U-Haul, eek, part 2
Well, I now am the proud owner of a 7-year-old peach and beige fabric sofa. How did the move go, you ask? More or less smoothly. Or less. The movers arrived forty-five minutes late and they didn’t have any quilts to cover the sofa with, so I had to improvise with sheets. To be fair, I hadn’t discussed with them how we’d technically transplant the sofa, but I wrongly assumed that they were professionals. Nay; I’d hired two dudes with a van.
I also had hired them to move a smaller loveseat into my parents’ basement. Thank goodness A) my mother wasn’t home B) my father knew where the extra paint for the hallway was kept. They had no interest in doing a good job, or a job that wouldn’t mean a trial of chipped paint. They were all about speed. And pushing the sofa until the wall admitted defeat, scrapping paint everywhere. I’d asked them specifically if they could place the sofa standing up against a filing cabinet in the basement, but that was interpreted to “leave it anywhere there’s room.” Luckily, I followed them to the basement and noticed the, uh, communication discrepancy.
The rest of the job went on without a hitch, but it really felt like I had to watch what they were doing at every moment. And, then, I wondered whether despite all the paint scratching I was supposed to tip them? Are you always supposed to tip, even if the service is sub-par? If so, how much? I don’t want to be a jerk, but it would have been nice not to have to beg my father to get out his paintbrush before my mother noticed—especially as I had to leave and direct the movers to my apartment,
If I were to do this all again, I probably would have asked around a bit more and tried to get a personal reference; keeping up one’s reputation might be reason enough to add a bit more caution to the job.