Furniture and a fading weekend
Nice weekend, but busy week. It's already Wednesday, blazing by. The weekend is so far distant now that it has almost slipped over the horizon. A warm red glow, kind of dyeing my memory of it, is all that's left, reminding me that it was good. Amy and I spent the weekend together, virtually every moment. Much of what we needed to do was left undone. Suited me fine.
We went furniture shopping, slipped on the mantle of enthusiastic rich yuppie entitlement and expected, and received, excellent customer service while test bouncing on horribly expensive couches.
We encountered three very distinct character of salesperson. The upscale, sell on brand and knowledge. The middle of the road, sell on practicality and affordability. And the furniture factory warehouse, exploit and exacerbate customer ignorance.
I find all salespeople somewhat sad. They're a quiet suffering lot. Enforced happiness, over time it gives them a sort of sad smile, one that is almost entirely devoid of sincerity. While their customers are each and everyone unique, the salesperson must repeat the same lines over and over, the same words, the same poignant and self-flattering story. What must be even more disheartening is that the practiced litany of words is their own, their own invention, a demonstration of their craft, their contribution to the field of salesmanship. And yet, they always sound sort of inflexible, forced, falling flat as practiced sincerity. It's not like the customer service operator or the McDonald's clerk. The words of these distant kin of the floor furniture salesperson are not their own. They do not have to take credit for them, they don't have to read the face of their customers for rejuvenating approval. They can spit their trained words out as a challenge or roll them as sweet politeness, they can even effect an air of ironic disdain for the numbing robotic and manipulative nature of the scripts they're given, while casting a knowing glance over their words.
Today's rule: smile at a salesperson, tell him you like his tie.
We went furniture shopping, slipped on the mantle of enthusiastic rich yuppie entitlement and expected, and received, excellent customer service while test bouncing on horribly expensive couches.
We encountered three very distinct character of salesperson. The upscale, sell on brand and knowledge. The middle of the road, sell on practicality and affordability. And the furniture factory warehouse, exploit and exacerbate customer ignorance.
I find all salespeople somewhat sad. They're a quiet suffering lot. Enforced happiness, over time it gives them a sort of sad smile, one that is almost entirely devoid of sincerity. While their customers are each and everyone unique, the salesperson must repeat the same lines over and over, the same words, the same poignant and self-flattering story. What must be even more disheartening is that the practiced litany of words is their own, their own invention, a demonstration of their craft, their contribution to the field of salesmanship. And yet, they always sound sort of inflexible, forced, falling flat as practiced sincerity. It's not like the customer service operator or the McDonald's clerk. The words of these distant kin of the floor furniture salesperson are not their own. They do not have to take credit for them, they don't have to read the face of their customers for rejuvenating approval. They can spit their trained words out as a challenge or roll them as sweet politeness, they can even effect an air of ironic disdain for the numbing robotic and manipulative nature of the scripts they're given, while casting a knowing glance over their words.
Today's rule: smile at a salesperson, tell him you like his tie.
posted by Michael at
6:35 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home