Z & I have been on the hunt for a rocking chair that fits our "cozy modern" aesthetic and our Deseret Industries-level budget. Not an easy feat. We went to a local furniture superstore, you know, one of those with the horrible ads and endless direct mail pieces, to check out the inventory.
In the first five minutes of walking into the store we were chased, er, greeted by no fewer than five commissioned salesmen, including one nice, 50-ish white-haired gentleman who had this brief exchange with us:
Salesman: What can I help you with today?
Zach: Oh, we're fine. Just looking at rocking chairs.
Salesman: We have plenty of selection.
Z: Yes, I see that. Thanks, we'll let you know if we need any help. We're just looking today.
S: How about this wooden glider rocker?
Me: That's nice but it's not really the style of what we're looking for. Thanks anyway.
S: You know, this one is going for $425, and with the ottoman it's well over $600.
Me: Wow. Yeah, we're not interested in it. Thanks, though.
S: * Leans in and whispers * I have one in my garage. Brand new. I can sell you the whole thing for $300. But don't tell my boss.
* Awkward silence *
* We observe his glassy-eyed stare *
Z: Uh, no thanks.
S: *Whispers again * How about an exercise bike? Brand new. $200.
Z: No. We really don't need one.
* Z & I scan the store for the quickest exit *
S: What kind of work you in?
Z: I own a pizza restaurant.
* Pause *
S: Do you fire people a lot?
Z: Uh, sometimes.
S: You drug test?