HARD BARGAINS : Let the Buyer Be Where the Goods Are, Especially When Shopping in a Warehouse

Noontime parking is fairly accessible, but we can tell by the number of vehicles in the multileveled lot that the hordes are way ahead of us. Dozens more are queuing up behind. There’s a predominance of RVs, vans and station wagons. Clusters of parents and children shuttle to and from this mecca of families. Our destination: one of a corporate chain of retail warehouses where, in theory, the shopper is beneficiary.

I have the dining table, but I’ve spent months looking for a matched set of chairs, occasionally stopping to quick-browse thrift and antique shops from Sherman Oaks to San Diego. But even the most marginally functional assemblages of splinters command woefully spectacular prices. I’ve decided I might as well splurge on new ones.

The store’s interior is designed in blond wood, stainless steel and concrete painted a semigloss off-white. Glazed-eyed patrons tote large primary-colored baskets or push enormous shopping carts that accommodate heavy items. We notice the easy-to-read signs in simple English with arrows pointing the way. I thrill to the smell of bargains.

Grabbing a cart, we fall in step and begin ooohing and awwwing, following the primary-colored line on the floor that will, according to our sign, lead us to the wonderful world of dining rooms, where countless specimens of chair await our inspection. In and around we merrily wind, stopping when something catches our eyes--the glint of brass, the shimmer of crystal, the muted gloss of finished wicker. Normally we hate shopping, yet we begin to dreamily refurnish our modest digs--this and that to go there and there.

Arriving at our destination, we’re delighted to find beaucoups chairs of metal, plastic and expensive woods suited to every function and taste, down-home to opulent. We’ve noticed several strategically placed stations manned by smiling, tag-wearing clerks. We motion one young man aside, and he respectfully tells us that we will find membership forms at each station, that all we need do is fill one out, select our purchases--noting each serial and lot number--then follow the arrows to the storage areas with matching numbers where we’ll find the very items we’ve selected. All we need do is place those items on the cart, make our way to checkout, present our membership form and voila !

Serious fun begins as I relax and browse. Huz, antsy at first, gradually grooves to my mood as I compare patterns, styles and quality. Once I make my difficult first, second and third choices, carefully noting serial and lot numbers, we’re surprised to discover that more than an hour has zipped by. Smilingly, we cart off through display after display till we find ourselves in the designated storage area.

Yipes! It’s a drab rat’s nightmare, a dim-lit mile-high maze of endless aisles of unfathomable stuff. We break into flight-or-fight sweats. Huz is ready to chuck it and split. I want those chairs! Doggedly, we push forward, our cart intermittently colliding with the rudely competitive carts of other shoppers.

Quicker than you can recite the Bill of Rights, we’re lost! But how can that be? We were careful to note the correct lot number. I anchor myself and the cart to a cul-de-sac while my better half hurries for help. When he finally returns, his shirt is soaked, his hair is disarranged, his face is flush with rage. “These idiots use a double-digit system!” Identical series of numbers in massive clusters are demarcated only by different primary-colored lines. We’re at the wrong end. We now have to start over at the beginning.

We bristle, turn around and jostle our way backward through the maze. We quickly realize that the Mall God has provided no exit except checkout. The lines are 20-deep. Exasperated, we ditch the cart and begin again only to discover the store’s population has doubled. Defying jangled nerves, we scramble through the sea of bodies, savoring a small victory as we finally stand before the proper lot. “Uh-oh! Oh, no!” we chorus as we discover none of our choices are available. Crushed, I admit defeat.

Making our late-afternoon escape, we marvel at the happy faces carrying giant boxes to and fro, people who actually enjoy shopping according to crowd control. We’re desperate to relieve ourselves of the icky anxiety sticking our craws. I recommend a nearby watering hole where the drinks run deep and the munchies are savory. He gets us there as fast as our wheels will drive us.