I appeared into the tobacco’ shop, clumsy as ever because of the bag that I drag myself across Milan full of gadgets and curious gizmos craft which, every time, because of their ongoing mutual slamming into the bag, I find trimmed and / or dented.
I will spend my morning as hostess next to the bar, standing.
My purpose? To inform smokers that enter into the tobacconist to buy “their” package about the organoleptic qualities of “my” tobacco.
As? hooking and stunning.
To help us doing better, my colleagues and I are armed till the teeth (Italian way to say “totally armed”): cool games to break the ice and colored little panels of great scenic effect.
Just entered into the tobacco’shop, I identify my greatest ally: the tobacconist. A person that I instinctively associate to the figure of the King of sticks (A figure of the Neapolitan Cards, a traditional and famous Italian game). I believe that such association depends on the fact that, from his counter, he has an enormous power that he can decide to use on my favour or not.
That is the person who decides the fate of the match. Hardly, in fact, he remains indifferent to my business and he always feels like authorized to participate, in one way or another.
The King can help me using his stick, gently, to encourage his Client, (who, for convenience, we will call Tom) pushing him to make a different choice from the usual about the relevant cigarettes. In this case, I have an easy game.
Or, the King may decide to put its stick in my wheels, which usually takes place in two frequent behavior patterns, one comparable to a real attack, and the other to a pure and simply spite.
In the first case, while Tom is about to make his decision, the tobacconist pretends to be an expert of his customers. Thus, he proudly lays on the table the usual cigarettes of the victim, which immediately ceases to keep me in consideration. Therefore, wagging his tail and happy for the fact that the King not only recognizes him, but he has also reminded the relevant smoked cigarettes, he quickly takes the package. Here it is the end of the games! Damn you, King of sticks.
Or, and this way irritates me almost uncontrollably, while I’m talking with Tom with all my rhetoric skill, he shakes his head as a kind of “it’s all useless. Give up”. On these occasions, I appeal to all my patience about not throwing the cigarettes panel on his head and to all my strength to get some results, avoiding to be beat in my pride. However, when I see the smoker venturing with a different tobacco’s brand the satisfaction is triple and each time I barely hold a raspberry which resonates long and very noisy in my head, I swear. He really deserves it.
It follows that the success of my business can not excluded a harmonious and useful mutual cooperation.
I introduce myself, then, with the utmost kindness possible and I wonder to the King where I can change my dress, he shows me the room, and I run to put the shoes with heels. Fortunately, the tobacco’s shop of today has a bathroom, which is not always granted. Sometimes, I have to go out to look for a bar for changing dress, resulting on late, of course.
Nine o’clock, I am ready, a bit sleepy actually but, all things considered, ready.
Now, it is necessary to wait. For four hours today. I have to guard the sliding door and at the first sign of openness to bore the innocent and poor Tom.
Lesson n. 5- Tobacco shop is not your reign: while you are waiting, feel free to count his score.
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