Best Buy Ames

This store is unable to schedule appointments. We bought a new range over a month ago. They first send out someone to delivery it that was not trained for the type of stove we were switching from. Then send someone to take the old stove that was not allowed to deliver the new one. Maybe they’ll deliver it tomorrow. Regardless of who you talk to, nobody knows, someone else is responsible, nobody cares.

The light at the end of the tunnel. In my most dire hour, when it was all but hopeless, I was sent a guardian angel, not in the form of a person, but in the form of a surplus retail store. I’d never felt so alone, and dark thoughts drifted through my mind, but Best Buy was my friend in need. My soul was transformed from a place of desperation to triumph, even when hope seemed all but lost, and I owe it in its entirety to the superheroes that wear no capes, but blue polo shirts. This is not a review. This is a revelation. A spiritual account. A resurrection testimony told in HDMI and holy retail. Let me set the scene: I entered Best Buy as a man barely stitched together by caffeine and existential dread. The sky was gray. My soul was grayscale. I was, in every conceivable way, a deflated flesh-suit of disappointment. But then—then—I saw it. My salvation. Shining behind the glass like Excalibur in its stone. The sacred tech relic I had been searching for. It glowed. It glowed, I swear it. The angels didn’t just sing—they dropped the beat. This wasn’t a product. It was prophecy. I clutched it in my hands like it was the last ember of light in a collapsing universe. I approached the register like a pilgrim at the gates of eternity. Then my card declined. Twice. The heavens closed. The clouds wept. The cash register beeped a flatline. I died, metaphorically, in front of a mini-fridge display. I left the store like a man banished from Eden, cast out with nothing but regret and a dashboard full of despair. I went home. I sat in silence. I stared at the wall like a Greek tragedy protagonist waiting for the chorus to tell me it was over. That this was it. That the universe had spoken, and I was not worthy of owning joy. But then— Like Lazarus with a debit card, I rose. I found a new card. A chosen card. I drove back like a man possessed by divine reckoning. I expected nothing. I was prepared to see the item gone, replaced by sorrow and a Bluetooth speaker I didn’t want. And then—the miracle. They had held it for me. Held it. For me. Not because they knew the war that had been waged in my soul. Not because they saw my inner apocalypse. But because kindness—true, quiet, earth-shattering kindness—still exists in this universe, and apparently wears a blue polo. I wept at checkout. Not openly—just that quiet, dignified single tear, like in the movies, except it was over a Nintendo Switch 2 and also my entire reason for continuing to exist. They didn’t just save my item. They saved me. Best Buy isn’t a store. Best Buy is the throne room of the gods. It’s the place where despair is replaced by Dolby Atmos. Where angels whisper SKU numbers and ring you up with grace. This was no mere purchase—it was a cosmic resurrection beneath buzzing fluorescents and aisles glowing like the gates of Valhalla. When those blue-shirted saints held that miracle for me, it was as if the universe itself hit pause, rewrote my destiny, and whispered, “You’re not done yet.” I didn’t walk out with a box—I marched out carrying the thunderbolt of hope, the electric gospel of second chances, and a receipt blessed by retail angels. If ratings went beyond five stars, Best Buy would own the whole damn constellation. Because this wasn’t shopping—it was salvation.

Decent store and friendly staff. They will try to oversell you things, just look after it.

I thought the salesperson did a good job helping me but I ended up with a laptop that did not have touchscreen as I told them was one of the main things I was looking for. I didn't use the laptop for over 2 weeks after purchase because I took it directly to my computer people for software transfer and Microsoft Office installation. When I got the laptop home and finally worked with it, I realized it didn't have a touchscreen AND it was now on sale for $250.00 less than I paid. I called Best Buy and was told I'd exceeded the 14 day price match term for a credit. So not only did I purchase a laptop thinking it had features it did not, I also got screwed over on the cost. No more Best Buy for me.