Seems Harry had a little problem with the firepit he bought. It lacked one of three legs.
Was he able to fulfill the firepit lust of his wife, for whom he purchased the pit as a birthday present?
Or was Harry left without a leg to stand on, in the dog house, with naught but the two other wrought iron legs (bones), and our mixed metaphors, as company?
Find out for yourself, smartypants, after the jump.
- “Hi, Consumerist. I wrote you a while back with the story of State Farm’s extortion of me, and of other holders of “single-line” insurance. To show you that I’m not just a whiner, here follows a story of consumer relations done right.
My wife loves Dick’s. Not just any Dick’s, but Dick’s Sporting Goods. The last time we were there, she lusted after a firepit, which is basically a metal tray that you put on your deck, and sit around while you watch wood burn. Frustrated camper that she is, I decided that, for her birthday yesterday, I would procure her this trendy suburban patio accessory.
Playing it safe, I chose the very same model she had fawned over at Dick’s. The “some assembly required” label didn’t phase me, but I was a bit concerned with the packaging, which showed a possible opening and resealing event in the box’s history. The sales guy assured me that they were all packaged like that, so I paid my $100 for the metal tray (albeit an aesthetically pleasing one, bordered with mosaic tile, and perched on wrought-iron legs), loaded it up in the minivan, and took it home.
When I gave it to her last night, it was still in the box, because I wasn’t sure that her firepit-lust was still active, and I wanted to be able to return it just in case she’d rather have something else. She said she wanted it, so I began assembling it. When I got to the last step, which was basically fitting the high-heat tray into the decorative stand, I discovered that the stand was missing one of three welded-on supports. There was no way to safely jerry-rig it (my usual M.O.), and I was pissed. My plans for a romantic evening of fire-watching, drinking, and monkey-love, were fading.
I called Dick’s and told the manager, Gene, my sad story. He said, “don’t bother taking it apart. Just bring it back, we’ll get you a new one, and would you accept a 10 percent return for your troubles?”
That’s customer service. When I got to Dick’s, they had an assembled firepit waiting for me. As it turned out, however, by the time I got back home with it, my wife just wanted to watch “Lost.” That’s okay, though, it was her birthday, her call.
And I never thought I’d say it, but “I love Dick’s.”