You’re doing a grape job!
(Why is it always the middle aged male customers who come up with the bad puns?)
I got in early for my shift since I knew there’d be time consuming prep to do. When my informal taste test revealed the grapes were pretty bitter, I pulled out an old favorite from my demo lady bag of tricks and iced them down to make the tartness seem refreshing. Then I focused my spiel on the fruit’s size - and actually, it was pretty amazing that the green ones were as big as my thumb.
I prefer this kind of selling to the canned vendor brand name/price/location script we are supposed to follow. It’s an actual conversation focused on a small cup with three grapes - red, green and black. “Which flavor do you prefer? Here, your wife likes the black ones. Let me get you another one.”
People volunteered lots of recipes for chicken salad.
They asked me to help them select the perfect bunch.
They thanked me. A lot.
It’s surprising to me how easy this job has gotten, how good it feels on a day like today. Or, rather, felt. Because it felt pretty good until my back started cramping up.
When I had obvious problems straightening up from the table after my lunch break (far greater than the standard stiffness that sets in after three and a half hours of standing followed by 30 minutes of sitting), Blondie insisted I take one of her pain pills. I said “no thanks” at first, remembering the day the Not-Messing-Around Demo Lady gave me one of her cold pills and it threw me for a loop. Then, still hunched over, I reconsidered and accepted with thanks.
The walk from the front of the store to the back was just enough time to regret my action. So, I admitted to the Boss Boy what I had done. His reaction?
Oh, man. You took Blondie’s medicine? She’s packing some serious stuff.
Then he kept coming out to the floor to check on me for the rest of the afternoon. (He says I seemed to be talking a lot, but then I always talk a lot.)