After working in my beloved local sport shop for just passed a year now, I felt instead of moaning constantly about the lack of customers or discussing really pointless things with my manager about whatever the hell we can think of, I would share some stories with the public about the fun times of the job as a sport shop salesman.
I'm going to start with a customer who I remember quite well due to his high level of twatness. His ability to look like the busiest, most impressive person in the world was quite mind-boggling, anyway here we go.
It was a quiet, sunny summer's day in the world of the sport shop. A man enters, dark hair, skinny build, mid-20s, discussing business-like issues on his Blackberry phone...really loudly. He wonders over to the shoes at the end of the shop and begins to browse. After a minute or two, he hangs up the phone after sealing some sort of deal and continues to browse.
A handsome, 22 year old, blonde, (could be me) man with charm and wit in abundance (definitely me) wonders over to the man and conversation commences.
Myself: Can I help at all?
(The man chuckles as if to suggest I am a minion from the land of dunceville and couldn't possibly help him with his situation.)
Man: I suppose, I'm looking for some running shoes for my dad
Myself: Ok, well we have...
(The man then decides that the four words is quite enough from me and interrupts, like the fantastic man that he is.)
Man: Look, (proceeds to chuckle like a devil-mouse) let's not get into you trying to explain to me what shoes are better because you clearly don't know much about your stock so just give me some prices so we can get on with this.
(I step back, stunned by the lack of respect and this guy's pure dickheadedness. But, being the ultimate pro that I am, maintain composure and try again.)
Myself: Well, I do know my stock. (Pause, for sensational effect.) So, how much does your father run a week.
(The awkwardness is overwhelming, but the man is nice enough to give me a second chance. I am obviously so thankful for his generosity.)
Man: Well, (thinks about a ridiculous number of miles that makes his dad comparative to Speedy Gonzalez) about 20 miles?
Myself: (maintaining composure, although I really want to do an Undertaker-esque choke slam on him and tell him he's a disgrace) At that sort of mileage he'll probably need a higher priced running shoe, any idea if he pronates?
(The man looks at me as if to suggest he doesn't know what I mean, but he can't possibly NOT know what I mean, can he?)
Man: I don't think he does, no.
Myself: Well, a high percentage of people do pronate, the duomax technology on the inside of the Asics shoe will help to combat this, which you'll get with the 2160. If you're sure he will require a neutral shoe, he'll need to go up to a Nimbus.
(I'm now the one chuckling, only in my head though, to maintain the professionalism on show. The man, who is now so confused he's light-headed and may as well be hiding in the corner waving a white flag, maintains his smugness and looks up at my glowing smile)
Man: Which ones the cheapest?
Myself: The 2160s.
Man: Ok, I'll have those in a size 9.
Myself: Ok, I'll be back in a second.
(I make my way to the stock room, hoping that the size he wants we do have in stock because I'm sick of having to talk to this outrageous human being. I spot the shoes and quickly return to the shop to claim victory by making a sale.
Myself: (scanning the product, triumphantly) Would you like these in a bag?
Man: Yes, please. (He said "please", have I managed to gain his respect?) Do you take Amex?
Myself: I'm afraid we don't.
(And suddenly, we're back to the beginning again,. His face is one of total bewilderment at the possibility that a shop cannot take his beloved American Express card. It's as if I've just put up a big red sign in front of his face saying "REJECTED". Of course, any logical man just pays by card at this point, but this is someone really special)
Man: I haven't got any cash.
Myself: (taking a risk) There is a cash-point just round the corner.
Man: (Starting to get angry) So, I have to get cash out?
(At this point I really want to congratulate him for stating the obvious so well, leaving me speechless, all I can do is lightly nod)
Myself: I'll keep these behind the counter for you.
Man: Ok, Thanks. (Thanks? Really? Unbelievable.)
So, the man leaves. I'm pretty sure he isn't coming back after such a mind-bending encounter. Me and my colleague proceed to call him pretty much every bad word under the sun, obviously I explained it to her in detail, as for most of it she was dealing with another customer.
Half an hour later, to my amazement, he returns to the battle ground, cash in hand. I am ready, with my scanner, waiting for him to get to the counter so I can claim victory.
Barely a word is spoken as the transaction is completed. He leaves and I haven't seen the man since.
I win.
