June 18, 2007
Forced to Costco: Let
the Battle of Wits Begin
A
haphazard career choice has literally forced me to spend an inordinate
amount of time in Costco recently. I’d explain, but then I’d have to
kill you.
Suffice it to say, it has been against my will, and were it up to me, I
would more likely be caught in a synchronized swimming class than
dodging SUV-sized carts filled with 28-gallon tins of crushed red
pepper. But Costco is not all bad. There are lots of free samples.
I
made a commitment to myself and my family that, one way or another, I
would leave the store on a full stomach without spending a penny.
Unfortunately, there are not enough booths to satisfy the demands of my
stomach with only one lap around the store. At this point, the astute
reader deduces that an uncomfortable dynamic inevitably develops between
the people who prepare the samples and those who eat them (me).
At
first, I filed free samples under random acts of kindness. But after
several unmistakable glares and some lousy-at-best sales pitches, I
realized that I was actually a target of consumerism, a mark, a pawn, a
wallet with legs. The whole Costco establishment was transformed from a
harmonious community into a battle of wits. Thankfully, I’m considerably
well-adjusted to the latter.
Ideally, there are so many people thrusting appendages onto the red
sample trays and grabbing the tiny little sample containers, that the
employees could not possibly recognize me after my second, third or
ninth time around.
But as luck would have it, I had to wear a suit… in Costco. I stuck out
a little.
I
developed a very amicable working relationship with some of the
employees of Costco, to the point where they actually loaded me up with
more than the average amount of samples whenever I came around. We would
chat about the thrill of existence, how lucky we were to be working in
such a bustling environment, how much money we’d pay to be shot with a
tranquilizer dart, among other pleasantries. But unfortunately, some of
the workers are sticklers, intent on making their pitch. “Sun-dried
tomato sausages, only five bucks a pound! Jalapeno sausages, $5.50!
Good, aren’t they? Take some home to your wife!” You can’t really ignore
them in good conscience. They’re giving you free food, for crying out
loud. So I tried some things.
One option is the Bill Murray routine from Groundhog Day, in which you
pat down every pocket you’re wearing as if you’re searching for your
wallet. The trick is to check deliberately, not rushing it, giving
yourself ample time to slowly back away. It’s not easy, and unless you
really sell it, you look quite foolish. But if you perform it
effectively, not only do you save an ounce of dignity, you can also make
a pretty swift getaway.
The routine I prefer is: Ask about the product, followed with some
semblance of an, “I might come back.” Any salesperson with half a wit to
his name realizes that this means, quite literally, “I’d buy a bus
ticket to Ottawa if you’d just leave me alone.” But the beauty of the
phrase is that, there’s not much you can say in response, besides, “I
hope to see you again,” or something a bit more honest, like, “Have a
fabulous life. Don’t forget to give your mother my regards.” The other
wonderful part of this equation is that I’m quite sure that the salary
of Costco sample-makers is not commission-based. They don’t seem to
understand that “I might come back” does not at all suggest that, well,
I might come back.
I
can’t tell you how many times I’ve performed this routine in the past
four days. “What kind of steak is this again? Mmm. It’s delicious. Could
I have one more bite? Wow, so good. My wife’s got to try this. Would you
mind giving me one for her? She’s looking at toasters. Thanks so much. I
might come back.” And like that, I’m gone.
With any luck, I’ll never set foot in that store again without an
SUV-sized cart of my own filled with a 48-pack of beer and a 15-pack of
frozen pizzas. But if I’m not so lucky, at least I won’t have to pack a
lunch.
© 2007 North Star Writers
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