Everyone shops better drunk. Or thinks they do.
It's such a magical time when one has not one, not two, but three intoxicated men riding the edge of being asked to leave to sober up, have invaded my store. Magical in terms of plunging an entire land into despair and bleakness. Now if only I could find that bloody enchanted sword so I can lift the curse. Oh well.
The fun began with the arrival of two younger men, smiling and speaking in an eastern european language. They seemed to be contentedly in the bloom of a wicked buzz. So I watched carefully. For some reason Russian shoppers tend to be aggressively touchy with the merchandise. And these two were no exception, trying to poke their grubby fingers into every crevise of the plastic clam-shells. But this lasted but a moment before they moved to the Second Act. Ever try to sell lube to two drunk men who do not understand much english and speak even less? If the term elluded them, energetic pantomime would be employed. And then, came the dreaded question even when issued by native speakers of which one is the best.
I did two rounds with them explaining "best" was largely a subjective term based on what they like, what they're doing it with, and for how long. In the end, I selected something from the higher ticket side, told them it rocked, and got a sale. I figured at that point, they'd had their chance. There shouldn't be any disappointment about the lube either so it should be a complete win.
Their attention shifted to a top-of-the-line celebrity-molded toy. Cue the third drinker. He wanted to park his bicycle inside. After ignoring my first few answers to his questions about whether he could park it inside (No.) He planted it in the middle of a bunch of display cases. I would have been able deal more effectively with bike-boy if I was not in the midst of fending off the russians from violating the soft rubber nooks of a two hundred dollar toy.
Bike-boy wanted to get cash back off his credit card. Um, fuck no. And countered with the assertion "the other guy" does it. I don't care. I'm not. The russian dudes leave. Bike-boy gets a couple bucks change for the arcade and proceeds to wander down an aisle.
Turns out he was a snarky old bastard. Thanked me for showing him where to go when he noticed he was not in the arcade. Yeah, so much for your claims you've been here before. He didn't spend any time back there, just wandered up and asked me twice more for cash back on his credit cards. A sharply toned, "This is the fifth time you've asked me since you've come in. I've already told you you can't get cash back." and he decided to leave in an offended huff.
Gods preserve me against the gin-soaked sots of this city.
The fun began with the arrival of two younger men, smiling and speaking in an eastern european language. They seemed to be contentedly in the bloom of a wicked buzz. So I watched carefully. For some reason Russian shoppers tend to be aggressively touchy with the merchandise. And these two were no exception, trying to poke their grubby fingers into every crevise of the plastic clam-shells. But this lasted but a moment before they moved to the Second Act. Ever try to sell lube to two drunk men who do not understand much english and speak even less? If the term elluded them, energetic pantomime would be employed. And then, came the dreaded question even when issued by native speakers of which one is the best.
I did two rounds with them explaining "best" was largely a subjective term based on what they like, what they're doing it with, and for how long. In the end, I selected something from the higher ticket side, told them it rocked, and got a sale. I figured at that point, they'd had their chance. There shouldn't be any disappointment about the lube either so it should be a complete win.
Their attention shifted to a top-of-the-line celebrity-molded toy. Cue the third drinker. He wanted to park his bicycle inside. After ignoring my first few answers to his questions about whether he could park it inside (No.) He planted it in the middle of a bunch of display cases. I would have been able deal more effectively with bike-boy if I was not in the midst of fending off the russians from violating the soft rubber nooks of a two hundred dollar toy.
Bike-boy wanted to get cash back off his credit card. Um, fuck no. And countered with the assertion "the other guy" does it. I don't care. I'm not. The russian dudes leave. Bike-boy gets a couple bucks change for the arcade and proceeds to wander down an aisle.
Turns out he was a snarky old bastard. Thanked me for showing him where to go when he noticed he was not in the arcade. Yeah, so much for your claims you've been here before. He didn't spend any time back there, just wandered up and asked me twice more for cash back on his credit cards. A sharply toned, "This is the fifth time you've asked me since you've come in. I've already told you you can't get cash back." and he decided to leave in an offended huff.
Gods preserve me against the gin-soaked sots of this city.
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