Most guys hate shopping. I don’t mind it. I actually kind of enjoy going to the mall, watching the teeming masses, yearing to shop free. I’ve never been a big fan of the overpriced food court offerings, nor do I flock with the other lemmings to signs that scream “SALE!” or “EVERYTHING MUST GO!” Not my thing. I prefer to walk the mall and look for cool stuff that catches my eye. Sadly, there’s a trend in the shopping malls across this country that threatens my enjoyment of a visit, and is driving me to shun the mall in favor of online or WalMart.
I call it “Assault of the Immigrant Kiosk Sales Staff.”
It’s kinda like “Night of the Living Dead,” without the R rating, the cleavage, and the gore. But I digress.
I’ve had this happen to me in four outta four malls lately, so I’m upgrading it from “annoying coincidence” to “alarming trend.” We’re at Condition Orange, people, and heading for DefCon 1 in short order.
It works like this. You’re walking down the concourse, minding your own business, when some pleasant-looking, polite (at first) person with a thick accent says something like “can I ask you a question?” Seems harmless enough. But noooooo, gentle reader. This is what these sales barracudas refer to as the tripline. And by responding with anything other than downcast eyes and a mumble worthy of a denizen of the street, you’ve tripped it.
They then follow up with some line designed to make you feel like a schmuck if you don’t stand there and listen to their pitch. “You love your [daughter/wife/sweetheart/significant other] don’t you?” (Of course, the person to which they refer is standing right next to you. What are you gonna say? “I could care less about how they feel, and if I want your counsel, I’ll scrape it off my shoe?” Of course not. You are guilt-ed into playing along.)
“Um…sure.”
“Well, you care about them having healthy skin, right?”
(Of course I do. What kind of jerk wouldn’t want their child/wife/significant other to have positively glowing, radient skin?) “Um…yes?”
“Well then let me show you the latest thing in skin treatments. Your daughter can have the skin of a baby once more.”
(Hang on…my daughter’s only ten. Her skin and a baby’s skin are virtually indistinguishable, except for the fact that she no longer drools on hers.) “Uh…okay. I guess.”
Then you are treated to a narrative worthy of Leon Uris, about how the minerals found in the waters of the Red Sea have been painstakingly, lovingly dehydrated and condensed down into a miracle compound that is ideal for what looks to me like a follic version of sandblasting your skin. The price for this priceless mineral of the seas? Only FIFTY DOLLARS, but for you, friend, we’ll give you the introductory price, if only you’ll also buy this nail buffing kit, with a special cuticle oil made from only the finest virgin olives from the hills outside Jerusalem.
Pause with me for a nanosecond.
Fifty bucks for a container of sea salt that maybe holds two ounces worth? I can go to my local supermarket and buy sea salt that came from the same bloody Red Sea for about five bucks for a 20 ounce can. If I add in the cost of the small plastic container, I’m still saving upwards of a grand on sea salt.
The cuticle oil? Unless they’re juicing it with something other than olive oil, I can save a thousand percent or more on that one, too. Then there’s the special nail polishing thingamajig. They wanted $20 for theirs. The same thing is on sale at my local supermarket for about $5.
I’m not saying that the charming narrative wasn’t worth something, but this guy expected me to spend about $85 all told (after his introductory discount) for stuff that would cost me perhaps $10, if purchased without the story.
The worst part is that, as the economy has gone South, these kiosk peddlers have gotten more aggressive. One of these clowns grabbed my daughter’s arm as we attempted to pass, and all but demanded we listen to his pitch. Now I’m a reasonable guy. At least until you get my attention by doing something like grabbing my child in a public place. Then I get all medieval on you. Fast. Let’s just say that you don’t want a 6’4″, 250 lb. guy glaring at you, and demanding that you take your hands off his 10-year-old daughter in a voice that is a little too loud for casual conversation. It was a little unnerving to think that some clown thought it was okay to touch my child, regardless of his motives or reasoning.
Being that we live in a litigious society, and since I’ve been told more than once that I am a physically intimidating individual, I think it would be wise for me to come up with a new “Plan A” to deal with these sales thugs in the future, and reserve the glares and giving them the idea that I might be prone to physical confrontations to Plan B status. And I think I’ve come upon the perfect plan. It goes like this:
[SALESMAN] “Can I ask you a question?”
[ME] “Sure, as long as I can ask you one first! Have you considered how much your life can change by selling Amway products?”
I can see them running, screaming into the night as I type this.
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