I try to rush past the greeter in order to avoid interaction but I’m not fast enough.
“Do you want to save 15% today?” He asks as he thrusts a Cabela’s Club flyer into my hand.
“No thanks,” I reply. My hand remains limp, not grasping the flyer. It falls to the floor. The greeter bends to pick it up.
“Great opportunity,” the greeter states but I’m ten yards passed him. I don’t turn to acknowledge his statement.
I am on a mission. The non-profit for whom I volunteer, RecycledFish.org, is sponsoring the Fly Fishing Film Tour in Omaha. I’m busy trying to thrust promotional materials into other people’s hands. I have flyers and posters; I’m hoping that the fly shop at Cabela’s will display them.
I have somewhat of a history with the fly shop, more like an anti-history. I find the sales clerks to be self-centered. So much so that I normally keep to myself when I shop there. I can usually find what I need without assistance. When I have sought assistance in the past, I have been disappointed.
One time, I was looking for a particular fly line that had welded loops on both ends. Armed with the part number, I asked one of the sales clerks, Fred, if they had the line in stock. Fred told me that such a line did not exist and proceeded to lecture me on how to secure a length of monofilament on to the end with a nail knot. I really did not feel the need to debate him on the existence of the product and I was not inclined to hear his exposition on knots. I shut him off with a brusque “thanks” and, in an attempt to escape, walked over to look at the selection of Sage fly rods. My body language pretty much shouted “leave me alone!”
Fred, obviously not fluent in body language, did not miss a beat and seized the opportunity to talk about himself.
“We’re packing up our Sage fly rods and heading to Colorado on Friday.”
Now, I’m really not brand conscious. One thing that I’ve learned over time is that most people don’t care what type of fly rod that I use nor do I care about their preferences. If I became a salesman or engineer for Sage, I would, but those chances are slim. I wasn’t particularly interested in Fred’s choice of fly rod. Although jealous of his destination, I didn’t care about his travel plans, either. I did all I could to muster a polite attitude. Despite my efforts, my “thank you” echoed with sarcastic overtones. I beat a hasty retreat.
Quite honestly, since that event, I always check to see if a clerk is working the fly shop. If it is unattended, I will pump my fist and utter “yes!”
Today, though, I need to set aside my loathing. I need to interact with the dreaded sales clerks. I know that speaking with Fred might be on the agenda.
I make my way to the counter of the fly department and stand, trying to contort my face into an expression that says “I need help.” I wait. I wait some more. It never fails, I think to myself, when you need help, there is no one around. When you don’t need help every other clerk is in your face.
I decide to take the bull by the horns. I walk back to the aisle and around the corner. I spy Fred. He is standing there talking with a colleague.
I walk up to him in a military stride and, pretending that I don’t know him, I extend my hand.
“Hi, I’m Mark Olson, do you work in the fly department?” He doesn’t know what to think. I would imagine that a hand shake is not part of the normal Cabela’s business transaction, at least on the sales floor.
“Yes, I do,” Fred answers. I note that he doesn’t introduce himself or tell me his name. Maybe some sort of inferiority/superiority issues going on behind those glasses. I don’t provide him with an entrée.
“I work for RecycledFish.org, we’re a small non-profit organization dedicated to stewardship.” I thrust the poster and into his hand so he can immediately read the pertinent information. After having had Cabela’s Club flyers thrust into my hands for, lo, these many years, I’ve got the action down pat.
“We are sponsoring the Fly Fishing Film Tour. It’s going to be in Omaha on the 18th. We’d like to know if you’d be willing to display some of our posters.”
Fred doesn’t miss a beat. “Interesting,” he ruminates. “Oh, but I’ll be packing up my Sage fly rods and heading to Montana that week.”
I pretend as if I didn’t hear his remark and repeat my request, “would you be willing to display our promotional materials?” I’m doing my best imitation of a salesman. My hair is neatly combed, my shirt is pressed, and I’m standing, looking directly at him. I’m smiling.
My inner voice, though, is screaming. “I don’t give a crap if you’ll be there or not, just answer the damned question!”
Fred screws up his face and scratches his head. “Well, I don’t know,” he says, “let’s check with the manager of the fishing department.”
Fred leads me past several aisles of gear to a counter surrounded by every manner of bait-casting reel available. Fred introduces me to George, the manager. George is busy spooling monofilament onto a reel. George is quiet and acts as if he doesn’t like being bothered.
I like him right away.
“Mark Olson,” I say, extending my hand. “We’d like to know if you would be willing to display some of our promotional material.” George looks over the material without saying a word. A long moment passes.
“I’ll have to talk to Frank.” George pulls a phone off of his belt. He dials.
Fred, in the meantime, studies the poster. “Yep, this looks great,” he tells me. “Too bad I’ll miss it though, I’ll be packing up my Sage fly rods and heading to Montana that week.” Again, I pretend not to hear. My inner voice congratulates me on a great poker face.
George speaks to Frank in hushed tones over the phone. He hangs up and says “come with me.” I follow. I figure that, at this rate, I will meet one of the Cabela brothers eventually.
Frank, who was in a meeting, has stepped out to talk with me. He acts somewhat perturbed but listens to my pitch.
“Hi, Mark Olson,” my smile is starting to wane, I’d never make it as a salesman.
My inner voice is saying, “hey, Frank, don’t act so pissed off, I’d give $50 for someone to call me out of a meeting.”
Frank studies the materials. “Yea, that’s fine,” he says as he takes the posters and flyers, “we’ll put them up for you.”
“Victory,” my inner voice yells. I shake Frank’s hand and make a few perfunctory, albeit polite, remarks before I thank him.
I make like a bandit for the door. I’m three steps into my escape when my inner voice tells me “go thank Fred!” I cringe, but I turn around. Decorum trumps a crotchety attitude in a recession.
I catch up with Fred and shake his hand. Frank has given Fred the posters and the flyers to put up in the fly shop. I could have saved Frank the time…
“Thanks,” I tell Fred, “I appreciate your help!”
“Yea, I won’t be able to make it,” Fred answers, “I’ll be packing up my Sage fly rods and heading to Montana that week…”
“Great, thanks again, I’ll be packing up my Fly Fishing Film Tour Posters and heading out in my 2004 Nissan Titan now…”
#####
If you get a chance, go see the Fly Fishing Film Tour, the films are truly awesome. If you work for the Fly Fishing Film Tour or are one of the filmmakers, I hope you appreciate what we are going through down here in the trenches to promote your work.
http://www.flyfishingfilmtour.com/