Fire from the Hip: Thoughts on Sports & Real Life

From the dawn of man or at least since Michael J. Fox moved to New York City in The Secret of My Success, friendly folk from the Great Lakes and Corn Belt region have been stereotyped as overwhelmed by Manhattan and Times Square’s bright lights. As the young Tigers entered New York this week against the heavily favored and hated Yankees, I could not help but feel that the series represented another skirmish in the long war between the Midwest and the Big Apple. Despite my usual disdain for the Detroit Tigers, in a battle against a greater evil, minor disputes take a backseat. As the heated struggle in Game 2 progressed Thursday afternoon, I too found myself on the frontline against New York. Butting heads with unfriendly New Yorkers intent on screwing me, a good Midwestern kid, I pursued information on a flower delivery gone awry.

Midday Wednesday, I decided to order some flowers and have them delivered by 6 to New York Magazine, 444 Madison Avenue, 4th Floor. The flower company assured me the roses would be delivered by my deadline. After receiving a call from the beneficiary of my thoughtful gesture Wednesday evening, to my consternation, I realized that she had not received the flowers. However, I discovered a delivery confirmation notice in my inbox. So I called the florist who promised to double check the delivery and call me first thing Thursday morning. Leery, but hardly distressed, I wrongly assumed that the flowers would be on her desk in the morning. Ohh, how I was mistaken.

As the morning progressed, I eagerly awaited word from either Tiffany at the floral company or from the intended receiver with many thanks. Receiving neither, I made my first call to the florist at about the time the visiting Tigers took batting practice. Tiffany wasn’t in so I explained my situation to Erica. She promised to track down the delivery records to see when and who had actually ended up with the roses. At about the time Marcus Thames delivered a two out run-scoring single to put the Tigers up 1-0, I received a call that would put me down in the hole against the imposing gatekeepers at 444 Madison. Erica explained that she had telephoned concierge and talked with a guy named Joe, discovering that he had taken the flowers to the 4th floor. Unable to find the recipient who is in fact located on the sixth floor, he took the roses back downstairs and eventually gave them away. It is important to realize she was once on the fourth floor and the same company owns both the fourth and sixth floor. But instead of calling the recipient’s number upstairs, which was listed on the delivery slip, evidence indicates that he gave them to a friend by the name of Charise Miller. To top that, he refused to take responsibility for the gaffe. Erica recommended that I call the building’s manager and convince him to refund my money. Realizing that this might be a real battle but being the personable Ohioan that I am, I called Joe myself. Certainly, Joe would be more reasonable with me.

While I dialed Joe’s number, Johnny Damon turned on a Justin Verlander fastball, putting it off the facing of the upper deck for a 3-1 Yankee lead. Joe’s coworker answered the phone and I asked to speak with Joe. “What is this regarding?” he demanded. I told him that I had ordered some flowers for a person working in the building and that some error had occurred because she had not received them. He responded: “Ohh, Joe is out to lunch so I inquired about Joe’s last name. He refused so I asked for his name. He turned down my appeal, claiming that he wanted no part in the matter. Then, I requested to speak with his manager. He said that was impossible and without giving me a chance to respond, hung up on me. It still boggles my mind to think about it. Enraged, I immediately telephoned again, but my call went unanswered. I hit 0 to speak with an operator; I was now on a mission.

As the Tigers fought back with single runs in the fifth, sixth, and seventh innings, I too stormed back when a receptionist at New York Magazine answered my call. I caught her up to speed about the botched flower delivery and informed her that the front desk had washed their hands of the matter, and were refusing to provide a reasonable explanation for their lack of effort. Again, I was transferred. Fed up after losing my entire lunch break and some to this struggle, a guy named Sean in Office Services was the recipient of my fury. I explained about the utter lack of effort concierge had made to contact the addressee and how they had then refused to provide any information regarding the delivery to first the florist, and now me. He tried to pin the entire problem on the fact that the floor was incorrect. I pushed on the lack of effort and utter rudeness of the guys at the front desk. Then, he said his boss was out of the office. I refused to let him go. Finally, “so that the problem went no further,” he offered to refund me my money, inquiring about my whereabouts in the city. My tirade continued: “I am from Ohio; this was supposed to be a surprise for this girl. I have spent almost two hours on the phone while at work today, and still I’ve found no answers.” After reconstructing the ordeal I had endured, I asked that somebody cover the expenses for another dozen roses delivered immediately.
Realizing my plight, Sean agreed and arrangements were made, but this time I was a watchdog, asking for confirmation from the florist that the order was placed and further requesting for delivery updates to ensure prompt delivery Thursday afternoon. As Johnny Damon floated a harmless fly ball to centerfield in the ninth inning, I realized New York would yield two victories on this day. Like the Tigers in the back and forth struggle played at Yankee Stadium, I emerged victorious in my own fierce struggle Thursday against the vicious concierge that run 444 Madison Avenue in New York City.