I’d put it off as long as possible.  My back couldn’t take it any more.  It was time to get a new mattress.

Now, I don’t know which is worse, buying a mattress or buying a new car.  Right about now, I’d say the mattress.  They all have names like pretentious KB Homes subdivisions.  Chadfield Grove.  Casselton Luxury.  Millridge.  I expected a Grosse Pointe model to appear.  And of course, each retailer has their own model line from the manufacturer.  And finding an equivalence table, is like searching for the Holy Grail.

Can you imagine you go to one Honda dealership and they show you an Accord?  You go to the second dealership and they show you a Honda ‘Harmony,’ and even though it looks different inside and out, they swear to you, it’s like the Accord you saw down the street.  They both drive okay, but who can tell after fifteen minutes? 

It was with these thoughts in mind, that I set out alone early Saturday morning to do the deed.  I diligently read my Consumer Reports buying guide, got into my car, and I was off.  My first stop Leeds Mattress.  I was all alone with the sales guy — carefully checking the coil counts which were in incredibly tiny type.  Then I looked again around the store, and started asking questions.  "Why are there no prices listed on the mattress?" I asked.

Well, he hemmed and hawed, "The price depends," he finally said.

"Depends?  I’m not buying a car.  The price, should be the price, no?" I countered.

Boy was I wrong.  It’s at times like these that I get really nervous.  When there are no set prices, I’m always convinced the specter of discrimination is sure to hover over the dealings — and I’ll have to get sneaky.

At Leeds, it turns out, the price depends on their day/month profitability, I’m told.  If their making their numbers, they see no reason to discount, if not, then deals can be made.  So into this ass-backwards economic ring, I drop my hat.

Since I’m only planning to buy a mattress (Consumer Reports says if your box spring — now called a foundation — is okay, you shouldn’t replace it), I have to lie and say I’m buying a whole set. 

Conversationally, I ask, what percentage of the price is box spring anyway?  Forty to sixty percent, he lies.  (According to CR, it’s about ten percent, if that).  Okay, then, let’s get a price on a mattress I picked.

As mysterious as a used-car dealer, the salesman cryptically typed into a computer — then gets out an honest-to-goodness adding machine to do the algebraic-like calculation.  Then he gives me, what I think is an outrageous price.  Maybe I was wrong.  It must have been calculus.

"You know," I say," I think I’ve changed my mind.  I only want a mattress.  So the price should go down about sixty percent, right?"

Cornered, he quotes me a more reasonable price.  I get that in writing, and go to the next store.

At the Mattress Gallery, we meet Leon, who exemplifies the hard sell.  Phrases like NASA Research and Bio Hazard flit around my ears.  But when Leon comes back after his computer, adding machine (with a phone call to Steve in the central office thrown in) routine, the price is still to high.

So I’m back to the first place, ordering my mattress.  It is more comfortable to sleep on?  Hell yes!  But with a car, I’d at least have something flashy to tool around in — and a mechanic to fix any problems.  Let’s just hope the mattress lasts as long as my BMW.

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