It's come to that point in the economy where lavish lifestyles don't meet meager incomes or even the more common 7.2% unemployment rate. At this point, many are choosing, or often forced, to downsize their homes in square footage and in price. And with this, many a moving company will be called. But I warn you now, beware Ben Hur, for their movers may be more careless than they appear.
After a disastrous experience of my Upper West Side building burning down, I had not choice but to move. However, I did have a choice of movers. And boy did "you get what you pay for" ever hit home more than ever. I chose Ben Hur because of the price--the cheapest price I could fine around. I got on-site quotes, on-line quotes, phone quotes--you name it. But, chose to go with the cheapest quote, a flat rate given over the phone without even evaluating my property in person. This should have been red flag number one. But I proceeded. I hired the movers, packed everything up, and was set to embark on yet another moving fiasco.
Early on the morning of October 31st, Halloween, I was greeted by three "movers," whom I've now come to believe may have just been in costume in the holiday spirit, for there is no way these guys could be professionals. They insisted I pay their parking meter for the duration of the move, nevermind that I would be paying nearly $1000 for their "services" as it was. Red flag number 2. I obeyed, let them into my smoke-laden abode, and they went to work.
I was off to my new apartment to prepare for the mover's arrival there, so I was not around to babysit these "professionals." However, I did have time to notice them scurrying around, clearly moving as fast as they could, to get the job done as quickly as possible. Little did I know, it meant half my furniture would look like they took it on the subway, rather than a padded moving truck, driven with finesse. Red flag number three.
Interestingly, upon their arrival at my new place, they refused to unload until I signed the acknolwedgement of receipt papers--confirming I was satisfied with the move--and turned over the $850+ cash, the quoted price of the move. And to weazle me more, they accounted for other items "not included in the order," and said the price would change, though they could overlook it if I "hooked" them up--another $115 cash tip forked over to a still incomplete job. Flag number four.
So they moved, and they moved, and they moved, like busy little bees, though apparently I was sent the blind colony (no offense to blind people--so please don't write me letters complaining), as nothing arrived as it had left early that same morning. The brand new leather sofa was drawn along my newly contstructed wall like nails across a chalk board, gouging out the paint, scuffing up the leather, scratching the wooden feet, and tearing the hide to the bone in many places. Surely this couldn't be happening. But this was just the beginning. Flag number...well at this point, I've lost count of the flags, and now am doing anything not to surrender.
They left with a smile on their face as I unpacked. My slight relief they were gone turned into ever-increasing fits of rage as I uncovered one item after another. First my new coffee table was scratched and dinged from one end to another. Then my eyes fixed on my freezer in the distant corner, dented from careless Ben Hur hands. Then I retuend to find my end table equally scratched. What didn't they damage? But if I answered this, this warning would be much shorter, as I'd have nothing much to say.
Then came my electric Yahmaha Claviniva--a full-sized keey board given to me for my 18th birthday, nearly 10 years ago. The music holder was cracked, a piece was missing from the left leg, and God only knows what the inside probably now looked like. Interestingly enough, I have never been certified in moving; I've never taken courses in moving etiquette; I've never been trained in proper keyboard relocation; but I do know that in the 10 years of owning this gem of an instrument, I had to have moved it at least 10 times, and never once did I even remotely but a hairline scractch, the tiniest smudge on this piece. But somehow, between 9Am and 1PM, among three hapless individuals and a box truck, under the umbrella of Ben Hur moving, it was destroyed at every point possible. Flag 4,552!
Then came the ice cream machine shattered from careless carting, and the bedroom wall tarnished from toppled bed frames, and one by one my bits excitement for a new home and ounces of hope for the rest of my belongings imploded. There I stood upong the wreckage of Ben Hur, the carnage of what once was once pristine.
So I dialed the phone as fast as my little fingers could type over my hassle ridden iPhone (another blog for another time). I was transfered from one agent to another to another, man to woman, woman to man, man pretending he was another man, back to the original woman. I finally reached the end of the conversation, to which I felt everything would be resolved. I was t0 email a list of damaged property, pictures, and a completed damage claim form. This wasn't so bad, I'd have my items repaired or replaced in no time.
Suffice it to say, it's now January 26th, and the only thing to have been resolved is a few scratches on one wall--painted hastily by Danny, the commissioned repair man. All that has been replaced, is my trust in Ben Hur, and unfortunately the entire moving race.
I have made innumerable hours of phone calls, written a trace of emails longer than this story, encountered one idiot after another, filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau (another useless endeavor), researched a small claims suit, and enlisted the services of a full-blown lawyer. All for what is still to TBD.
