I’m outside the jeweler’s at the mall doing some Christmas shopping when I spy two of the sales associates pounce on two different gentlemen perusing the necklaces.
The first is a youngish fellow with a sleeping baby in a stroller, whose shell-shocked look suggests that, with less than thirty hours to go, he’s suddenly realized he needs to start his Christmas shopping. After choosing one of the pieces, the young gal behind the register politely asks if he’d like to pay an additional $10 to get a plush bunny toy as a bonus.
“I don’t think so,” he replies.
“You could get it for your little girl. For Christmas. One less present to buy.”
And with that, she sold the dog.
The second is much older fellow in sporting overalls and a beard of sufficient length and grunge as to make ZZ Top proud. After he finishes choosing a different piece, the older register gal bags it for him and once again politely asks if he’d like to pay an additional $10 to get a plush bunny toy as a bonus.
“I don’t think so,” he replies.
“They’re good for target practice.”
And with that, she sold the dog.
