The SJG Shopping Strategy

I confess. Kiosk people scare the #@!& out of me. Over the years, I’ve developed a strategy to deal with this untamed group. Yet there are times I get roped into their evil web anyway. Did you know that kiosk people are the most aggressive sales force in history? Well, it’s true. Avoiding these crazed product pushers requires determination. Walk quickly. Never look up. Never make eye contact. Once they snag you, it’s all over. Surrender your wallet and hope for the best. Kiosk people are relentless. And mean. They prey on your weakness. They profit from deflating your ego. Their industry depends on your dry skin, swollen eyes and myriad personal flaws. In record time, they’ll zone in on all your insecurities. They’ll say anything to make you spend your hard-earned cash on miracle gels, eye creams, acne solutions, hair extensions and aromatic, microwavable neck pillows. All I can say is: Run! Run as fast as you can and don’t look back.

On home turf, I can usually handle kiosk people. In my own mall, located in the humble town of Sherman Oaks, I’m good. If I’ve had enough sleep, they can’t mess with me.  “Not interested,” I bark. “Not today,” I scowl. “Security!” I holler. For me, the trouble starts when I find myself in an unfamiliar mall. That’s when I drop my defenses. I don’t know the lay of the land. I’m not on the look-out for anything but Starbucks and the ladies room, not necessarily in that order. I’m just too relaxed to anticipate an offer I can’t refuse.

Here's what happened to me the other day: I'd barely set foot in this Westside shopping hell when a wiry character suddenly grabbed my right hand and started buffing my nails. “Whoa… what are you doing?” I asked. “Look closely at your nails. Very shiny, yes? Why get a manicure when you can buff and shine them yourself in under a minute?  “I’m not interested, but thanks." “How about your hands? You want them to be silky smooth?” "Um...""Give me your hand. Feel this? It is salt from the Dead Sea. You rub it on your hands, your feet, your elbows. Nice?” “Uh huh,” I agreed, trying to reclaim my hand. Then he poured water over it, washing away the salt.

"What a difference,” he said, slathering on imported lilac cream. “First the salt, then the cream. You need them both. Forty for the salt, forty five for the cream.” “That’s too much,” I said. “I never spend that much.” "I give you both for $78. You won’t get a deal like this anywhere.” "I gotta go, but thanks." “What do you do for those puffy eyes? I have something for you." “You’re pushing your luck now, mister." "Sorry, sorry, I see I've offended you. I give you some samples. You like it, you come back later."

Back home in Sherman Oaks, I salted my feet and creamed up my heels and the bathroom floor gave way. I went sliding and zigzagging straight into the wall. I held onto the towel rack. I cursed the Dead Sea. I cursed the character who forced this silly saline sample on the SJG. Yet I couldn’t ignore an exciting development. My feet felt silky smooth, my hands as soft as a baby's buttcheeks. So today, I will pack an overnight bag and make the long journey to that Westside foreign mall, and, assuming I can find a parking spot, I will track down that handsome miracle worker. God willing, he takes travelers checks.