So the saga continues..but rest assured, there are many more stories where this came from, and many more tales to be told. For now, the moral of the story? Don't hire Ben Hur, and if you do, you better at least have great lawyer.
After a disastrous experience of my Upper West Side building burning down, I had not choice but to move. However, I did have a choice of movers. And boy did "you get what you pay for" ever hit home more than ever. I chose Ben Hur because of the price--the cheapest price I could fine around. I got on-site quotes, on-line quotes, phone quotes--you name it. But, chose to go with the cheapest quote, a flat rate given over the phone without even evaluating my property in person. This should have been red flag number one. But I proceeded. I hired the movers, packed everything up, and was set to embark on yet another moving fiasco.
Early on the morning of October 31st, Halloween, I was greeted by three "movers," whom I've now come to believe may have just been in costume in the holiday spirit, for there is no way these guys could be professionals. They insisted I pay their parking meter for the duration of the move, nevermind that I would be paying nearly $1000 for their "services" as it was. Red flag number 2. I obeyed, let them into my smoke-laden abode, and they went to work.
I was off to my new apartment to prepare for the mover's arrival there, so I was not around to babysit these "professionals." However, I did have time to notice them scurrying around, clearly moving as fast as they could, to get the job done as quickly as possible. Little did I know, it meant half my furniture would look like they took it on the subway, rather than a padded moving truck, driven with finesse. Red flag number three.
Interestingly, upon their arrival at my new place, they refused to unload until I signed the acknolwedgement of receipt papers--confirming I was satisfied with the move--and turned over the $850+ cash, the quoted price of the move. And to weazle me more, they accounted for other items "not included in the order," and said the price would change, though they could overlook it if I "hooked" them up--another $115 cash tip forked over to a still incomplete job. Flag number four.
So they moved, and they moved, and they moved, like busy little bees, though apparently I was sent the blind colony (no offense to blind people--so please don't write me letters complaining), as nothing arrived as it had left early that same morning. The brand new leather sofa was drawn along my newly contstructed wall like nails across a chalk board, gouging out the paint, scuffing up the leather, scratching the wooden feet, and tearing the hide to the bone in many places. Surely this couldn't be happening. But this was just the beginning. Flag number...well at this point, I've lost count of the flags, and now am doing anything not to surrender.
They left with a smile on their face as I unpacked. My slight relief they were gone turned into ever-increasing fits of rage as I uncovered one item after another. First my new coffee table was scratched and dinged from one end to another. Then my eyes fixed on my freezer in the distant corner, dented from careless Ben Hur hands. Then I retuend to find my end table equally scratched. What didn't they damage? But if I answered this, this warning would be much shorter, as I'd have nothing much to say.
Then came my electric Yahmaha Claviniva--a full-sized keey board given to me for my 18th birthday, nearly 10 years ago. The music holder was cracked, a piece was missing from the left leg, and God only knows what the inside probably now looked like. Interestingly enough, I have never been certified in moving; I've never taken courses in moving etiquette; I've never been trained in proper keyboard relocation; but I do know that in the 10 years of owning this gem of an instrument, I had to have moved it at least 10 times, and never once did I even remotely but a hairline scractch, the tiniest smudge on this piece. But somehow, between 9Am and 1PM, among three hapless individuals and a box truck, under the umbrella of Ben Hur moving, it was destroyed at every point possible. Flag 4,552!
Then came the ice cream machine shattered from careless carting, and the bedroom wall tarnished from toppled bed frames, and one by one my bits excitement for a new home and ounces of hope for the rest of my belongings imploded. There I stood upong the wreckage of Ben Hur, the carnage of what once was once pristine.
So I dialed the phone as fast as my little fingers could type over my hassle ridden iPhone (another blog for another time). I was transfered from one agent to another to another, man to woman, woman to man, man pretending he was another man, back to the original woman. I finally reached the end of the conversation, to which I felt everything would be resolved. I was t0 email a list of damaged property, pictures, and a completed damage claim form. This wasn't so bad, I'd have my items repaired or replaced in no time.
Suffice it to say, it's now January 26th, and the only thing to have been resolved is a few scratches on one wall--painted hastily by Danny, the commissioned repair man. All that has been replaced, is my trust in Ben Hur, and unfortunately the entire moving race.
I have made innumerable hours of phone calls, written a trace of emails longer than this story, encountered one idiot after another, filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau (another useless endeavor), researched a small claims suit, and enlisted the services of a full-blown lawyer. All for what is still to TBD.
So the saga continues..but rest assured, there are many more stories where this came from, and many more tales to be told. For now, the moral of the story? Don't hire Ben Hur, and if you do, you better at least have great lawyer.
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