"Why don't you just buy a mattress?" It's a legitimate question. But I do tire of repeating myself to legions of bemused bystanders. Maybe that's why I like writing: question deferrment. Write it once, then reference.
"But seriously, there's a bed in the other room. You can use it." So I must explain, again, the pile of raw lumber in my tiny room. I hate bad mattresses. Had one in college. Couldn't tolerate it. I slept on the edge of the mattress to avoid the super-saggy black hole. There was no way to sleep on my stomach either--didn't fancy a career as a contortionist.
The standard-issue box spring/mattress combo with a basic metal frame has several shortcomings. It’s too low to store anything underneath. When your living space measures 12' by 15', storage is vital. A decent mattress (one that doesn't double as a hammock) is way out of my price range.
I want comfort. I want utility. I want spatial maximization. I want cost effectiveness. I decide to build a bed. This is problematic; I have no tools. And by no tools I mean absolutely zilch. No hammer, nails, drill, saw. Nothing.
So I headed off for the lumber yard. This is a place where serious men do serious business, like operating forklifts, driving giant diesel trucks, and pointing huge meaty fingers at lumber piles then grunting formidably. This is not a place for punk-assed, Passat-driving, flip-flop wearing, 24year olds with kiddie sunglasses. They should have a sign posted. "This is not the Home Depot. We will not be happy to assist you. As a matter of fact, if you have to ask, we will actively despise and belittle you. When you know exactly what you want, we will get it for you. Grudgingly."
I was swiftly passed from employee to employee. It's the workplace version of hot potato: pass the obnoxious customer. James, the forklift driver, drew the short straw. A disclaimer: I am not pleased to share a name with this man. He was unpleasant, rude, and made it clear from the outset he would have loved to run me over with his forklift. Or possibly skewer me with the prongs and deposit my shish kabobed corpse atop a pile of 5/8 inch plywood in the far corner of the warehouse. Either way, he was not at all happy that I needed "One 14’ section of 2x4, one 10' section of 2x4, both cut into 50" segments, one 14’ 2x4 cut into 80" segments, an 8' 4x4 cut into 2' segments, and a 5/8 sheet of particle board cut into two 48x40inch segments." He informed me repeatedly that he was not a carpenter and that cutting the lumber for me would forever negate the possibility of building anything with it. He threatened to loan me a circular saw and make me cut the planks. I declined. He claimed he would have to use a chainsaw. Seeing the precision table saw mounted on the far wall, I called his bluff.
Once James had suffered the indignity of making ten easy cuts in 4 small pieces of lumber, I paid and loaded up the car.
Lacking a tape measure (remember, no tools) I had hoped a 40x48 inch particle board would fit into the trunk. It did not. Nor, with the particle board jammed unceremoniously into the backseat, did the 80" 2x4s fit into the trunk.
The end result was questionable at best. The particle boards only fit into the backseat with the windows rolled down, so the corners could poke out. Even then the rear passenger door refused to shut. I remedied the situation by looping the seatbelt out the window and tying two half-hitches around the exterior handle. I drove home with 2 of 5 doors open.
Thankfully I did not encounter any police cruisers.
Epilogue
I borrowed a drill from a friend of a friend, bought some wood screws from Ace, and the bed looks great, despite premonitions of grouchy forklift operators.
