Bolt Coarse Zinc? Uhhhhh....

I helplessly bring my nut and my bolt to the nearest store employee, a kindly seeming older gent who looks like a veritable archetype of the Helpful Hardware Guy.

"Helpful Hardware Guy," says I, "I need this bolt here (*points*) but about a half inch longer. Can you help me?"

HHG: "Fasteners are in aisle 5."
Me: "Yes, I've been to aisle 5, but I'm kind of lost. Could you help me?"

HHG accompanies me to aisle 5. "What size bolt do you need?" he asks. Unable to meet his eyes, I admit my shameful ignorance of nuts and bolts and lack of knowledge of the specific characteristics of the bolt I need. "Like this one, but a little longer," I repeat. "Is it metric or standard?" he asks. Again, I shrug my shoulders helplessly. My face is flushed with shame.

He starts rummaging around amongst the nuts. He tries several onto my bolt and eventually finds one that goes on. "Here you go," he says, satisfied, handing me the nut. "Well, no" I say uncertainly, "it doesn't really fit. It goes on, yes, but it isn't a snug fit. See how it wiggles about? And really, it isn't the nut I need, it's a bolt that fits this Fancy Decorative Nut."

Adopting a tone generally reserved for mentally challenged 4 year olds, he says "If you want to find a bolt of a matching size, you have to go through all the nuts, trying them on until one fits; once it does, read the drawer and you'll know what size bolt you have."

Time for a different tack, I can see. So I take from a drawer a new bolt, that matches the nut he says is the right one, and try my Fancy Decorative Nut on it. My Fancy Decorative Nut falls right off. I gesture gently at the situation, and offer HHG my fancy nut.

HHG glares at my offering without taking it. "Well what size nut is that? Is it metric?" I repeat, again, that I know nothing about sizes, and that I would like his help in determining the answer to that very question.

Now I admit to a gross and startling ignorance of hardware. I can understand that HHG was probably struggling to cope with being faced with such a shocking paucity of knowledge. I attempt to mitigate the trauma but sharing what small wisdom I had gleaned. "I noticed," I say tentatively, "that all the nuts labeled something-something-6 were slightly too small, and all the ones something-something-8 were slightly too large. I know that I am but a humble disciple next to your mastery of Ancient Hardware Lore, but I'm wondering if there might be a something-something-7 bolt that would fit."

"Maybe it's metric," he says in a dry, dismissive tone. "Just try all the bolts until you find one that fits. Make sure you get the right pitch." And with that, he turns on his heel. "What's 'pitch?'" I start to say, but before I can utter the words, he's disappeared.

I resign myself to trying every bolt in every drawer, and I begin. Shortly before giving up in despair I discover, sitting on a small shelf between two racks of fasteners, a green plastic card with holes and notches. A bolt sizing gauge! An authentic Rosetta Stone of Fasteners! With this sacred text, I am able to identify and locate the correct bolt in a matter of seconds.

With a song in my heart, I proceed to the cashier and pay the $.89 for my purchase. As I am leaving the store, I encounter HHG, who asks if I ever found what I was looking for. Freed from the necessity of groveling for help and filled with the glow of my success, I respond with a flippant "Yes, even without your help."

"I was trying to help", HHG response snippily, "if you would have just stopped arguing with me."

"Arguing?! I...you.... *sputter*" was all I could manage.

I turned away, and then thought of something and turned back. "For future reference, if you had directed me to the sizing gauge on the shelf, it could have saved us both a lot of time."

"You just have to try things out until you find a fit."

"But I would have known where to start if I'd used the guage."

He gives me that the customer is always right even when she's a raving idiot condescending smile that only works when accompanied by a British accent from guys named Jeeves or Alfred. "Sure. Have a nice day."

Next time, I'm going to Home Depot.