- May 5, 2024
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Because I had way too much money in my bank account, I decided to take a trip to Michael’s to have a poster custom-framed.
You know custom-framing: spiffy wood, a splash of color in the matting, maybe a shatter-proof acrylic instead of glass. This isn’t some slapdash, ready-made hunk-a-junk you can just buy in the aisles like any other schlub — oh no. These frames, you design. You have them made special.
It’s all very sophisticated. It’s also all very dear-lord-what-have-I-done-makes-no-sense expensive.
“I’m thinking maybe we stack a few colors here,” my custom framer said, aligning three shades of matting over top of each other so that each barely peeks past the next, subtly drawing the eye toward the old-fashioned, painted movie poster it surrounded. Very classy.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled, stroking my chin as if human thoughts were actually happening behind my furrowed brow. I had already accepted early on that, when it comes to décor, who am I kidding? So I planned to treat this visit exactly like I do haircuts, where I sit down, shrug and say, “Yeah, I dunno, shorter? You’re the professional.”
Luckily, this was not my custom framer’s first rodeo. He led the way but included me in all major decisions, and I quickly became convinced that this was the most healthy relationship I’d ever had with another human being. It was founded on trust, and I could tell he appreciated the gravity of this bond just as much as I did.
“Great,” he said, rattling some keys on his cash register. “Let me just ring that up for you.”
“Perfect,” I fired back, knowing that I was in good hands and that I’d found in my custom framer what my wise Uncle Tony might call “one of nature’s noblemen” — or, if he’s feeling particularly generous: “the salt of the earth.”
“Aaaand, that’ll be $398.41,” my framer said, smiling like an idiot.
And that’s when I knew I hated my custom framer.
What came next was an artful, graceful, I’d even go so far to say melodious series of stutters and nervous throat-clears from my side of the counter.
“Sure, sure. Exactly the amount I was expecting,” I told him. “But is there any chance we can reduce that price by, say, 85%?”
You have to understand: I’d had big dreams of decorating my house with vintage movie posters for years, but, like with most important things in life, I couldn’t commit. Why invest all that money into something I’ll see every day and might enrich my personal space with a bit of zen, I’d wonder, when I could just continue wallowing in a no-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel guilt over my student loans?
I mean, it wasn’t like I needed this.
But when I saw that Michael’s was having a — get this — 75%-off-custom-framing sale, I couldn’t resist. After all, 75%? This was going to be a slaughter.
I realized then and there that Michael was obviously not the keenest businessman in the world and that his luck in the arts-and-crafts retail game had run dry.
But then everything changed.
Just like at Kohl’s, where, no matter how much you spend, the cashier always reassuringly lets you know that you saved the equivalent of a small city’s general fund on your order today, it dawned on me that in-name-only discounts was this store’s M.O.
Well played, Michael. Well played.
So I adjusted. A few tactful alterations later (one matting instead of three; dirt-cheap frame; not-so-subtle veiled threats) and I’d cut the price in half. And because I still had the strange desire to impress my custom framer by just how much I can put on my credit card, I pulled the trigger.
Leaving the store, I realized that, like all relationships, you need to give a little to get a little. Take me and my custom framer, for example: I forgave him, loosened up the purse strings and now look at us! When I left the store, he said, “Have a good day,” the way people do when they know they’ll be an integral part of your life forever.
And all it cost me was a few lost nights of sleep and a lifetime of buyer’s remorse.
BY MIKE CAVALIERE | ASSOCIATE EDITOR
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